[2]

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and a quiet, sort of irritating desperation. It was the kind of place where life seemed to hang in the air, hanging by tubes, machines, and silent prayers. I listened to the slow, steady ticking of the clock on the wall. Time felt heavier here, like each second carried the weight of a lifetime. I wondered how many more of those seconds I had left, and if I'd ever learn to stop fearing them. I could feel an emptiness in myself, staring at the unamusing ceiling above. And think about all sorts of things. Until I run out of thoughts. My parents and relatives come by every now and then, with occasional gifts and good wishes. That's the most I can wish off of normality. 

The rest of my days pass by being stuck in a cycle of hopelessness, while trying to hold onto the fragments of hope that haven’t yet slipped through my fingers. 

Outside my window, the sky is a pale, sickly blue—like a watercolor someone had forgotten to finish. I wondered if that was what it would feel like, fading away: incomplete, unfinished. But I shook the thought off, like I had a thousand times before. I couldn’t afford to think that way.

The door creaked open, interrupting my thoughts. Most of my days were spent in bed, though occasionally, I was supposed to stretch my legs and walk a little—"keep up the strength," as the nurse liked to remind me. I wasn’t really in the mood for it, but then again, who ever was?

I grabbed my IV pole and wheeled it out of the room. The white, cold tiles stretched on, with the walls on both sides squeezing my vision in. As I rounded a corner toward the hospital lounge, that’s when I first saw him.

Carter.

He was sitting near the window, his back turned towards me. He was completely absorbed in his work. Among all the patients and well-wishers, his figure stood out. A large sketchbook rested on his lap, and his hand moved with resolute strokes, painting something I couldn’t see. What caught my eye wasn’t the painting itself, though, rather the strange contrast of colors on his color palette. Muted, almost colorless, as if he’d taken the hues and drained the life out of them before placing them on the paper.

I shuffled over to him.

“Mind if I watch?”

Carter glanced up. His expression was calm but distant. His dark eyes lingered on me for a moment, sizing me up, before he gave a small nod. “Suit yourself.”

“I’m Jim. Jim Moore. And you?” I pulled up a chair, sitting beside him.

“Did I ask?” His eyes were back on his painting. Not the social type, huh?

“Haven’t seen you here before... so just asking...”

“Tim Carter.”

“Tim, is it?”

“Call me Carter.”

“Oh, Carter... are you here to see someone?”

“Do I need to?”

Man, he’s quite stubborn. I took a second to respond, shifting in place. “No... I mean, haven’t seen you here before... that's why...” I replied, brushing my hair.

Wow, he asked something back.  "Are you a native here or something?"

"Well, can't tell names though, but I can remember most of the faces around here."

“How long have you been admitted?”

“Two months.”

“Two...!” His words seemingly went off track. A momentary pause, then he went back into his painting. I gazed back at the sketchbook from over his shoulder, “You don’t use much color, do you?” I asked, half-joking, but there was something in his work that made me feel uneasy. It looked like he was painting shadows more than shapes.

Carter shrugged. “Color’s overrated.”

I couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Overrated? Says who?”

His brush paused, mid-stroke. “Says me. Not everything needs to be drenched in color to have meaning.”

I glanced at the painting. It was a field, but the grass was gray, and the sky overhead looked heavy, like rain was about to pour down any second. There was a lone tree in the middle, its dry branches reaching for the sky.

I shook my head, still not getting it. “I don’t know, man. I think colors are kind of the whole point.”

Carter didn’t respond right away. He kept painting, his hand moving in slow, deliberate motions. I watched as the muted shades swirled together on the painting, creating a landscape that felt cold and distant, but there was something captivating about it too. Something real. After a long pause, he finally said, “You ever notice how, in this place, everything feels… faded? Like the walls, the floors, even the people? It’s like the whole world is losing its color.” Carter’s hands, though steady as he painted, trembled slightly as he set the brush down. He tried to mask it, smiling through it, but the crack in his facade was there—barely noticeable but impossible to ignore if you were looking. I frowned. 

"Look around, and you'll notice the subtle details."

"Details, like what?"

"Never mind. Don't overthink."

“I guess I'm getting you a bit. