Hey, fellow readers I know it's been a long time, but now I'm gonna publish new chapters each few days. Important thing: Clumsy and Painter will not speak again with south and french accent anymore, because I'm too tired to translate their words. Thank you for your patience.
A forceful stroke of the brush on the canvas, and everything around was painted.
— Try again, Clumsy, — Painter said disappointedly, watching Clumsy's attempts to create a masterpiece.
— I don't know, Painter. I can't do it.
— Everyone has talent, and sooner or later it will show. You just need more practice, — Painter said kindly, smiling at his friend while setting a new sheet of paper on the canvas. — And it seems we're late for lunch. And we both know how much Baker dislikes when someone is late.
Clumsy looked at the brush in his hand, then at the blank canvas, and back at the brush. His face reflected a strong desire for creativity; he really wanted to be like Painter. He wanted to deftly handle the brush, mix the colors of the rainbow, and spend more time in nature.
— Papa always says, «A student can't surpass the teacher.» And I guess I can do it. You go ahead; I'll stay here and try to paint something.
— But you know Baker won't wait. Besides, you've been painting since morning; it's time to give your hand a rest. Rest is essential in art! — Painter said, frowning with concern. He didn't want his friend to miss lunch.
— He won't notice that I'm gone. No one will notice that I'm gone. And lunch won't be ruined, — Clumsy replied. There was some truth in his words—every lunch, breakfast, or dinner he attended somehow ended up spoiled.
Not taking his eyes off the canvas, Clumsy shook his head resolutely.
— No, Painter, I'll try again — Clumsy insisted, gripping the brush tightly.
— But you haven't painted anything since morning! And Baker has his famous pancakes today! Are you really going to miss them? — Painter said anxiously, watching his friend's efforts.
— Pancakes? — Clumsy pondered, his gaze shifting from the canvas to Painter. — Really?
Painter nodded, looking at his friend hopefully. He knew that Clumsy loved those pancakes more than anything in the world.
— Maybe I'll catch up later? — Clumsy suggested, not letting go of the brush.
Painter shook his head; he was starting to worry about his friend.
— Clumsy, you've been painting for half a day without a break. You've even lost your appetite! You need to go have lunch. And it doesn't matter what others think of you. We can go together.
— Thanks, Painter, but I'm not really hungry. If you want to go for lunch, you should. Don't worry about me.
— Clumsy, you're my friend. The smurfiest of them all. It breaks my heart to see you teased again. You're not to blame for your clumsiness; you didn't choose to be like this, — Painter said with concern. — And if you don't go, then I won't go either.
— Why do you think I don't want to go because of others? And… thank you for those words, — Clumsy replied shyly, as he had never heard such words before. — I'm just not hungry. As I said, you don't need to worry about me.
— Alright… — Painter sighed in disappointment, realizing he couldn't make Clumsy go eat something. — Then I'll have to force you!
Painter lifted Clumsy into his arms and headed towards the cafeteria.
— Hey! Put me down! — Clumsy shouted in shock at being dragged off for lunch in this way.
— No way! — Painter laughed, firmly holding Clumsy in his arms.
OoO
Clumsy left the world of dreams due to the deafening rumble of thunder that shook his hut to its foundation. He flinched, and his hat slipped down over his eyes again, completely blocking his view. Slowly opening his eyes and surveying the painfully familiar room, he heard the rain beating down on the roof, drowning out the muffled sound of the wind, occasionally interrupted by rolls of thunder. A chilling cold, like an icy hand, gripped his blue skin. He involuntarily shrank back, feeling shivers run down his body. The house was as cold as an icy crypt. A cold wind seeped through the crack in the window, producing an unpleasant whistle and mingling with the damp air. He reached for the blanket to wrap himself up tighter. He had always loved wool blankets, especially in such weather. As he bundled himself up, his home was once again illuminated by a bright flash of lightning, and a few seconds later, a new deafening thunderclap echoed, causing Clumsy to flinch in fear. He realized that falling asleep was no longer an option.
His mood was better than yesterday, and he suddenly felt the urge to talk to Painter.
— And yet... why did he do that? — Clumsy whispered, pulling the blanket off himself.
He got out of bed but, getting tangled in the blanket, tripped over his own foot and fell to the floor with a dull thud. He tried to get up but tripped again, this time over a vase with beautiful flowers, which crashed to the ground and shattered into pieces.
— Oh, — Clumsy groaned, — what terrible luck in the morning.
Clumsy felt upset as he looked at the shards of the vase scattered across the floor. Now he would have to clean up, and cleaning was something he disliked the most. Getting back on his feet, he felt a sharp pain in his back. Moaning from the pain, he pressed his hand to his lower back. His back still hurt, and it seemed it wouldn't go away anytime soon. And now he had also broken the vase. The cold in the house pierced him to the bone, and he was shivering violently. Clumsy picked up the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around himself, trying to warm up.
