Chapter One
December 16th, 1994
"I want to interview you for my story." Those were the first words that flew out of his daughter's mouth before Dallas could even enjoy his beer. They were in a sports bar on the south side of Oakland, celebrating Dallas's 45th birthday by getting him drunk and watching a good football game. The Raiders were playing, and all Dallas wanted was to watch them in peace. Francine's proposition ruined it for the night.
"Why? Will I get paid? Could you wait till I watch the game?" he spat. Francine bit her pencil and responded, "My editor; he wants me to write him a story within 15 months or I'm fired. I decided to write a story about how you and Mom met. An interracial relationship in the 60s? An automatic best-seller!" She beamed at him through her wild mane of hair, giving her the appearance of a madwoman.
"Listen, sweetheart," He began, placing his beer mug down to face her. His history with Erica was a touchy subject altogether; Francine didn't need to know the gruesome details, other than they 'quietly' divorced, Erica took Nicholas, and Dallas has never seen or heard from her again. He sees no benefit in digging up old wounds and memories for the sake of a story that probably won't even be read at all.
"I don't think you want to know. You're not ready to hear it."
"I'm 26 years old, Daddy. I can handle it, that's what good writers do." She whipped out legal-paper pad and eyed Dallas with a mischievous glint in her eye. "I will have my story, Dad; us writers are very persistent in getting all the scoop on a story before writing it."
"Don't think you're too old to go over my knee now," Dallas warned her through his glass with a snarl. All he wanted was to watch a football game in peace, not be pestered by his spoiled rotten daughter. But still Francine sat, pencil and paper in hand, boring her brown eyes into Dallas with a vengeance. It was enough to make Dallas's heart ache and give in. He growled and cursed under his breath before downing the last of his beer in one go and belched. He asked the bartender for another after saying, "Get that pencil working, girl. Once I talk, you write. I don't want to repeat myself and don't make me regret this."
Francine smiled, her pretty brown eyes glimmering.
God damn she loves to get her way.
December 16th, 1965
Ink blots. The stark stench of antiseptic and medicine that makes Dallas gag. The walls a soothing green color, littered with framed and laminated accomplishments of the woman he despises. The woman sits patiently across from him, hands clasped over her desk, dull green eyes staring at Dallas's defiant blue ones through her orange specs. The placard read Ms. McConnell, in shiny gold letters, mocking him.
"Welcome back, Mr. Winston," She speaks in a calm voice that made Dallas wince. He hated when she called him Mr. Winston; it's an identity he doesn't wish to have and won't have anytime soon. He now craves a cigarette.
It's been two months since the fateful day Johnny died, and Dallas attempted to join him. He survived miraculously but was faced with an attempted murder charge (an ironic twist on his part), and was sentenced to a psychiatric hospital for two weeks, and eiht months therapy after a cry of the people demanded he needed help. Dallas didn't want to remember the psychiatric hospital, and he wasn't planning on going back either; being with Ms. McConnell is making him reconsider.
She's a Woodstock reject with long, flowing red hair paired with long, flowing skirts and beads that jingled when she moves. She smells of patchouli and organic everything; she jokes about that often. She's too calm, too accepting, too hippie. It makes Dallas sick with hatred every time he's around her.
"Let's try a new exercise, since it is your birthday." Ms. McConnell began, leaving her desk to circle around Dallas as if in a tribal dance. When Dallas turned around, he was hit with a crude soup-can used as a holder for paintbrushes, wrapped in a cheap polka-dotted ribbon. Out of the corner of Dallas's eye, he noticed an easel and eight cans of paint to his right, wrapped up in bows and ribbon.
"What is this crap?" He barked out. He got up from his chair and snatched the paintbrushes, inspecting them closely. They looked brand new, almost…expensive. Why would she buy him these things?
"Paint. I want you to paint how you're feeling right now. Studies show that art is therapeutic to people who have depression or-"
"I'm not depressed!"
"-suffering from a loss of a loved one," she finished. She looked at him again, searching for an inch of cooperation. When she found none, she sighed deeply and pushed Dallas to the easel after placing the canvas in its rightful place.
"I want you to paint. Just one piece of artwork for me and you can go. You have my word."
Dallas blinked up at her. The court required him three hours with this woman. He was barely one hour in. To do one thing for her and leave; too good to be true! But he'll humor her; he threw the can of paintbrushes to the floor and watched them scatter, all different shapes and sizes. He settled on the largest one in hopes of getting his artwork done quickly. He stared at the cans of paint, and picked a color at random. Dipping his brush into the paint, placing it on the canvas, he tried to figure out what to paint. The average Greaser would've drawn a crude yellow sun, splashes of green for grass, and a stick figure for a person; a rendition of a kindergartner's finger painting.
Dallas was no ordinary Greaser.
He remembered the classes his mother took him to when he was eight, before she abandoned him and his father. It was a Mommy and Me painting class, teaching him art. He absorbed the lessons of colors: from tertiary to primary, to which paints did what. He could almost chuckle at his rusting talent coming to haunt him. He stared at the canvas, and was reminded of his mother.
His mother Claudine, blond hair with blue eyes, staring at him through the backseat window of a taxi cab, swam through his mind.
"In time you'll understand, Dallas. I just want you to know that your Ma loves you very much." She hollered through the glass, and she was gone, driving off into the horizon.
It was on his 10th birthday.
"Bitch," he mutters, slapping paint on with a violent force. His paintbrush moves on autopilot, gliding through the canvas. In the corner of his eye, Ms. McConnell beamed back at him. Rolling his eyes, he continues his work.
His mind rampant, swirling with memories he doesn't want to remember. Johnny's vacant body, the final time he broke up with Sylvia, the nights where his father went too far…
They continued to spin and warp, blending together into jumbled memories and thoughts. When Dallas began crying, he knew it was time to stop. He stepped back and looked at his work, and gasped.
The painting was of a man in a red tuxedo and yellow skin, sitting at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. The background came in shades of blue, making the man stick out. The white and black lines gave an air of hopelessness and misery. He painted this?
"How does that make you feel?" a far off voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Ms. McConnell waits patiently for an answer, making Dallas lick his lips and try for speech.
"Like the one in the painting." He states, looking back at the painting once more, seeing himself stare back at him with anguish.
December 1994
"So that's how you got into painting!" Francine drank another Shirley Temple, scribbling into her notepad. Dallas dug into his pocket and lit up, the nicotine rush soothing his nerves.
"Yep, that's how I got started."
"And then what happened?"
"I later learned I have talent…"
AN: I'm back! I'm terribly sorry for not uploading in years! Well I'm back and I want to thank you two followers and commenters for your lovely support. Much appreciated! :* hugs and kisses for all!