Tell me a story

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” – Maya Angelou

Achilles Ives was nervous to say the least and the constant ticking of the clock didn’t make it any better. He was currently sat in his study, waiting for the phone to ring. His pounding heart reflected the restlessness of his thoughts. Would he get accepted and finally achieve the goal of becoming one of the best painters to record, or would he be rejected and forced to watch his dreams sink like a ship on an open sea? Next to him lay the book he had been reading. ‘On Painting,’ by Leon Battista Alberti, who believed that painters should raise their art to the equivalent of a science, applying both skill and comprehension of art. Instead of distracting Achilles from the anticipation he was struggling with, the book appeared to mock him, laughing at his uncertainty and lack of patience. He had chosen this himself. The journey of painting his own fate. Though it was a rocky path, he still believed in his talent and his love for art. The mocking book and the never-ending wait were simply two more obstacles he had to either ignore or overcome. He exhaled and closed the book, having given up on attempting to focus on the content rather than the silence in the room. Looking at the phone only made his nerves worse, so he turned away and tried to think of something else to distract himself from the phone call that was due any minute. He stood and slipped to the embrace of the window, where the sky had taken on a black cloak and the street lamps swirled with golden light. Snowflakes fell gracefully, like little petals from the sky, bringing comfort to his distressed soul. If it had not been for the knock on his door and the fact that his mother came barging in, a bag clasped in her hand, he’d have lingered on the window seat till nights embrace. She walked over and kissed him on the forehead. “Don’t be nervous, I know you’ll get accepted, you’re the most talented boy in the world”. She smiled warmly at him and reached over letting the bag gently fall into his lap. “I saw a lot of people in line trying to get this, and I thought it might be of interest to you; apparently, it’s good”. Achilles knew that she had bought him another book, his room was brimming with them. He thanked her, and she left the room, her reassuring words like a soothing balm to him. The book in question was nothing out of the ordinary. It was a thin book, which suggested there wasn’t much material, and the back was a plain beige and greyish tint. The summary was kept short. ‘Tell me a story, and I’ll tell you mine, because there is no greater pain than carrying an untold tale within you.’ When he turned it, he was confronted by a painting of an eye. A stunning work of art. The Art of Pain, was written in plain black letters. He questioned whether there was any art in pain, or if it was just another person trying to be the depressing author people would look up to. Above the title stood the name Khali Drewitt. ‘Pretty name,’ he thought. He opened it and was hit by the first words “All artists meet the same fate eventually”. What a way to start a book. He was about to continue when the phone began to ring, causing him to fall off the pillow he had been sitting on. He dashed over, took a big breath, and answered. A voice spoke, and with it came the answer he had been attempting to avoid. He’d done it. Achilles got admitted to the Edinburgh College of Arts.