— What a disaster! — he muttered, swaying from the pain.
He decided to approach the window to assess the situation in the village. Each step toward the window echoed dully in the silence of the house, as if he were violating some ancient taboo. Finally, he reached his destination and took a deep breath before carefully opening the shutters. He saw the following picture: the rain poured down like from a bucket, shrouding everything in a gray veil. The forest, which had shone with bright colors just yesterday, now looked gloomy and bleak. The air smelled of dampness and earth, and there were no sounds of footsteps, voices, or noise in the village. Village stood in dead silence, as if it had been abandoned long ago, and the houses radiated cold and fear.
Clumsy gazed out the window for several minutes until the sudden knock on the door interrupted the silence of the house. The sound was sharp, as if someone were knocking not with a hand but with a heavy wooden beam.
«Who could that be?» — he wondered as he stepped toward the door, still swaying from the pain in his back. As he walked, another knock sounded, dull and persistent, as if someone were trying to break the door down. He stopped, listening. The knock repeated, followed by a voice, familiar and somewhat aged, but it carried not goodwill, but something more sinister. There was an obvious threat hidden behind the surface politeness.
— Clumsy, are you home? — the voice sounded as if the speaker wasn't sure they would be heard, but still expected an answer. Clumsy, as if hypnotized, slowly approached the door, his feet thudding heavily on the wooden floor. He felt a strange mix of anxiety and indecision. Thoughts of Painter, who might have come to visit him, swirled in his head. He grasped the doorknob and, with a little effort, pushed the bolt back.
In the doorway stood Papa.
His eyes expressed concern for a few seconds, as Clumsy's appearance was far from the best—he was wrapped in a blanket, shivering, and swaying due to the pain in his back.
Clumsy noticed this but paid it no mind. Papa squinted slightly, as if trying to discern something unusual.
— Hello, Clumsy. May I come in? — Papa asked disapprovingly, as if Clumsy had done something terrible and it was time to face the consequences.
Clumsy flinched, feeling the cold penetrating even deeper into his little body. He involuntarily shrank back, trying to hide his shivers.
— Of course, Papa, — Clumsy replied mechanically and gestured for Papa to come inside.
Papa, without waiting for an invitation, stepped sharply into the house, as if to ensure that Clumsy wouldn't go anywhere. His movements were quick and abrupt, unlike his usual calm demeanor. He paid Clumsy no attention as he passed by him deeper into the house. Clumsy closed the door behind him, feeling awkward and unsure. He tried to act as if nothing had happened, but noticed that Papa had stopped in the middle of the room, and his gaze fell on the shards of the broken vase scattered on the floor.
Papa bent down, picked up one of the shards. He didn't say a word, but his eyes narrowed in anger, and Clumsy felt the cold begin to seep into his bones again. He wrapped himself even tighter in the blanket. Throwing the shard on the floor, Papa approached the chair next to Clumsy's desk. He lifted it with unusual strength, as if it were not a wooden chair but a heavy stone. Clumsy watched his every move closely, waiting for some sort of trick. He couldn't take his eyes off, as if fearing he would miss something important.
He set the chair in front of the bed, and his gaze returned to Clumsy.
— Sit down, — he said in a cold voice, and a more sinister glint flickered in his eyes. — I have a few questions for you.
OoO
— PAPA SMURF, PAPA SMURF!
A breathless Smurf burst into Papa's laboratory, carrying two baskets filled with red berries.
— Painter? What's wrong? — Papa asked cautiously, looking at his little Smurf.
— I... barely... escaped from the forest! — Painter stammered, trying to catch his breath.
— Painter, calm down. There's no need to panic. Take a breath, — Papa suggested. — What happened?
Painter took a moment to breathe and set both baskets on the floor before continuing.
— I collected the berries like you asked. I took Clumsy with me, but... I regretted it. He kept getting distracted by all sorts of nonsense and even ruined some of the berries... And then, — Painter sniffed, clenching his fists, — we wandered into the thicket. Clumsy was running around as usual, picking up all kinds of junk. I told him to stick close, but he didn't listen!
Papa frowned. He knew Clumsy could be scatterbrained, but not to the extent of abandoning a friend in trouble.
— What happened next? — Papa asked, trying to stay calm.
— Then... — Painter sniffed again, — Gargamel and Azrael showed up! They were really close, I even caught a glimpse of Gargamel's evil eyes. Clumsy got scared and ran off! He just left me all alone! — Painter's voice trembled with hurt, — I barely managed to hide before Gargamel found me!
— But he couldn't have just left you! — exclaimed Papa, raising his eyebrows. — You weren't hurt? Gargamel didn't catch you?
— No, he didn't catch me, — Painter replied, — but Clumsy... Clumsy ruined everything!
Papa furrowed his brow. He knew Clumsy could be scatterbrained, but not to the point of leaving a friend in danger.
— Tell me everything in order, Painter, — Papa asked, trying to understand the situation. — What exactly happened?
