Anger

by ConsultingCaffrey

To be a good artist, you have to know who you are. Neal finally realized that blood does not define who we choose to be.

I go home, as suggested, and I look in the mirror. A face looks back, but I don't know it.

I keep searching and there, I see him. My father. This face is his. It sickens me and I look closer, trying to see a piece of myself.

"Soften that look," I murmur, repeating the words I'd heard as a child when I became upset. My brow lifts and though my frown stays, this is much better. I can see myself again and that is comforting. I don't want to be lost in him.

But my anger remains and I have to force my hands to relax at my sides. This won't do. This is not who I am. So I calm my breathing with a long sigh and turn away from the mirror.

My hands won't stay idle so I give them something to do. I pick up a brush and let my body relax into the familiar rhythm. My face is close to the canvas and the smell of paint fills my world and stations me, grounds me. Gradually, the sharp strokes of my brush turn gentle and I see before me a puzzle of blank space. This, I begin to fill.

For once, it's not a copy, but something new. I await to see what it becomes and for the first time in a while, I begin to see what has blinded me for thirty years.

I am not my father.

I am...