But it's just the price I pay, destiny is calling me Who: Quentin James Where: Panorama When: Evening
It started as a twitch in his fingers.
All day, as he went about running a few errands, all he could think of was his art, and how he had to paint. Not a want, but a physical desire to put a brush to canvas. Granted, Quentin had been busy over the weekend, what with Jadyn and the sailboat race and all, but it felt like he’d abandoned his art somehow. That was going to change as of right now. Quentin finally had his studio space set up at Panorama, and he couldn’t be happier with it. Granted, he was sharing with someone, but he’d yet to meet the guy and he liked to think he could be decent about the arrangement. He wasn’t always a douchebag, after all. Besides, said studio roommate wasn’t here now and he had the place to himself.
He took out a fresh canvas, setting it up onto the easel. Ross was supposedly having some sort of open house night for the gallery and Quentin intended on having his work on display. He didn’t want to rush his art, knowing that it would only result in something crappy, and like hell he was going to let his first show in Scarlet Oak feature anything less than his best. Once he had the details, he was totally emailing his parents, just to rub it in their faces. They thought he wouldn’t make anything of himself here, and yet, he had a girlfriend, friends to rely on, and a gallery showing. He couldn’t wait to flip them them off and prove them all wrong.
Normally, when Quentin sat down to paint, he had a definite image in mind, or at least a direction to go in. But today was different, almost like his brush moved of its own free will. Today the first strokes he made were wide across the canvas, the image coming to him quickly. Too quickly. When he closed his eyes, he could almost see the details he was looking for. It was a nighttime scene. On the water. A lake maybe? And there were two people in the picture too...
It felt - and he realized this after he’d already started - just like when he’d started The Painting. The one that showed Kevin’s death before it happened.
Quentin dropped his palette, splattering paint all over the floor. Though he’d thrown some old canvas fabric on the floor before he’d started, ten bucks said he’d gotten at least some of it on the walls. That was the least of his worries right now. All he could do right now was try to keep the panic under control, feeling it start in his stomach and curl up into his chest, making him feel like he was going to burst.
“No.” The word was whispered, but that didn’t make it any less potent. It couldn’t be happening again. He’d hoped the vision of Kevin had been a one-off, something he could pretend had been a coincidence. For it to happen again, it meant it was true. He really was a clairvoyant and moving halfway across the country wouldn’t change his psychic abilities. No matter how many times he tried to tell himself what happened wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help but feel like it was. He wasn’t able to save Kevin’s life, once he realized what was going on. And if it was happening again, did that mean someone else he knew was in danger?
He brought one hand up, not touching the canvas and the wet paint on it, but hovering right above it. Behind him, all of the paints and items he’d brought with him were starting to rattle, some of the lighter tubes floating up and moving towards them. Quentin ignored them; the shift in his emotions had activated his telekinesis, and there was nothing he could to do to stop them. How could he, when he was freaked out by the fact that his other powers were also at work? He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, trying to focus on the image forming in his head.
Tell me who's in the picture.
The faces were fuzzy. The last vision he had, he didn’t know it was Kevin’s boat until he painted in the name; he just thought he was working on another painting. A realistic one, to be sure, but nothing more than that. If someone was in danger, he had to know. He’d never tried to make the visions come to him before, but it couldn’t hurt, right?
“Please.” He didn’t know how long he sat there, nor did he realize he was speaking out loud. Quentin’s hands were shaking and he tried to keep his focus on the faces, unconcerned with the rest of the details. “Tell me.” Just whispers at first, fingers twitching as his hand hovered. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.”
All he saw was a mass of brown hair. Long. Both were women. No other details. It could have been anyone. Renee. Jadyn. Hell, even Roxy was a brunette underneath all the dye.
Or it could be Calista.
“NO!” He reacted before he could think, knocking the canvas to the floor. He couldn’t see something happen to Calista. Not when they were finally on good terms and he loved her and she loved him and he was not losing someone he cared for again. Kevin had been bad enough. Was this what it took? Would all of his visions involve the people he loved getting hurt?
The sound of footsteps on the stairs caught him off guard; one of the other artists was coming in. “Hey man, you okay?” the guy asked. “Thought I heard something up here.”
Quentin didn’t smile, only picked his canvas up and set it back on the easel. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I'm seriously fucked up in the head. Seriously, you got anything that will stop a clairvoyant's visions? The expression on his face must have said enough, because the other guy scurried away about as quickly as he’d showed up. Probably for the best, because Quentin was not going to entertain anyone right now - not to mention the fact that his powers were still going off, brushes and paints and markers spinning behind him.
There was only one way Quentin was going to figure out what exactly he was seeing, and that was to finish the painting, whether he liked it or not. Not exactly an easy feat, considering he was mid-telekinetic freak out and his hands were shaking and he didn’t know what he was going to see. He couldn’t change what he was. He was just going to have to deal with it and hoped he finished in time to maybe change the future.