His paintings represent life. Each picture is a chapter, each brush stroke a day.
The apartment is covered with painting. The walls are lined with canvases, sometimes three layers deep. The counters in the kitchenette has been converted to drying smaller artworks, and curing charcoal sketches. One canvas has a pastel pink teddy bear in footed pajamas in memory of his cousin that barely lived to see the morning. There's a monochromatic memorial to Asuma. He has a blue abstract flower bouquet to commentate Sakura's marriage.
In retrospect, He seems to only paint tragedies.
He's painting now, using chunky brush strokes to write out three names in deep pink: Sai: his own, Sakura: the apathetic mass on his couch, and Sasuke: let's just say he's not here anymore.
"Therapy. At 3:30." Sakura's voice is flat.
It's the first words she's said all day and he just stares. Sakura doesn't even look up at him. She stares at that soup mug full of ridiculously strong coffee that she's been holding for over an hour. He'd like to look at see if she's even taken a sip. "I'll take you," he has to. She can't drive and the courts will go into fits.
Sakura hasn't moved. She's still in Sasuke's oversized sweatshirt sitting curled up and emotionless on the end of the patched up sofa. Without her makeup, the bruises and the stains on the couch match.
"I think its similar to Stockholm's or something," He states. covering the painted names with darker colors. Appropriate colors, he thinks. He takes some red next. Blood. Oh so much of it.
An hour or so has past, before she responds, without fanfare. "I still hate you," as simple as commenting on the weather.
He doesn't look up. He splashes some moral gray areas on the canvas. "I know," His brush strokes are random now, abstract designs destroying any remnant of a desirable shape. It's a mass of darkness and crimson, but underneath it they - or at least their names - are still there.
"I still love him," She takes a drink from the green ceramic mug. It has to be cold by now.
"I know," He throws the brush in the sink with a metallic cling. He turns the tap.
The water violates the brush bristles, and the dark colors bleed down the scratched sink, twirling in to its own chaotic whirlwind down the drain.
This picture is done.