The hot sunny day was the cause of my pounding headache, and my sudden burst of anger. For someone who loved the warm feeling of a summer day, I sure complained a lot.

I rode the bus to school this morning just like I always did, I sat on the front of the bus like always because I was too afraid to ever walk down the isle in case everyone stared at me.

Plus one time I must've woken up feeling like Beyoncé or something because I was confident enough to actually walk to the back of the bus for a seat, except that I fell face first because of the stupid bus driver.

But I moved on from it and no longer hold a grudge against Harold, the bus driver for that very embarrassing moment.

School was school, I went hating it and left hating it and in the summer I'll graduate still hating it.

When I went home it was quiet as usual, not much happens at my house since I live with my dad. Now, if I was at my moms house, you'd mistake the house for an at home daycare. My mom remarried three times and had lots of children, I had five half siblings in total.

So far, I wouldn't be surprised if she called me right now telling me she was pregnant. I've gotten that phone call two times In the past two years .

I lived with my dad for the most part because according to my mom she couldn't handle raising a teenager. Wait till someone tells her that kids grow up and turn into teenagers, then she'll be surprised.

I was fine with it though, either that or that's what I tell myself from keeping myself to feel sad about missing special key moments with my own living mother.

I was the oldest out of my other siblings, they were all under the age of 10 so at least i wasn't the one to have to raise and take care of them all.

My dad was an artist, he says that's what had caught my moms attention in the first place. He describes it like this:

They were both young, in their early twenties. My mom had went to a party and my dad was there doing his job by painting portraits for the people attending the party.

When my mom sits to get hers done, he was immediately fascinated by her. He studied every little feature, yes, for the portrait but he says he did it to inspect every inch of her beauty. He had thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, after finishing the portrait he shows it to her and she hated it.

He says it was because she thought it made everyone of her physical features stand out since they were painted 10x bigger than reality. My mom made a complaint and then got him fired from the party.

They had met another time after that, and my mom said that she had kept the portrait even after she admitted to hating it because she liked the person behind the brush.

They eventually started to date and it was romantic blah blah blah. That's how my dad tells the story, but he's an artists of course he dramatically romanticizes everything.

My moms version is 100x less romantic or even interesting, so I go with my dads story.

My dads version always made me have high expectations of my love life. Even though that love life is extremely non existent. At least I could pretend.

"Thalia!" I heard my dad shout from downstairs. I get up from my bed and go downstairs, he calls for me a couple times more as if he never heard me responding.

I went into the basement which he had converted into his own art studio, he spent most of his time there. It made him happy and I knew this because of how much time he spent there, that's why we only ever talked in this studio.

"Yes?" I say, sliding on the slippery floor with my socks.

"Sit here, I need a model for this project Im doing." He pulls out a stool and I roll my eyes, I do this at least once a week, no offense to him but it's boring as hell just sitting down on a hard stool.

It hurts my butt if I sit for too long.

"Fine..." I agree because honestly I had nothing else to do.

"How long will this take?" I asked, facing him and his canvas.

He sends me quick glances switching between the canvas and I. His small glasses tilting to the very end of his nose as they slide off, I don't even know what the point of wearing them was if they weren't on properly.

A paint brush was in his mouth as his unavailable hands held a pencil and the other to still the canvas. His dark strands of hair would get in his face but he would make sure everything was in place before even retouching it.

"You just sit still and enjoy the life of being a model to art." He mumbles and dabs the brush onto some paint.

I sigh and sit for what felt like hours. He would make small talk and I would answer even though I was tired and I really wanted to slouch my back because this stool had no back rest. Every time I would slouch he would tell me to straighten up my posture.

Ya see the non sense I live with.

"How was school?" He asks, shaking a bottle of acrylic red paint.

"Very schoolish." I stretch my back and hear a very satisfying crack as I do.

About an hour later he tells me I'm finally done and I thank sweet baby Jesus. Though I'm deeply curious to see the results.

"Can I see now?! I want to see it" I said walking over to him and his canvas.

"Alright. Ta Da." He flips the canvas and I just see a whole black painted canvas.

I slouch my shoulders and squint my eyes.

"Dad, what is that?" I ask.

"Well my idea was to add your face onto the painting I had originally started but then I wasn't feeling it so I painted over it." He puts the canvas down and started wiping off the brushes.

I glare at his back when he isn't looking.

"You made me sit on this very uncomfortable stool for hours, just to end up painting over it. Are you kidding me!?!?!?!" I rub my hands over my face.

"Do you realize the form and strength I had to keep to keep my posture straight?!?! My back is killing me now." I whine but more dramatically so that he feels guilty.

"Sorry, I just wasn't feeling it anymore. I'll try again tomorrow-"

"Excuse you, no you will not. Sorry but I'm not doing this anymore." I shake my head and go back upstairs.

"I'm going on a walk!" I shout to let him know before grabbing my sweater and shoes.

I went on walks a lot because they uncovered memories and help me think. I almost always took the same route too, pass by the park then near a small bakery shop and turning around to go home.

But this time I walked a different way.

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A/N

Alright this was the first chapter and honestly I just wrote what came into mind but I hope it's good.

Thanks for reading 🙏🏼💕

7/1/22