Painter recounted how they went into the thicket, how Clumsy, instead of helping to collect berries, chased butterflies and caught beetles. How he climbed a tall tree to reach a rare flower and dropped the basket of berries.
— Clumsy was so busy with his nonsense that he didn't notice Gargamel getting really close, — Painter concluded, shuddering at the mention of Gargamel.
Papa listened intently, his expression growing more serious. He knew Gargamel wouldn't leave his little Smurfs alone, and Clumsy, in his aimless pursuits, could indeed put his friend in danger.
— Alright, Painter. I will talk to him, but remember that telling tales is wrong.
— Yes, Papa.
OoO
— I have a few questions for you. Clumsy, I've always said that smurfs should be friendly and always help each other. Why did you leave Painter in the forest? — Papa asked, disbelief in his voice. He didn't fully believe Painter's story, but it sounded plausible.
Clumsy's eyes widened at such a contradictory question. He stared at Papa, his lips forming a circle. His usually calm brows shot up, giving his face an expression of utter confusion, while his hat slipped down over his eyes, obscuring his view.
— But... but... I didn't leave Painter! — Clumsy exclaimed with a trembling voice, adjusting his hat while trying to suppress the growing panic. — It... it was he who left me!
— How did that happen? — Papa looked at him disdainfully, allowing Clumsy to feel his confusion. — I heard a completely different story.
— I... I... — Clumsy hesitated, trying to recall all the details and piece together the anxious story stuck in his little head. — I... heard a twig snap nearby when we had already gathered the berries and asked Painter if he heard anything. Then... then... we... heard a voice. We... hid in the bushes and dropped our baskets. Azrael... almost found us... but when I turned to Painter to ask what to do next, he... was gone. — Clumsy recounted in a shaky voice, each phrase accompanied by a silent scream in his heart.
— But Painter says you ran away from him and left him! — Papa frowned, not believing Clumsy's sincerity. He wanted to be firm and not allow doubts, but his heart trembled at the thought that he might be wrong.
— Clumsy, are you scared? — Papa asked worriedly, seeing his little smurf tremble.
— No... just... it's cold — Clumsy replied with a quivering voice, trying to hide his fear behind a cold mask. — And... Papa... I-I'm telling the t-t-truth...
— I'm not sure about that yet. — Papa said cautiously, feeling an internal resistance to Clumsy's version.
Papa stood up from the chair and sat next to Clumsy on the edge of the bed. He removed the blanket from Clumsy and wrapped it around him again, but in such a way that Clumsy didn't have to hold it with his hands. Then he hugged him tightly and pressed him to himself.
— There, there, my little smurf. Now it's warm. — Papa said with warmth and kindness in his voice.
— Th-thank you... — Clumsy thanked him with a still trembling voice and snuggled closer to Papa. — Y-yesterday... I sat and looked at the v-v-village, and then... Painter came...
— So. And what happened next? — Papa asked, still holding Clumsy tightly. — Don't be afraid.
— He asked me to go with him to collect smurfberries... and I agreed... and we went. And the rest... you've already h-h-heard, but I forgot about running away from A-A-Azrael... — Clumsy continued, his voice still trembling, but Papa's embrace lifted a small burden from his shoulders.
— From Azrael? Did you get hurt? — Papa asked anxiously, noticing how Clumsy flinched at the mention of Azrael's name. — And didn't they catch you?
— N-no, I ran away. I d-didn't run far... I climbed a tree and hid on a branch... Azrael didn't find me and left... and I fell asleep there... on the branch. — Clumsy continued.
— Fell asleep on a branch? — Papa laughed, not really believing Clumsy's version, as it sounded rather made-up and untrue. — And where was Painter?
— He disappeared when we were still hiding from Azrael. I was escaping from him alone... — Clumsy said sadly, freeing himself from Papa's embrace. — Thank you.
Papa didn't believe Clumsy's story. In his opinion, it sounded very far-fetched, and Gargamel hadn't been seen in the forest for a long time.
— Clumsy, to be honest, I'm disappointed. Why are you lying to me? — Papa's tone rose again, and Clumsy realized that he could not escape trouble.
— I... I... I'm not lying! — Clumsy replied disappointedly, looking at Papa with his glassy eyes. — W-why do you think that?
— You need to go and apologize to Painter. And promise me that you will never act like this again and will not put others in danger.
Clumsy felt disappointment and annoyance. His gaze dropped to the cold floor of his little home, and the previous fire in his eyes dimmed. He just wanted to sink into the ground so that no one would see him and no one would find him; he wanted to be alone somewhere in the forest and never return.
— Yes, Papa. — Clumsy mumbled sadly. — I will do that.
— Good. I hope it won't happen again. — Papa said, getting up from the bed. — By the way, it's already time for breakfast. Don't even think about skipping it.
