Disclaimer: I don't own the Harvest Moon licensee. However, it seems that most characters appearing in this fic will be OCs, so I guess I have some ownership over the cast. Yay, Me…
Harvest Moon: A Wonderful Life
In The Beginning
It was another typical morning in my usual hangout, the little shop known to few as the Starveling Café.
Right in a corner by the entrance was my personal little studio stacked with various finished artworks I displayed and sold to the various customers that came in.
However, I was far more busy putting my energy towards another piece to openly solicit.
At the moment, my eyes were focused right in front of me, with a thin brush freshly dipped in a coat of deep crimson in hand. My canvas thus far was steeped so much in fiery hues, but my meticulous eyes were still not satisfied. After analyzing the picture further, I added a few stokes here, and a few strokes there, and finally, I added a few thick dabs in the center.
With those last few actions performed, I placed my brush neatly in a small water container and sighed. I looked up at my finished product with a sense of pride and peace swelling within me.
Right before my very eyes was a phoenix; a mere bird of fire with a simple glance, it was so much more as my imagination delved deeper. It was a legendary bird; a celestial being so fierce yet beautiful, wild yet regal.
It was a masterpiece given life and fire by my hand, the hand of Gavin Wilhelm.
Back then, I was a quiet artist living among the hustle and bustle of a lively city with its lively people. In some way, I stood out among the people as much as I blended in, and too this day, I still cannot explain for the life of me what that really meant to me, but it was the only way to explain my existence.
In any case, I was still my usual self at the very least: a humble young artist with messy brown hair and big, hopeful chocolate brown eyes. I was wearing my usual clothing of a clean white dress shirt with a dark red vest, a pair of black pants and equally black sneakers.
Around the time I admired my new painting; a customer came in and stopped to observe my displayed artwork. I gently put my painting off to the side in preparation of a sale. As I recall, most salesmen would ask their potential customer if they were interested in a purpose, but it wasn't my style to apply that extra pressure. Besides, if they were just stopping to look, I didn't mind the window shopping as long as they enjoyed looking at it.
Luckily for me, the customer soon reached inside his pocket.
"Um… excuse me sir, I would like to purchase this picture of a rose bouquet. How much do I need to pay?" the customer asked me.
"Eight bucks. The same price applies to all the pictures that size." I replied as I pointed out the 8 X 10 piles.
"Oh, wow! Then in that case, I'd also like to purchase that picture of the dove with the clear sky background, please!"
"Sure! Your total will come down to $16. No tax charge."
After the customer finally got his wallet out, he took out a $10, $5, then $1 bill and handed it to me immediately. I placed the earnings in a safe box at my side, then reached for a plastic bag behind me and placed the two requested paintings inside, which I gave to the customer.
"Thank you for your patronage." I said with a smile as I waved him farewell.
"You're welcome. I'm just glad to get a hold of such fine pictures like these!" the customer said as he proceeded further into the Café.
After the satisfied customer left, he passed by another character who directly approached me, though I knew well enough that he didn't come for a purchase.
"Wow, good going man! Another sale in your pocket so soon! This must really be your week to be churning out business like this! Guess you don't have to worry about being another typical "starving artist" in this city, huh?" a cheerful voice told me.
I looked towards the source of the voice. He was a fairly tall guy with short, black, even-banged hair and sharp ruby eyes. He wore a nice white tuxedo shirt with black dress pants and shoes, with a maroon apron draped over. The man was actually the owner of this café, and was practically a good friend, my business partner and my pseudo-landlord all in one package.
"Thanks, but I'm not so sure about that last part, Martin. I have a feeling plenty of fellow artists have weeks like this and still somehow end up short on cash. It's not the most accommodating job in existence, you know. At least not like yours, where you're guaranteed a few customers everyday with the excessive need of coffee in this country." I replied.
"At the very least, you're having fun with your job while managing well, right?" Martin asked.
I nodded immediately.
"Of course. Would you still see me around with my paint sets like this otherwise?"
"Of course not. I'm just making sure if you remember that. But I gotta hand it to you, it seems like it takes a lot of dedication to stay with that line of work when there might be plenty of days where the lack of business will start kicking your ass." Martin confessed.
"Yeah, dedication can do that for you. Dedication, heart, passion, and a bunch of other things I conveniently left out. I'll get back to you when I figure out the rest." I answered.
"You go ahead and to that. Anyway, I have some mail for you today. Apparently, people either still haven't figured out your home address, or they've wised up and realized how often you hang around here as compared to your apartment. Here you go."
Martin handed me a few white envelopes, which I looked through at once.
Most of them were either store advertisements, credit card offers, or even a few magazine subscription offers. I put most of them aside, until I eventually came upon a letter with a certain sender's address.
"Lenoard Wilhelm… Forget-Me-Not-Valley." I read to myself in utter disgust.
I handed this envelope back to Martin in apathy.
"Just throw that one out. It's just junk mail."
