Finding August

Chapter Thirteen

August was working on a painting in his studio when his phone rang. He ignored the vibrating phone as he applied paint to the sky background he'd been observing for a few minutes. Whoever was calling him could wait. It took too long to get into the right mood to paint, and disrupting his thoughts could cause him progress.

The phone buzzed two more times until the caller seemed to have realized August wasn't making any plans to pick up the call.

August continued to work on his painting, humming to the slow tunes that were playing on the CD player he'd propped on a stool at the corner of the studio.

He hadn't planned to paint after he'd forced himself to complete the bulk of paintings he'd done for his exhibitions, but he'd been feeling down lately and creating paintings was his one form of comfort. He'd picked simple themes and painting subjects, and he was presently doing a landscape painting of a beach, and for the first time in months, he actually felt at ease while painting.

A sigh left his lips when he noticed how dirty the water in the bowl he'd been washing his brushes was. He removed them, drying them with a rag before dropping them on the table surface. He then got up and took his bowl of muddy water with him.

He headed to the sink, pouring the water out before replacing it. As the bowl filled up his phone vibrated in his pocket again. He rolled his eyes, turning the tap off before giving in and taking the phone out of his pocket. He wasn't painting at the moment so he might as well answer the call.

"Hello," he muttered into the phone's receiver as he strolled back to the table where his art supplies were, with the bowl of water in his free hand.

"August, you finally picked up your call."

August's eyes widened in shock, he hadn't checked the caller ID before picking it to call up, and he wished he had so he could ignore it.

"James..." he trailed, dropping the bowl of clean water on the table. He rubbed his neck with his free hand that was stiff with cracking paint as he tried to figure out why his father was calling him.

"I'd address the use of my first name, but that's not why I called." August's jaw tightened. He wanted to hang upon his father simply because of the tone he was using to talk to him, but he was curious, and maybe he wanted to hear what he had to say to him.

"Are you listening?" his father said into the phone. August muttered a small 'yes' as he rubbed his forehead in frustration.

"Good," his father said into the phone. "We have to discuss this foolishness you're displaying. Fine, you've made your point. You're an artist, but why won't you come home? You can manage the business as well as this little side project you have going on at the same time. Your mother has already called and spoken to you. She told me how you were yelling at her. You completely disrespected her—"

"I'm not a child anymore," August said firmly, cutting his father off. "I'm twenty-one — almost twenty-two."

"It doesn't matter how old you get. We're still your parents and we should have a say in what you do."

August wanted to shout into the phone, but he refrained from even talking. He tried to remind himself that his father was not worth the effort. It wasn't like he had a chance to change his father's opinion.

"I'm sorry," August started, tightening his grip on the thin rectangular phone, "but I'm over eighteen and I'm an adult in my own right. I'm the one to decide if you have a say over anything or not."

August could hear his father sigh at the other end of the line. He bit his bottom lip, refusing to take back what he had said despite the part of him that always wanted to please his parents kept screaming in protest.

"You'll regret this August." His father's voice rang through the other end. "After all we've done for you. You're going to regret this."

The other end of the line when blank after his father muttered those words. August could feel himself shiver at the thought. He shook his head, trying not to let his father's words get to him. Besides, there was nothing he could really do, right?

A shiver ran through August's body. He had tried to convince his mind otherwise, but deep down he knew. He knew what his father was capable of.

He put his phone away, trying to clear his mind as sat down on the stool in front of the stand that was holding his painting. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the nearest paintbrush at the edge of the table with a newfound intensity to his grip, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't concentrate on painting right now.

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"I've condoned this rubbish for too long. What is this?" August's father yelled, pointing at the charcoal drawing of a flower vase that was sitting on his work table.

August looked away. His fifteen-year-old self was at the brink of tears. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he muttered again, watching as is father's green eyes softened.

"August, look at this," his father instructed, gesturing to the cardboard sheet that held the drawing. "How on earth is that going to amount to anything?"

"I don't know," August mumbled honestly in a choked tone. His tears were staining his blue top now as he watched the Aztec print carpet after taking a glance at the drawing and looking away.

"See, it's a waste of time," his father started as August heard footsteps coming his way. August soon felt a hand grip his shoulder as the other raised his chin up. August blinked, looking up at his father that looked so different from him. Their skin colors contrasted, and August seemed to inherent little to none of his father's features. He'd taken his mother's dark complexion, her kinky hair and brown eyes. If anything, the only thing August cold use to tie himself to his father was that he was a lot paler than most dark skin people. Apart from that, he couldn't spot any similarities between him and his red-haired, green-eyed father.

August, your mother and I want the best for you. We're constantly expanding our shares so you'll have a future to inherit, don't you want that?"

No...

August mumbled in his mind but he let out a breathy yes in reality instead. He didn't want it, but he didn't want to get his parents angry either.

"That, that's distracting you from your studies, that's what's making you not to pay attention when we try to discuss business with you. Who's buying your art supplies anyway? I told your mother to stop..."

August looked away in guilt.

"You're using your allowance?" his father asked, making August nod softly.

"I see. I have to monitor that now," his father said, letting go of August's shoulder. August watched his father with mixed feelings of sadness and grief as his father walked over to his table and picked up the cardboard with the drawing before squeezing it into a ball and throwing it into the nearby dustbin.

━━━━━━━━

August found himself trembling as the memory coursed through his mind. The paintbrush he'd been holding had fallen to the floor a while ago. Leaving him on his stool confused and scared.

"Stop embarrassing us."

He remembered his mother saying when she'd been called to his school when August was failing business and economics. Those were two subjects he'd never wanted to do.

August got up from his stool, leaving the art studio to get some fresh air on the balcony. He had embarrassed his parents back then, and now that he thought of it, he was still embarrassing his parents.

He thought he didn't care. He thought he'd overcome trying to please them and maybe please himself for a change, but he hadn't. He was still the August from back then that constantly wanted to please his parents at his own expense.