|Vincent van Gogh (de_sterrennacht) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2012-04-09 08:01:00
|Entry tags:||vincent van gogh|
WHO: Vincent van Gogh, Lia Yeats
WHAT: Well hello again
WHEN: Monday afternoon
WHERE: Hospital grounds
Lia had slept through the entirety of Easter Sunday and she had absolutely no regrets. The extent of her night terrors and insomnia sometimes meant that she had to check herself into hospital for a few days sometimes, just to get some drugged up, dreamless sleep. And thankfully, they always provided.
Feeling better than she had in months, probably since Christmas, Lia decided that the afternoon looked nice enough to spend outside. She wasn't ready to go home yet but that didn't mean she had to spend all her time in her hospital room. And since she wasn't a danger to herself or others, she was allowed into the little hospital courtyard which was actually much more cheerful that it sounded.
The air was pleasantly warm and there were flowers starting to bloom. Lia sat herself down on a stone bench and she was about to open her book to read when she spotted a vaguely familiar face.
The man with red hair had been here when Lia had checked herself into hospital six months ago after a particularly horrid two weeks of nightmares. He always looked so sad and Lia had done her best to try to speak to him. He wasn't particularly loquacious but perhaps he just needed a little prodding. Abandoning her book of poetry, she went to sit beside the man who was sat behind a canvas, staring at it forlornly. As she sat down, she noted that the canvas was blank.
"Hi," she said, pushing a lock of her crimson hair behind her ear. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Lia and I met you a few months back."
The man nodded. "Ophelia."
"That's right!" Lia said cheerfully. "What are you painting?" She assumed he had just sat down, unaware he had been staring at this blank canvas from this spot for a week now. Every morning he set it up and spent the day just staring.
The man shrugged.
"I am not as good at names as you are. What was your name again?"
"Vincent," he replied, never taking his eyes off of the canvas.
"Hello, Vincent!" She wanted to ask if he had been here all this time, but she thought that was probably rude. "Are you an artist? I mean is that your all-the-time job? I want to be a poet but it's hard."
"I paint," was his non-committal answer.
"I was never very good at painting. Everything always ended up looking horrible." When the man remained silent, Lia started to feel a little uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you. Should I go?"
"Do you want to go?" Vincent asked, looking over at her for the first time.
"I...don't have to. But if you wanted to paint-"
Vincent let out a deep sigh and he shook his head. "I- It doesn't work. There's no inspiration any more."
Lia frowned at that. "Maybe you just need to be inspired again. I know sometimes I can't think of a single thing to write so I read or take walks. You could paint me!"
And then the man actually smiled. "Not a painting. A sketch."
"You want to sketch me!? I'll even pose!" Lia laughed, extending her arm over her head ridiculously.
"You have a book," Vincent pointed out and for a moment, Lia was confused.
"Oh! You want me to read it?"
Vincent nodded and he pulled a sketch pad out of his bag, along with a variety of pencils. "Just read."
Lia smiled, and she reached for her book, abandoning the pose for some Yeats. The famous one, of course. "And you'll draw me while I read?"
Vincent said nothing. His pencil was already skritching across the page and so Lia lowered her head and she did as he asked.