Clumsy continued to stare coldly at the floor of his home. He heard nothing, felt nothing; his heart was pierced by an incredible pain of betrayal and the fact that he was considered guilty. He didn't even notice how Papa left his house.
— And then he just ran away! — Painter finished his story, making a theatrical pause.
— I hate betrayal, — Grouchy grumbled, his brow furrowing even deeper. — We need to teach him a lesson.
— That's too simple, Grouchy. Let's play a trick on him; I already have a few ideas! Hee-hee-hee, — Jokey winked slyly, his eyes sparkling with anticipation for the new adventure.
In the huge mushroom that served as the dining hall for the entire village of Smurfs, an atmosphere of excitement reigned. The downpour that unexpectedly descended upon the forest drove all the inhabitants inside. Smurfs huddled around tables piled high with breakfast, discussing Painter's story. No one asked questions or tried to verify the truth of the tale. Everyone simply believed it.
Clumsy burst into the dining hall, as always, out of breath and disheveled, with a silly expression on his face. He was drenched, having been caught in the heavy rain outside.
— Oh! And here comes the heroine of the whole story. — Grouchy muttered quietly, trying to divert his gaze to his plate of food.
Everyone immediately looked at him with disdainful glances, but it seemed that Painter expressed a bit of regret.
He ignored the disapproving looks of the Smurfs at the tables, noticing only the delicious food that was appetizingly displayed. Uncertain and still shaky from the pain in his back, he walked over to Baker's table. Baker, hunched over, set before him a plate with a fragrant, fluffy roll and appetizing porridge. Baker didn't even look at him; his lips twisted in a contemptuous grimace.
«I wouldn't even give you this portion... You don't deserve it» — Baker grumbled to himself in thought. Clumsy took the plate, nodding to Baker in gratitude, and headed toward one of the empty seats at the table. He noticed Painter at one of the tables and shot him a fleeting surprised glance. He didn't realize that the other Smurfs were moving away from him, as if he were infected with the plague. As soon as he sat on the edge of the bench, everyone sitting next to him sprang away with a crack, leaving him a space to feel as alone as possible. He lowered his gaze to his food, his hands nervously gripping the cutlery. In the silence, only the whisper of the rain drumming on the roof and the barely audible murmur of the wind seeping through the gaps in the walls could be heard. On the faces of Smurfs, a look of disapproval froze; their gazes seemed to pierce through Clumsy. Occasionally, someone would mutter softly, barely audible, «Ugh», «How dare he», «Traitor. » Clumsy felt the weight of everyone's condemnation pressing down on him. He couldn't run away; he couldn't hide from those silent reproaches. He felt trapped in that silence, which pressed on him with unbearable force. Clumsy felt as if he were not a Smurf but some kind of monster that everyone feared and hated. But before he could even start eating his portion, it ended up on his face, and laughter erupted behind him.
— Ha-ha-ha! What a joke! — Jokey shouted, rolling on the floor with delight. His laughter was so infectious that the other Smurfs couldn't help but join in as well. The dining hall was suddenly filled with joyful laughter.
— Great job, Jokey! — Hefty boomed, — That'll teach him.
— I hate lessons, — Grouchy muttered with a frown.
Clumsy didn't immediately understand what had happened. He was in shock, his eyes fixed on the empty plate that had just been full of delicious pastries. The roll he was about to eat now lay on the floor, and the porridge dripped from his hat, looking far from appetizing. But the laughter of Smurfs filling the dining hall was so loud and sharp that it eventually reached his consciousness. Clumsy understood.
He had become the victim of yet another cruel joke. He was mocked. And not just mocked, but made to feel like a complete idiot, a failure. The laughter of Smurfs sounded like a thunderous blow, shattering him into pieces. Each drop of porridge on his hat felt like a stone weighing down on his small shoulders. In that noise, he saw not tenderness but cruelty. It was as if they were laughing at him, at his ridiculousness. Clumsy felt tears welling up in his eyes. He had never felt so helpless before. For the first time in his life, he felt a deep and unbearable hurt tightening his chest with iron hands. He couldn't hold back the tears. They streamed down his cheeks, soaking his hat and washing away the porridge that had not yet dried. The tears flowed down his cheeks like small streams running over rocks. He felt his little heart constricting with pain. He just wanted to disappear, to run away from this unpleasant feeling of loneliness and rejection. He stood up from the table, barely holding back sobs, and ran towards the exit. He ran aimlessly, just to escape that laughter, those reproachful looks, that unbearable pain.
— Yeah! Get out of here! — the smurfs shouted, still laughing at the situation Jokey had set up, but Clumsy didn't hear them.
At the exit from the dining hall, Hefty met him. Clumsy could no longer run. Hefty stood in front of him, blocking the exit, and grabbed his hand. His strong fingers gripped Clumsy's hand so tightly that it felt like it might break. Clumsy squeaked from the sharp pain.
— So, did you enjoy the lesson, clumsy guy? — Hefty asked with malice.
