Jessie sat bolt upright in bed at this news. "He's what?!" she cried.
"He ain't in da house, da jeep and da keys is gone too!" Meowth repeated.
"Damn," Jessie muttered sliding out of bed.
"What are ya gonna do?" Meowth asked following her to her closet.
"Nothing," she spat bitterly, taking out an outfit for the day.
"But Jessie! He can't talk! Who knows what's gonna happen!" Meowth screamed balefully.
"I don't care, if he comes back, okay, if he doesn't, that's fine too," she paused, as if remembering something and shut her closet roughly. "I'm going to go work in the yard, it needs tending to, if you'll excuse me," Jessie said brushing past the feline, old clothes draped over her arm.
Meowth watched remorsefully as she stiffly went through the motions of walking down the hall, and entering the bathroom, glaring at him one last time before shutting the door. "Someday you'll realize how much ya still love him," he thought to himself, and leapt to the windowsill for a nap in the early rays of the platinum sun.
James pressed through the doors of the local art supply store briskly, grimly surveying the vast rows of paints, canvases, charcoals, frames, and everything else he could think of that one used for a project such as his. He sighed and shrugged, looking forward to the task and located the aisle he sought. He slowly paced down the row, reading the labels on the varied boxes of brilliantly colored charcoal pencils. All claimed to have the greatest performance, but James knew better. He had been instructed in art as a child, and knew that charcoal was charcoal, it was only a matter of preference.
He found the brand that he had used in the past, and grimaced at the price. It was more than he had intended to spend, and he set them back down with a sudden inspiration. "Why have a charcoal drawing when I can have a work of art?" he thought, heading for the high quality oil paints a few aisles down, but not before selecting a small package of plain black charcoal to begin the basic drawing of the painting he could see vividly in his mind.
James smiled vaguely, undetectable except by him, as he skimmed over the tubes resting in their respective racks. He read the color names, selecting the ones he wanted and tossing them into his basket with a vigor he had not felt since the accident. The mere thought of creating something as beautiful as in his head cheering his infinitely dulled spirits slightly. He ignored the other artisans staring at him and looking away as if he embarassed them, and counted the number of tubes, paint brushes, and charcoal pencils, and numerous other supplies and added the amount in his head.
Suddenly realizing he had spent much more than he intended to, he moved to reduce the price by deducting a few colors. His hand stopped, unable to deprive his planned painting of any richness it would contain, and James decided to spend all that he had brought. The last remaining money was spent on a beautiful canvas, only the best for his first dapple in the world of art. James placed the canvas under his arm, and precariously carried the basket in his other hand as he stumbled his way to the cashier.
The young girl about his age greeted him warmly, smiling broadly as he dumped the paint tubes out next to her. "Planning a painting are we?" she asked. James opened his mouth to speak, and was suddenly aware of the bandages still wrapped tightly around his head, and his lost speech. Suddenly missing the sound of his own voice, he nodded numbly. "What of?" the girl continued sliding the paints painfully slowly across the scanner. James shrugged in response. "You know you have the most striking green eyes I think I've ever seen? They're gorgeous!" she continued. James rolled his aforementioned "striking green eyes" and nodded, silently yet again. "Dude, are you one of those schizophrenic weirdo artists who, like, don't talk?" she asked raising one eyebrow.
James took the bags and the canvas, handing her the money, and grinning. He nodded the affirmative and exited the store, much to the horror of the cashier who cursed herself for flirting with him, chuckling silently to himself. He smiled until he got to the parking lot, but his face twisted in an indescribable expression as he loaded his supplies into the back of the jeep, an expression of pure horror, that looked as if it pained him to breathe, to even think. What was that he had just done? He opened the jeep's door slowly and climbed in, not quite sure exactly what was controlling his actions, and started the engine. "My god, I'm going to be this way the rest of my life," he moaned in his mind as he numbly drove home.
Meowth cried out in joy as his acute hearing picked up the sound of the familiar car rolling into the driveway, and leapt from his nap site. The feline dashed out the front door, yelling James' name and met him halfway. "James! Oh god where were ya? I've been worried sick!" he cried, "and...And so has Jessie." He added as an afterthought.
James patted Meowth affectionately on the head, hefted his bags and proceeded directly to his room.
"Art supply outlet? What was he doin' dere?" Meowth wondered aloud, and sauntered off to find a suitable bed of flowers for his afternoon nap.
James peered cautiously down the hall to ensure Jessie was not there, and pressed his back against the wall, inching toward his room slowly. He heard the door to the back door fling open with a loud crash of the screen and Jessie's angered shouts.
"Meowth! I try to keep my flowers nice and you have to sleep in them?"
"Hey! Ya do such a good job, dey's da comfiest place in da house! Next to yer bed of course!"
"My bed!"
He snickered silently at the small, yet comical argument and slipped soundlessly into his room.
He set his items on the ground and locked the door, as not to be disturbed. The thought of lunch crossed his mind briefly, but he decided he really was not in the mood to eat and opened his closet. Stashed in the back, was an ancient easel he had used during his art training under the dreaded Jessibelle. He shuddered at the old memories, and slid it carefully out into the center of the room, nearest his wide window. He peered through the blinds out into the back yard, his brow furrowing at the sight of Jessie, kneeling in the dirt, tending to her small bed of brightly colored flowers. She looked forlorn, as James had noticed every time she came to see him the several months he had spent in the hospital.
Jessie had a blue aura of sadness that always seemed to follow her, James noticed, and he closed the plastic strips with a soft rustle and flipped on every light in his room. He sighed. "Nothing's ever going to be the same," he mouthed the words, but only a faint scratching sound came from his lips and he winced in pain. His paralyzed vocal cords protested any kind of abuse of therapy he tried on them. The doctors in the hospital had tried some simple words, but even attempting them seared at the inside of his throat like hot needles, and he had eventually flatly refused. They gave up on him then, and he fell into an even more bitter state of being.
James shook his head to clear the awful memories and set his canvas onto the easel. He unwrapped his charcoal pencils, and drew the one that looked the most solid from the center of the row. He took a deep breath and gently set the end on the canvas. "And so begins an experiment," he thought as he moved the charcoal in a wide arc downwards. He coiled it gently and elegantly at the end and brought his hand back up, filling in a rough sketch of a face beneath flowing hair.
James stuck his tongue out of one side his mouth and bit it gently in concentration. A battle. The background of the painting would be a battle, their heroic angel fallen in the midst, the cruelest of fates. The painting would represent futility, and hopelessness, sadness, and hurt. Pain was the central element, as well as all the things in it, all feelings incorporated were all emotions James knew well.
He crafted a thin young woman, kneeling, with her hands at the arrow through her abdomen. Her eyes were shut peacefully as the painting caught her in the middle of falling to the bloodied battleground to die a noble death. Her tattered and dirty wings trailed a line of mangled feathers, and her face was twisted in pain and a solemn longing, as if she loved someone she could never be with, and was now leaving the mortal realm, never to see him again. James nodded approvingly. This was how he felt, the same pain, the same loss as in his drawing, but as he looked closer, he gasped and clasped a blacked and dusty hand to his mouth in a silent shriek. The angel in his painting, intended to be just a young woman, had become Jessie.