"But… but isn't this from your Dad?" Martin asked me.
"Ugh… yes I know that. And it's exactly why it's junk. The old man never changes up his message, anyway. It's always the same thing: he always shoves his "prosperous" farmer job in my face while he shamelessly berates my artistic career and asks me to join him. Do you think I need my self-esteem trashed even further by the likes of him?" I gripped.
Martin remained silent for a moment. He then took the envelope and showed it to me.
"…Um… I'm really sorry to bring back painful memories like that, but... don't you at least owe it to him to read what he has to say this time? Besides… I think this time it's actually urgent this time. I may sound stupid for saying this, but there's an "IMPORTANT NOTICE" stamp marked in red by the center. It might be worth a look." Martin suggested.
I stared at the envelope at first with heavy resistance, but after staring at that unusual stamp and considering Martin's words, I snatched it out of his hand with heavy reluctance.
My Dad… I didn't know if he truly had anything dire to tell me in this latest letter, but I learned from constant history that he was never any help to me. If anything, he was more of a burden and pain. That sorry excuse of a father decided to up and leave Mom and I to pursue some half-assed dream of Farming in some remote rural land in my later childhood without our consent. But, even if he did stay, he never did treat me with the utmost respect and love. Whenever I showed a finish picture to him as a child, all he would do is laugh and question my ability. Even after I worked hard to improve, and approached him to tell him my wish to pursue an artist' career, he merely dismissed it as some idiot's dream.
But the worst of it didn't even come from discouraging my wishes. I couldn't even come to him when I was upset. Because those few unbearable times I ever came to him while feeling down, he would mock me and make fun of my mood. And he would laugh at me even more.
"You're just overreacting, son!" he always used to tell me. No matter what reason I had for my pain, he would use that same excuse to explain whatever it was that made me feel bad, and then he would rub it in by making me feel worse.
And then he just does it all over again with his new "ideal" farmer's job and insulting me by continually asking me to join him. All he's been to me is a selfish, unfeeling bastard by abandoning Mother and I! And all of a sudden he wanted me to follow in his footsteps?! The nerve of him!
Still, the urgency placed on this specific letter did make me curious…
Carefully, I opened the seal envelop by hand. I reached in to the folded piece of paper and quickly unfolded it, revealing the lettering. The odd thing is, it wasn't my Dad's handwriting.
To Gavin:
I'm sorry to use your father's name like this, but I reckon it would lessen the blow of the heavy news I'm about to share with you. Thing of it is… your Dad's dead now.
He just suddenly gone up and passed away as he was working in the fields. It must sound odd of me for saying this, but I think he must be happy to at least give out while he was at full strength.
Anyway, the funeral should be in about a few weeks from the moment you reach this. Give yourself some time, and don't be afraid to let out your sorrows if you feel them coming. By the way he spoke about you, I can tell you didn't have the best relationship with him, but he's still your Dad, and I figured---
I crumpled up the paper on the spot.
This news of death was some sort of ruse. It had to be! Somewhere down the road, my continuous refusal to work with him must've driven him to this. And if anything, I bet he expected me to come rushing in to this Forget-Me-Not Valley, only to laugh at my expense and force me into helping him with his stupid farm!
How dare he try this with me?
"Um! Whoah! Whoah, stop, man! What the hell's wrong? Did he really go over the edge this time?" Martin said.
"Someone claims… that he's dead…" I answered bitterly.
"So, your Pappy finally bit the dust, eh? Well, that's certainly news for you, but at least you don't have to worry about him trying to push you around and---"
"It's obvious he's faking it!" I cried.
"…Are you sure about that?" Martin asked me.
"Do you know my Father well enough to argue otherwise?" I refuted.
"... I guess you have a point." Martin answered hesitantly. "Still, it would probably be worth it to check out the place. If he happens to be alive after all, maybe you can use it as an excuse to finally tell of that old jackass!"
"No. He doesn't even deserve so much as a visit if he's willing to go that far. He's already screwed around with me too much for me to give a care. The guy doesn't even know how to treat his own damn son." I answered.
"So… what am I to do with the following letters of they're reminders of the "funeral", or even letters of apology from your dad?" Martin asked.
"Don't even bother handing it to me. It'll just be a waste of time…" I uttered coolly.
"Alright. If that's what you want… just let me take this off your hands if it's just going to be litter." He told me as he took my crumpled up piece of paper and tossed it neatly inside a waste basket near by.
With all the pent up frustration in me, I tried to cool off by starting a new painting. I took a new campus from the set of supplies behind me, and dipped my clean brush in baby blue paint.
I eyed the canvas carefully, with the brush neatly gripped. I tried to focus on the image for my new work, but my head was muddled. My body still trembled with rage, and I was afraid that with the pressure I was subtly applying to the brush, that I would inadvertently snap it in two. After two long minutes of frustration, I decided to halt my project.
Once again, although indirectly, my father got in the way.
And I would never forgive him for it….