His voice was rough and cold, like a winter wind, and Clumsy felt even more helpless.
— Let me go, Hefty! Leave me alone! — Clumsy shouted, but Hefty didn't care.
— What did you say? Repeat that! — Hefty said in an ominously calm voice, tightening his grip on Clumsy's hand.
— You heard! Let me go! — Clumsy repeated, unaware of how angry Hefty was right now.
Hefty's grip became even tighter, and marks began to appear on Clumsy's hand.
Hefty laughed and loosened his grip, allowing Clumsy to relax. He did this not out of pity but out of mischief. He wanted to see Clumsy tremble with fear, to see him beg for mercy. And Clumsy indeed trembled. He felt completely helpless, as if he were not a Smurf but a toy caught in the paws of a huge and cruel beast. Clumsy barely managed to take a few steps away from Hefty when he felt an incredible pain in his back. He squeaked from the pain, like a little puppy that had been pricked by a sharp twig. In the next second, he felt his legs lift off the ground.
Hefty kicked him powerfully, sending him flying over the entire village. Clumsy soared above the village at great speed and flew beyond its borders. In an instant, Clumsy crashed into the trunk of a tree with a loud bang, and the sound would have made anyone else vomit. The impact was powerful, piercing his whole body with pain. Clumsy fell to the hard ground, and darkness instantly engulfed his vision. He lost consciousness, unaware of everything, even the pain.
OoO
When my eyes are closed, I feel warmth. Not from the sun, but from something deeper. I hear a quiet sound, like a stream bubbling nearby. It smells of earth, wet leaves, and fresh air. The room is warm, and sunlight streams through the window. I hear a symphony of sounds: the chirping of birds, the noise of the stream, the rustle of leaves in the wind. A warm blanket wraps around me, and a sunbeam gently caresses me. I feel calm, relaxed, and completely safe. I know that everything is fine, that I am safe, and that no one will touch me. I am happy.
OoO
The forest, just awakened after the rain, was bursting with bright colors. The trees proudly welcomed the first rays of sunlight breaking through the dark clouds. The leaves glistened with dew, the grass regained its lush green color, and the flowers exuded fragrance, driving away the remnants of dampness. The air was full of life—the birds sang their melodies, the stream gurgled, and the wind rustled through the leaves. It seemed the world was filled with energy and harmony.
But this idyll was interrupted by labored breathing.
Under a sprawling tree lay a small Smurf, wounded and unconscious. His body was covered in bruises and scratches, and a blood-stained hat obscured his eyes. He lay alone, abandoned and forgotten, as if the world around him did not exist.
A few hours ago, a downpour had raged, and the ground was soaked with water.
Clumsy was slowly coming to. The pain piercing his body felt unbearable. He did not want to open his eyes, trying to shut himself off from reality, but the throbbing pain would not let go. Gathering his will, he cracked his eyes open, but everything before him blurred. His hat blocked his view, and as he struggled to adjust it, he realized visibility had not improved. His head spun, and he could not remember what had happened to him. Attempting to rise brought a sharp pain that made it clear that moving was not an option yet. He tried to move his hand, but the pain only intensified in response. Lowering his head with effort, he glanced at his arm, and a moment later, fear mixed with horror completely overtook panic. Bones were protruding from his hand—bloodied, terrifying, as if they belonged to someone else. The skin was torn, and the tendons beneath throbbed strangely in time with the pain.
Blood dripped onto the grass, leaving crimson stains on the greenery, spreading around like a living thing. This sight struck him harder than the pain. His mind refused to accept what was happening, but his eyes could not turn away from the horrifying picture. This was his hand, his flesh, but it looked as if it belonged to someone else, someone who had endured a catastrophe. Horror mingled with panic, and fear with dread. He wanted to scream, to call for help, but his throat had dried up so much that instead of a voice, he could only produce a muffled sound. The world around him lost meaning, blurred, and pain became his only companion—inevitable and all-consuming. It seemed this hand was not just a part of his body, but the very embodiment of the pain that now ruled his consciousness.
The pain grew into something more than a physical sensation; it flooded his mind, making every breath heavy, every thought unbearable. He felt his own body betraying him. Weakness, fear, and pain merged into one, pulling him further into darkness, making his consciousness dissolve in agony. It felt as if his very essence was melting away in this unbearable torment, leaving only emptiness and unspeakable suffering behind.
A few hours later...
Clumsy slowly came to consciousness. It was already late morning, and the first rays of sunlight were breaking through the foliage. It felt like an eternity had passed before the pain subsided a little, leaving only a dull throbbing. A huge bump had formed on his head, and blood trickled from under his hat in small streams.
