The Crimson Canvas
By JooCieFruIT
Prologue Part 1- Syaoran Li
Disclaimer: I do not own Cardcaptor Sakura.
Welcome to my second fan fiction. I just came up with this idea and wanted to at least start the story before school begins. Please review and let me know what you think.
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Prologue Part 1- Syaoran Li
His milk chocolate orbs quickly glanced at the elderly woman seated at the table approximately ten feet away. The woman's name was Mina Obana and she was 62 years of age. She was dressed in a lavender day suit and her hair, the color of puffy clouds, was freshly permed from the salon a few blocks away. Mina stared back at him with a small, pert, smile, her hands on the table - the right on the teacup and the left on the saucer beneath it.
The gray curtains were pulled back, allowing light to flood the studio room, setting a tranquil aura. The day was almost ending, the sun a bright orange bulb and the sky streaming with trails of red, pink and purple. The window behind him was opened, allowing a soft breeze to skip through the room and at the same time, cleansing the air of paint fumes. He continued to glance at her, his hands working furiously yet diligently, making sure to include each detail, each speck of emotion alive in her vivid eyes. The eyes of a young spirit which contrasted her physical age.
The man's name was Syaoran Li. And he was an artist. Setting down his brush and he stood back to examine his work. Wonderful… he thought, admiring the beauty of the painting. It was another masterpiece accomplished in a mere two hours.
"It's finished Mrs. Obana." he said to the woman, adding the finishing touch ups. Fluttering with excitement she bumbled over to examine the piece of art, relieved that her stiff position had been broken. He heard her gasp as she laid eyes on the piece, taking in the ravishing effect of his work.
"It's…wonderful…" she said exhaling. Her voice was so light and airy. Syaoran stared as she ran her fingers across the top of the canvas which portrayed the exact painting of her a few seconds earlier- the same smile and every emotion written on her wrinkled face that seemed to jump out from the canvas. Syaoran smiled at the compliment. Mrs. Obana continued this for the next few minutes, speechlessly gawking at image before her.
She loved it. It portrayed her not as the image she saw in the mirror every morning- a seventy year-old woman plagued by old age and rheumatoid arthritis whose heart hung heavy with grief from the loss of a husband and child. A hag so unlike the vigorous woman she used to be, diving headfirst into blue waters and rushing, as fast as her body would permit, to the finish line. A woman who graced the dance floor with her presence, dripping with lavish jewelry and clothing. In two hours, the man before her had managed to turn the clock back almost fifty years transforming her from an obsolete old lady into a twenty year old beauty. He had unleashed the fiery spirit within her, allowing it to come free and be captured one last time.
"Wh-when can I come pick it up?" she asked, her tonality drooping immensely. Syaoran cleared his throat. He had dreaded this moment.
"Anytime in the next three days." he answered her, trying hard to keep a straight face. Even so, he felt his chest tighten as his heart beat a little bit faster. Her pupils quivered slightly as he answered. Then her gaze returned to the canvas.
"Oh..so soon…" she said in a voice just above a whisper. Miho stared at it longingly and Syaoran saw a small tear fall from the corner of her eye. She wiped it away with a crinkled finger which was adorned with a golden ring. She shook her head and turned back to Syaoran.
"Well darling…thank you so much for the painting. I'll come by to get it as soon as I can…uhm-" she fumbled with her purse and pulled out a beige leather wallet. Unzipping it, she handed Syaoran a crisp hundred.
"No ma'am that's quite alright-" he had always felt so culpable when his clients offered to pay him. But then again he did need to eat.
"Hush. Take it." she insisted, pressing it firmly into his callused fingers. Syaoran sighed and accepted the bill, staining it with smears of purple as his fingertips were currently that shade. Miho managed a small smile. She walked back over to the bench near the foot of a window and grabbed her purse, pulling out a few tissues in the process. Syaoran watched as she dabbed her eyes, making her way to the door, the clickety-click of her two inch heels echoing off the walls. She turned back to the young man and whispered another thank you. Syaoran bowed politely in response. Opening the door, he watched her go off. As it shut slowly behind her, he knew she would never come back. None of them ever did.
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Syaoran awoke to a crisp summer morning, the smell of brewing coffee aroused his nostrils. Groaning slightly, he sat upright in his bed which was mainly a beaten up mattress with a pillow and blanket for comfort. Glancing at the old digital clock that sat in the corner next to him, he took note that the green numbers read 8:00 Am. It was time to get back to work.
It wasn't as if the location of his occupation required the mad rush of morning traffic to reach; it was in his own apartment located in a mediocre neighborhood that out skirted that main streets and broad skyscrapers of the Tokyo. The complex was simple. The main door led to the living room and kitchen and to the right was another wooden door which opened way to Syaoran's studio. A gigantic room, at least 30 sq. feet with odd assortments of furniture and curios which included a couch, coffee table, velvet pillows, candles and other little things that often accompanied his clients during the two hour session. The wooden floor was a dark cherry oak and in the middle of the whole room were his art supplies. Canvases, brushes, paints of every shade cluttered together in a sort of castle. The far right corner was his bed which Syaoran was sure to have neatly made by the time work began. In fact, it was what he was doing the very moment his housemate walked in.
"Syaoran. I'm about to leave." said the young woman who's long locks of black and red business suit complimented her beauty.
"Alright. I'll see you later." he said simply to her. She smiled, coffee mug in hand and left, shutting the door behind her.
Her name was Meilin Li and she was Syaoran's cousin. An ambitious woman in her mid twenties, Meilin worked as an accountant for Crystal Glass Company a few blocks away. She was always sort of a mother to Syaoran, taking charge after her father- his uncle- died four years earlier. Life had been tough for the two. Days without food. No money or support as neither were working at the time. They immediately moved into an apartment- the very same one that they were currently in- and survival became the most important thing in their lives. That meant ditching of high school for Syaoran and dropping out college for Meilin. Syaoran often felt pangs of guilt as he watched his cousin come home each night, exhausted, tossing her brown purse aside and opening the freezer to pull out a TV. dinner and pop it in the microwave. He lay in bed listening to the sounds of the microwave, guilty that he was the reason for their current state. Meilin had received a full scholarship to Tokyo University, one of the most prestigious colleges in Japan, for a degree in business. He remembered her face, an expression of pure joy expressed in tears as she received her acceptance letter. How sure she had been of becoming the corporate owner of a colossal company.If only things had been perfect. If only Syaoran hadn't murdered his uncle.
Ever since birth, this six foot two inch being had been categorized along the lines of "special", "gifted" and "blessed". But they could add one more to the descriptions… "cursed". With what you ask? Art. Breathtaking paintings that he produced with a mere paint brush and a few colors. It was art to die for- literally. His talents had been recognized during mid childhood, around the age of seven when sketches of vases, fruit bowls and landscape could no longer be viewed as mere scribbles but rather artistic skills that had the potential of the next Van Gogh. But it came with a twist. Syaoran not only possessed the power of art but also another power that many killed to have. A power that people and kingdoms of all cultures, had fought for from the beginning of time. It was a power that rivaled the gods and of which Syaoran Li could act on anyone he portrayed on a canvas. It was the power of death.
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Part 1 for now. Part 2, "The Cursed Child" will be added shortly followed by Chapter 1. Please press the little blue review button in the left hand corner and tell me what you think! - JooCieFruIT