Page 1 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
CHAPTER ONE
NATHAN
“They told me all of my cages were mental, so I got wasted, like all my potential.” -This is me trying by Taylor Swift.
OCTOBER 13TH BLURREDINTO A HAZE OF WHISKEY.
I think I started drinking when the morning rays struck through the curtains of my bedroom’s window. It was a simple lip-moistener as I grabbed a bottle of wine with the breakfast Renna prepared; I promised myself. Now, as the night ends, I stumble through sweaty bodies with the seventeenth beer bottle of the night in between my digits, shattering to the floor when I accidentally bump into someone. The worst part is that I can only bring myself to laugh.
Drinking feels like being medicated, at some point. I do it as often as one would think, if not more, around the time October comes by. I can’t stop myself when that goddamned month appears in my life, after all. It brings me back to this same night, two years ago, and that’s when I love the sentiment booze brings me. As if the biggest tragedy could happen in front of my eyes and it would still be lightweight enough not to hurt me.
One of my hands clashes against the railing of the glass-paneled staircases of Miles’ mansion. I trip in the matter of seconds, though only laughter can escape my lips. Someone picks me up, dusting the material of my cream satin button-down before I am off to the road I tried to cross. I want to get to the bedroom to see if there are any joints left. Mine had run out.
This was never what people imagined I would turn out like as a kid, as my mom hoisted me up when my first painting got sold for thousands. I perfected the art of realism very young, starting with dirtied hands filled with paints and following with afternoons of endless practice that turned me into a prodigy of sorts. Though, these days, I don’t feel like myself. What were once activities that I partook on when the year ended or when the parties got really good became my sedation. My will and drive to live.
Miles is a rapper I met along the way. One of those many friends that appeared after my sister’s car crashed against that light post, causing the automobile to split in half thanks to the commotion. Friends that don’t really care about me throwing my guts up into the tile flooring when I reach the upper floor, or those that introduced me to drugs that I would have never tried if it wasn’t because it was what Hollywood offered to me.
I stop by the bathroom before I reach one of the many bedrooms. Miles always keeps trinkets everywhere, after all, he was a party-goer that was crafted to be exactly what people expected him to be. The worst kind of example. I wash my mouth with handfuls of water, spitting them out and watching remains of vomit fall into the sink. My lips purse in distaste, soon after stealing a glance at the mirror. I don’t look the slightest bit like myself.
The hair that I would always push back to watch my art with the biggest critic's eye now falls over my forehead, as if I was a kid that couldn’t tame his locks. At twenty-six, I should know better than to look like this, but I don’t care. What I once had thought was a suitable outfit now haphazardly falls off one shoulder, buttons undone, a love mark scattered across my collarbone. My thick eyebrows are unbrushed, laying lower in my eyes. Cheeks hollowed, I try to remember the last time I ate today.
Nothing comes to mind.
I fix the collar of my shirt, running my palms through my hair a few times before I weave through the slit of the door once again. I’m holding onto the wall to get to the nearest bedroom, eyes falling closed, a smile playing on my lips, and I bring myself to enjoy the bass of the song playing in the background. Oh, so that’s where I got the love bite. I remember feeling a woman’s hips flush against mine, whispered promises that now I can’t recall.
Finally, I push a door open, almost colliding to the floor when I reach the bedroom. Miles keeps his joints on the bedside table, almost always in a decorated glassed box. Like a memory, let’s call it a travelling gift bag. Though, when my hands fumble on the bedside table, lurking for rolled papers or tequila shots, the dampness of my sweaty body makes me shake at the ventilation of the room. The windows are open...
When I look around, I realize this place is much bigger than the bedroom I stayed in earlier when I took a nap in between drinking. The sheets are thrown messily on the bed, unlike the other room, with burgundy fabrics twisted into a tied-up mess and a piece of paper flying around the floor. I don’t pick it up, but I walk over to the window instead, shivering at the coldness of the night. Though, when I’m about to close the window, my eyes get caught on the twinkling stars, the way they merge in a sky that looks so vast, so big compared to the problems that build within me and yet, not enough to comfort me.
As if the sky was falling, they pierce through the darkness. Stars that would enamor me in a heartbeat, ready to be drawn in a canvas with oil painting if it wasn’t because I haven’t painted since my grieving period started. Two years ago, I dropped the brushes and picked up the booze. Magazines wrote about how Jane Rae saved me in our relationship—faux, more like a publicity stunt than anything just to secure my position in the high and fame-filled society—, how I was a lost mess and my remaining paintings were selling like hot bread. I was a corpse being studied from up-close, like one of those documentaries from the ‘27th Club’ playing in real time.
When the wind pushes my hair back, I’m awakened from my thoughts. Nothing about me, Nathan Calderwood, was real. Long lost to my own insecurities, the family bond I used to have is now a distant memory, with me ignoring the calls from my mother and the events my dad hosts. Rotting like the canvas in my studio is the talent that people cherished me for. My expectations for love that I once had, broken by the idea of a fake relationship. I’m still going to events, partying, socializing, making money off critiques and articles written about me, but I’ve never felt more dead.
I must not be the only one.
The bile goes up my throat when I look down and I see the sparse blonde hair of Miles scattered on the floor, surrounded by a halo of blood. Miles’ eyes stay open, hands extended on his side, absolutely and utterly dead next to the pool people had been partying on earlier. No one has seen him yet and my heart patters against my chest with the force of a man running a marathon.
It used to be so easy. Being happy, and now, it seems like it has become a privilege to be so.
I reach for the paper that I clipped under one of Miles’ shoes now. My fingers tremble when reading through the curved writing, the sheet still damp with fresh tears...
I’m sorry, mom.
I’m sorry, daughter.
I’m sorry, I can’t live anymore.
The letter continues, but I toss it to the side. The first thing I should do is ask for help, but my body freezes, as if coated in dense layers of cement that keep me glued to the ground. Tears fill my eyes, remembering the flashing cameras that harassed my face when I lost my sister. Nobody cared that we were grieving as a family, only wanting to see a glimpse of the glisten of sadness.
I search through one of my pockets, hoping that I hadn’t lost my phone. Luckily for me, it’s still there. When I look through the contacts, I can barely see the digits or the letters. Shaken up, apart from being drunk, makes it difficult to press on one contact. Luckily, it’s Renna.
“Nate, I’ve been calling you the entire night. Where the fuck are you? I’ll pick you up before the magazines make a big deal out of it—”
That’s what happens to people like me. To people like Miles. I was born into a family that, though I adore, I never asked to be part of. When I first opened my eyes, it was because my actress mother—Diane Calderwood—had to take a hospital visit in between shooting a movie to give birth. My dad, a business executive rich from the crib, Lucas Calderwood, promised me enough money to venture through any of my dreams when I was seventeen. I had a younger sister, too. We were given all, even the attention from the public, and if my first relationship was out to the world, one can only imagine that the fact that one of my friends died while partying with me could be the headlights for tomorrow.
“Please...” I weep, mouth shaking, dragging myself into the floor and laying on my back. “Renna...Miles threw himself off the window. I’m up here and I can’t move. Please, please, please.” I whisper into the phone, and she asks a few questions, but I can’t hear them. “Come pick me up, please. Get some help.”
“God, what did you two have?!” As per usual with Renna, she has a voice of rationality. She knows every outcome even before I make a decision. I hear rustling from her end of the call. “I’m on the way there. Can you send me your location? I need to know exactly where you are so I can call the police.”