He tried to sit up, and at first, his vision was blurry, but soon he saw that he was under a tree, sheltered from the sun by thick leaves. In the half-light, he felt the same aching sensation as before. The grass around him still had patches of water glistening in the morning sun. Gathering his strength, he examined himself: the hat, stained with blood, was also wet, soaked through with water. He saw his injured arm in full view. The bones in his forearm were severely damaged, the skin was torn, and all of it together looked like a terrible nightmare. Trying to ignore the horrifying sight, he refocused on trying to understand what had happened.
He managed to move his right arm, but the slightest movement caused sharp pain. He felt his body awkwardly shudder with fear, and tears welled up in his eyes. With great effort, he stood on his feet, leaning on his left arm and clenching it into a fist to keep himself steady.
Clumsy leaned against the trunk of the tree when he felt he might lose his balance. He tried to take a deep breath, but each inhalation was filled with pain and tension. Cursing his helplessness, he still felt fear and confusion filling his body. He looked around.
Not far behind the trees, a column of smoke was rising through the leaves, and the air was filled with the appetizingly sweet aroma of fresh pastries. It meant he was not far from the village. But reaching there with such injuries and a sharp pain in his lower back seemed like an impossible task. He realized that he could not just stay here. Seconds of hesitation and fear turned into determination: he had to go back and ask for help. With this thought in mind, he tried to take a step forward, even though each attempt to move caused unbearable pain. Muffled groans escaped his lips as he repeatedly tried to take steps that felt torturous.
— W-w-w-h-h-a…s-some…r-reason… — Clumsy croaked quietly, his voice barely audible, and his throat was parched.
Looking around, he saw only the dense forest surrounding him—wild and vast. There were no obvious signs of others; only the wilderness and the village on the horizon, from which he seemed to have been thrown out. Clumsy struggled to think about everything that had happened to him, but his mind was so clouded that he couldn't understand anything. The only thing he clearly understood was this: he needed to return, as soon as possible, or he could find himself in even greater danger.
OoO
— What, in the name of the Smurfs, is happening here? — Papa asked sternly as he entered the dining room. — And where's Clumsy?
Papa stepped into the dining room. His gaze shot like lightning across the chaos that reigned around him. Porridge was scattered across the floor, chairs were lying in disarray, and the Smurfs, sitting at the tables, were happily discussing what had happened. Upon seeing Papa, the Smurfs fell silent like mice at the sight of a cat.
Laughter suddenly ceased. Jokey, who had just been laughing heartily, quickly put on an innocent expression.
— Oh, Papa, you arrived just in time! — Jokey exclaimed, trying to appear carefree. — We got a little carried away... and... played a prank on Clumsy, and it seems he got really upset. Nothing serious, it's all under control!
— Under control? Who's going to clean up this mess? — Papa said sternly. — And where is Clumsy?
Grouchy, who had been sitting with a frown, suddenly grimaced as if he had just realized what had happened.
— Clumsy left, Papa. He's probably at home.
— And crying there, — added Hefty. — Did you even see what he did? He was throwing food, and I got hit! Did you hear how he threw it at Painter?
—I heard, — Papa replied.
— Then punish him! — Hefty suggested loudly, and everyone supported his proposal.
Papa sighed, realizing that nothing good could come from these Smurfs.
— I'll go look for him. You all take care of cleaning up, and when I return, I want everything to be shining! — Papa commanded loudly, and turning, he headed for the exit.
— Poor Clumsy, — Grouchy whispered sarcastically, as if forgetting that he had also laughed at him. — I hate cleaning up!
OoO
Clumsy struggled to crawl his way back home, his steps slow and unsteady, each attempt to move bringing a fresh wave of pain. The house, which usually felt cozy and safe, now appeared as a distant oasis in a desert of suffering. He didn't want to give up; all he wanted was to reach the front door and escape the darkness of the forest. Upon reaching his goal, he opened the door with one hand, trembling from fatigue and pain. Barely crossing the threshold, he took a few steps inside and scanned his home with his eyes. The small and cozy room greeted him with a quiet silence, as if waiting for his return. The floor was cold and hard, and the fireplace and chairs seemed like unreachable islands of warmth. But Clumsy couldn't enjoy this coziness. His small body was exhausted, and the pain was unbearable. He felt his strength slipping away, and his knees began to tremble. The light in the room dimmed, and hazy images started to form in Clumsy's mind. His thoughts jumped from one to another, like in a delirium. With every moment, it felt harder to keep his consciousness intact. He desperately tried not to sink into the dark abyss that was pulling him in, but he had less and less strength.
Taking another step, he unexpectedly lost his balance and fell to the floor with a dull thud, narrowly avoiding hitting his injured arm. The consequences of the fall became the last straw for him. Weakness and pain overwhelmed him, and he lost consciousness again.
A few days later...
Clumsy sat alone on a bench near his house. He was alive and relatively healthy, although his bandaged arm still ached. He tried to hide his weakness behind a mask of calm, but the expression on his face betrayed his inner torment. The sun was beginning to set, and the warm light enveloped him, creating a golden glow around. But for him, this light was just a reminder of how far he was now from his former peace and normal life. He looked at the forest, which was now tied to his recent tragedy, and recalled the events that led to his current state. The memories were hazy, but each detail left painful marks in his mind.
