Romans & histoires Novel Paints

Joe's face, Ivy's words, the blinding lights of that celebration banquet–they all began to blur, as though fading into the distance. With my very first paycheck, I bought myself a brand-new set of paints. I painted rocks, seagulls, and children running across the sand. Slowly, the girl I used to be–the one who once dreamed of attending the Rhode Island School of Design–seemed to awaken again from deep within me. The bookstore had a special regular. Every day at exactly three in the afternoon, he would show up. He always sat on the sofa by the window, ordered a black coffee, and opened his sketchbook. He would stay there the entire afternoon.

I ran away instead of facing the guilt I was feeling. An hour later, we arrived at the Heavenly colors. A local paint company in Milan. I've been working with them for years now. They were producing and distributing paints, including those designed specifically for interior and exterior walls, as well painters who worked with canvas. I‘d been buying different kinds of paints, like oil paints, acrylic paint and water colors for Safiya. And all I can say was that their colors had higher quality, blendability and archival properties. It does not yellow or crack over time.

Along with the two glasses of water and a colour pallet. 'Why why is he doing this why is he bringing me in front of something which now I hate the most!' Feeling the stinging sensation in his chest as if someone just has pulled his heart right out of his chest. 'Can't he just understand for once? is this the reason I'm here rather than of him winning me back? the only thing he wants me to paint?' looking down at the floor over the small container of the paints. Seeing nothing just the plain or the darker shade of colours with the name written over it over the bold letters. This only made Koishi chuckle in response looking away from it shaking his head in response.

Tucked into the bay window opposite the door, bathed in sunlight, is a brand-new easel, a fresh, blank canvas sitting in its tray. There are a few more folded easels leaning against the wall, and a caddy full of paints beside them, more colors than I've ever seen in my life—cadmium red, ultramarine blue, at least fifty different shades that I never would've been able to afford on my own. And most heartstopping of all, spread across the walls are a hundred little sketches, most of them basic doodles in pen or pencil, drawn on scraps of paper or restaurant napkins. I recognize them—they're my drawings.

It looked like no one was allowed to touch the walls but even at that, the wind and all other things could have been able to make it dirty. "You're looking at the walls?" My mother asked and I nodded. "Those paints were made from an ancient substance which can only be found in the Storm Pack. These guys stole it and used it for their walls. It's impossible to make this dirty. It's just not possible. That is the beauty of it.

I was making it a reality. There’s this lame saying I never believed, but sadly, I did now. The saying about discovering the truth while playing. Well, fuck the saying. This wasn’t play. This was war. A war of possession, of dominance, and of reminding her who the artist was and who was merely the canvas. I grabbed every container of old paint I could find— red, blue, pink, and yellow. Pink was her favorite, so of course, I included it. That’s how generous I was with my baby sister. That’s how thoughtful I was and that’s how much I cared for her.

To a Tactician, it was a topographic map of intent. The brushstrokes were aggressive. Upward slashes. Violence in the wrist movement. The painter hadn't just marked the territory; they had struck it. The white pigment was thick, industrial-grade polymer—likely scavenged from the Dregs' shipyards where the hulls of dead tankers rotted in the acid rain. And it was fresh. The smell hit the back of my throat—sharp, chemical acetone. It cut through the prevailing stench of mold and urine, stinging my sinuses.

"How can two paints with the same name look so different?" "Because paint companies lie, Damian. It's their entire business model." He crossed the room and took the swatches from my hands, holding them up to the light with the same intense focus he probably gave to million dollar contracts, which struck me as so absurd that a laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "What?" he asked, glancing at me. "Nothing," I said, still grinning. "It's just strange, watching the Devil of Manhattan agonize over paint samples like they're a hostile takeover."

“Cash enough to cover your rent and materials until you can reapply.” Four thousand euros. My brain buzzed, my stomach twisting. Two months of breathing room. “This is insane, you’re my professor…” “In one elective class. Your degree is in physics. I have no influence over your actual program.” He moves closer, his expression unreadable. “This is art, Elena. Academic, professional, nothing more.” “Professional.” I laugh. “Like Tuesday was professional?” “Tuesday was a mistake but this is business.” His eyes hold mine. “I won’t touch you, you’ll pose while I draw, this is a clean transaction, we’ll keep it professional.”

Eventually, Mirella looked away and picked up another brush, dipping it into a deep crimson hue. “Don’t play with fire, ragazza,” she murmured, gliding the brush across the canvas. Svetlana didn’t respond. The scent of fresh oil paint filled the airy room. The wooden floor bore countless splatters of color, silent witnesses to Mirella Bellandi’s creativity. Easels with unfinished canvases lined the walls, some covered with white sheets to protect them from dust. Glass jars of brushes sat on a sturdy oak table, alongside paint tubes squeezed nearly flat and a bottle of turpentine that gave off a faint chemical tang.