Things were pretty much going down hill. How his mother thought moving to Manta Carlo was supposed to help him he had no idea. Three days, six hours, twenty seven minutes. That's how long he had been in his studio trying to finish his latest master piece. It was mind wracking how little paint they put in the stupid bottles.
That's why he was at the store again. His gloves faintly stained with flecks of golden paint and a hoodie to hide how cold he actually felt on the island. He only left his studio because he needed paint. He also needed sleep and food but it was hard to think straight when he was affected this much by his aura.
He pretty much had stopped looking for colors and had just piled the supplies in the cart. Normally he could rationed his art work, trying to incorporate it into his everyday life. That was hard here, he had school and math and gym class. How was gym artistic? It wasn't it was no where near artistic and his mother wasn't around to help him deal with this. Come to think of it he hasn't seem her since she dumped him in his father five years ago.
three days six hours twenty-eight minutes he thought to himself, he didn't know why he kept track. Surely someone would catch his attention? Something shiny, some one new? He had tried the socializing thing but it didn't work. All he needed was a little more time to finish and he would be done. Only he was never really done with art. He wished he hadn't inherited anything from his mother. His cart was heavy with more paint than he really needed, paint brushes, pallets, a few smocks. He hated those things, but he needed them for other reasons.
He walked to the register not even noticing the cute girl behind the register. He needed to get back to his master piece. How many did he have Now? He literally had no room for a painting this big. He would have to sell some, part with at least a tenth of his collection. He kept going over in his head how much he would have to do, how close he was to finishing. He was so very very close.
"excuse me" the cashier got his attention and he mumble an apology and swiped his card for the purchases. He was to concerned about getting back he hadn't register how heavy the supplies were.
The paper bags were undoubtedly heavy but he didn't care he had balanced them perfectly in one arm as difficult at is was and he walked back to his studio. He needed to finish so he could sleep, or rather start a new project, he never left one unfinished.
three day five hours and ten minutes. Had he taken a wrong turn? He should've been at his studio by now SPLAT his bags fell and he quickly assessed the damage, one broken bag, he could fix that, he could make a gold basket, he could. He bumped into someone, he stopped for a second and looked up.
"Are you alright?" He asked his voice deep and raspy. He didn't have time to talk but he was always polite. He needed to get back to the studio to finish. He quickly made a gold basket piling the safe paint and supplies and salavging what wasn't spilt.
That's why he was at the store again. His gloves faintly stained with flecks of golden paint and a hoodie to hide how cold he actually felt on the island. He only left his studio because he needed paint. He also needed sleep and food but it was hard to think straight when he was affected this much by his aura.
He pretty much had stopped looking for colors and had just piled the supplies in the cart. Normally he could rationed his art work, trying to incorporate it into his everyday life. That was hard here, he had school and math and gym class. How was gym artistic? It wasn't it was no where near artistic and his mother wasn't around to help him deal with this. Come to think of it he hasn't seem her since she dumped him in his father five years ago.
three days six hours twenty-eight minutes he thought to himself, he didn't know why he kept track. Surely someone would catch his attention? Something shiny, some one new? He had tried the socializing thing but it didn't work. All he needed was a little more time to finish and he would be done. Only he was never really done with art. He wished he hadn't inherited anything from his mother. His cart was heavy with more paint than he really needed, paint brushes, pallets, a few smocks. He hated those things, but he needed them for other reasons.
He walked to the register not even noticing the cute girl behind the register. He needed to get back to his master piece. How many did he have Now? He literally had no room for a painting this big. He would have to sell some, part with at least a tenth of his collection. He kept going over in his head how much he would have to do, how close he was to finishing. He was so very very close.
"excuse me" the cashier got his attention and he mumble an apology and swiped his card for the purchases. He was to concerned about getting back he hadn't register how heavy the supplies were.
The paper bags were undoubtedly heavy but he didn't care he had balanced them perfectly in one arm as difficult at is was and he walked back to his studio. He needed to finish so he could sleep, or rather start a new project, he never left one unfinished.
three day five hours and ten minutes. Had he taken a wrong turn? He should've been at his studio by now SPLAT his bags fell and he quickly assessed the damage, one broken bag, he could fix that, he could make a gold basket, he could. He bumped into someone, he stopped for a second and looked up.
"Are you alright?" He asked his voice deep and raspy. He didn't have time to talk but he was always polite. He needed to get back to the studio to finish. He quickly made a gold basket piling the safe paint and supplies and salavging what wasn't spilt.
If he made it out intact, it would have been a small miracle.