His thoughts were interrupted by the rustling of grass. Someone was approaching him. Clumsy lifted his gaze and looked around. Papa, concerned about Clumsy's condition, came up to him. His face was filled with compassion and care, but there was a hint of anger in his eyes.
— How are you feeling, Clumsy? — Papa asked. — We were worried about you.
— I'm fine, — Clumsy replied coldly. — And please, don't lie to yourself when you talk about others.
— What do you mean? — Papa asked anxiously, sitting down next to Clumsy.
— What story did they tell you this time? You didn't believe me when I told you about Painter.
Papa hesitated, his face contorted in confusion.
— They told me you were throwing food, and it hit Hefty. Then they said you ran home. I came to talk to you and found... — Papa faltered, his gaze beginning to express sadness and sympathy. — It's better if I don't mention it.
— So, — Clumsy asked in a vulnerable voice, turning his gaze to Papa. — Tell me honestly, Papa. Did you come... to punish me?
Papa sighed, his gaze softening, but still filled with concern.
— No. I came to see how you are and understand what happened. It's important for all of us that you recover. There won't be any punishment if you're ready to open up and tell me what really happened.
— I can't. I don't remember what happened, — Clumsy admitted.
Clumsy lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping a bit from tension. He felt the dark clouds that shrouded his soul beginning to tighten around him. It seemed to him that Papa came only to punish him once again for something he hadn't done.
— I understand, — Papa said, his voice full of understanding. — Don't worry so much.
Clumsy shrank, expecting further negative consequences. He was ready for another reprimand or mockery.
— Rest a bit, — Papa said, gently placing a hand on Clumsy's left shoulder. — I'll come back later.
With these words, Papa left Clumsy alone on the bench and went somewhere. Clumsy felt his tension ease a little. He continued sitting on the bench, lost in his thoughts, but the feeling of darkness that had enveloped his soul was gradually fading away. He felt a bit lighter. When Papa left, Clumsy sat alone on the bench for a long time, surrounded by the evening calm. The sun was almost hidden behind the horizon, and twilight began to settle over the forest. Silence reigned around him, with only a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. Clumsy felt that each breath was becoming heavier, as if he was dragging along an invisible burden.
He looked again at his bandaged hand and tried to reach for the stars that were starting to appear in the dark sky with his left hand. Thoughts engulfed him again, returning to memories of what had happened in the forest. They were fragmented scenes filled with pain and fear. Clumsy tried to find logic in what had happened, but only blurred images and fleeting feelings came to mind.
Deciding that he needed to do something to distract himself from his constant thoughts, Clumsy got up from the bench and, leaning on his cane with his left hand, walked toward his home. He entered and approached the table, and at that moment, he realized that he hadn't picked up a brush and paints in a long time, and now it seemed like the only way to calm his anxious mind even a little. He heavily sank into a chair, and his gaze fell on the painting set that was scattered across the table. The long weeks spent without brushes and paints felt endlessly long.
Now these tools seemed like his last chance for solace amid the storm in his mind.
However, when he touched them, a sad realization engulfed him. These very brushes and paints had been a gift from Painter, who had once been his closest friend. Painter hadn't just made this gift — he had poured a part of himself into it, and for Clumsy, this set was a symbol of their friendship and trust. Now, however, this gift that once brought joy reminded him of betrayal and pain. No matter how hard Clumsy tried to focus on painting, he couldn't shake off the thoughts that Painter, whom he had considered his friend, had betrayed him. Each touch of the brushes and every stroke of paint brought not only Painteric satisfaction but also a painful reminder of how friendship and trust could suddenly turn against you.
With difficulty but determination, Clumsy took the brush in his left hand and contemplated how to express his inner torment on paper. Sadness and disappointment mingled in his soul, and each stroke of paint felt like an attempt to pour onto paper what was impossible to express in words. In this process of painting, he sought comfort and understanding, although each stroke also became another reminder of the betrayal he could never fully comprehend.
The first strokes were uneven, and the picture refused to take shape into something meaningful. He felt his anxiety and fear gradually transferring onto the sheet of paper. It was a liberating yet painful activity.
Several hours passed.
The moon was shining high in the sky, illuminating his desk with a dim light. Clumsy continued to paint, his work becoming increasingly chaotic, and he began to notice how the suffering he had experienced reflected on the paper. Every touch of the brush turned into another attempt to express what was impossible to convey in words. The painting transformed into a tumultuous kaleidoscope of color, mirroring his inner torment and anxiety. When Clumsy finally set down the brush, he looked at his work. His drawing had no clear outlines and looked like a burst of emotions that had left their marks on the paper. Clumsy felt revulsion and disappointment engulf him. The drawing, which was supposed to be a means of comfort and understanding, had become yet another reminder of how hard it was for him to find peace and harmony in his life. He gathered the painting set and put it away in the dresser.
