Under the Sun (pt.2)

knox-moreau:

[ pt. 1 ] 

The early hours of the morning finally arrived, feeble gray light streaming in through the open curtains of the one window in the room. It illuminated the decor of the room with a sad, but comforting feeling to it. Jean had never seen such a light until he left the Nest. He never saw the early hours of the morning from a comfortable bed. And he’d never seen a room quite like room 93.

The setup of furniture was typical for a college dorm room: pitifully small couch pushed against the wall, a desk on another wall, and a night table between the beds. What got Jean though is what Jeremy had filled the room with. There were smears of color everywhere. On the desk, the couch, the nightstand. On an artist’s smock hanging over a chair. On a palette, on a canvas, on paintbrushes. Jeremy, Jean realized, was an artist.

Canvas paintings of varying subjects hung on the wall. Some were positive sayings in beautiful calligraphy. Some were painted flowers that looked so lifelike that the only reason Jean knew it was a painting was the canvas part. Some were pastel blended sunsets. Some were portraits. Some were landscapes. There was a watercolor paper sketchbook with drawings and paintings on every page as far as Jean could tell from where he sat up in the bed. Mugs were everywhere as well. Some held abandoned tea, while others held equally as abandoned and cold coffee. Some held paint water with brushes sticking out of them. The room was nearly enough to distract Jean from his exhaustion.

Nearly.

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