Left alone with the darkness, he once again sank into reflection. The night enveloped his home in deep tranquility, and the moonlight filtering through the window seemed like a nearly indifferent observer of his suffering. Papa didn't come. Clumsy began to appear less frequently in the village, and with each passing day, his fear and anxiety grew, causing him to isolate himself more from his former life. He avoided encounters with others, trying not to be seen by them. Clumsy feared facing judgment and mistrust, especially from Painter, who had once been his closest friend, and Hefty, the one responsible for his broken arm.
Clumsy saw how Smurfs gathered for celebrations, how joyfully the parties unfolded. He often witnessed other Smurfs dancing and laughing, but his presence remained unnoticed. He observed from the shadows, behind the trees, like a ghost. The light of joy and merriment radiating from the village seemed especially bright and painfully out of reach to him. Every event he witnessed reminded him of how deeply he had lost touch with this world. Clumsy saw how his former "friends" gathered around the campfire, singing songs and exchanging warm words.
These moments of joy and happiness seemed unattainable to him, as his own experiences and fears became a barrier between him and the world that had once been so familiar. With each observation like this, Clumsy felt his fear and pain deepen. It was hard for him to accept that his own friends and the Smurfs, who had once been close to him, now saw him as guilty, without understanding the depth of his suffering. Painter, whose betrayal had left a deep wound, and Hefty, who had twisted the event in the dining hall, became symbols of his pain and loneliness.
Weeks passed.
Since that long night Clumsy spent painting, his life had changed dramatically. But during this time, something important happened — his right arm, which he had broken in the incident with Hefty, finally healed. However, terrible scars remained on its skin, each serving as a reminder of the pain and suffering he had endured. Despite the fact that his arm could move again, its appearance served as a constant reminder of that day and the betrayal he had faced. From time to time he ventured outside, but now it was only to observe the village from a distance. He had stopped merely painting; his artworks had become expressive metaphors of his inner world. He began creating a whole series of drawings, each filled with emotions that were impossible to express in words.
The first drawing was his personal catharsis, depicting his suffering. But then, Clumsy continued to express himself and develop his art. Each became part of his emotional journey. Three of them depicted him alone, sitting in different places around the village, where one could see that piece of the world he had left behind. These drawings were full of longing and solitude, capturing his isolated existence and sense of detachment from what had once been home. But the most emotional of all was the fourth drawing.
In it, he depicted himself sitting next to another smurf, with whom he had a cheerful conversation. It was signed with a single, significant word: «Dream».
In this piece, Clumsy expressed the deep longing for friendship and connection that had been taken from him. It was an idealized scene, a dream of how it could have been if everything had been different. Sometimes, when returning home, he would hide in the dark corner of his little house, avoiding the chance of encountering someone unexpectedly. In those dark corners, he felt protected from the outside world, which seemed foreign and hostile to him.
However, with each passing time, he increasingly began to direct his gaze toward the entrance door. And with each time, he started to awaken hope within himself that someone would soon knock on it. At other times, he would sit in his armchair, shrouded in half-light, and ponder how much had been taken from him. His thoughts, although unexpressed in words, were like quiet poems he recorded in his imagination, turning his feelings into something greater.
In the deep silence of his home, he opened the notebook again in which he recorded his feelings. The first poem was filled with bright despair and emptiness:
Evening descends like a dark blanket over sorrow,
The bright day fades away, leaving its path to follow.
You dance in the rays, like stars at their height,
While I hide in the shadows, where there's no strength or light.
Your laughter, like spring rain, brings life to the ground,
My sigh, like an echo in mountains, falls soundlessly down.
Your days are like moments against the bright skies,
While my nights are like darkness, hiding pain from my eyes.
I dart like a ship in a storm, without harbor or aim,
You are like a fortress on a cliff, standing firm in the game.
Your hours shine bright, like the sun's morning crest,
While mine are just fog that denies me my rest.
Your words are like songs, echoing in the night,
While mine groan in the abyss, where every sound takes flight.
You walk where happiness waits, on paths free of care,
While I stumble in shadow, where only sorrow is there.
You are like living water, granting power anew,
I am like dust, swept away by the wind's cruel view.
So what's left for me is to hide away from the light,
When your world blooms in color, I vanish into the night.
Sliding between laughter, dancing, and light,
I see you all clearly, yet you miss me from sight.
Shadows flicker where I once used to be,
Now just a ghost, invisible to thee.
You bring the light that fills hearts with glee,
While I, like a shadow, bear only cold and misery.
Why is it me who lives yet stays mute,
Who gazes out the window, yet never gives light a salute?
Why is it me? Why is it me?
The world carries you forward, while I'm cast to the sea.
Why is it me? Why is it me?
There are no answers — only empty days, only powerless gloom.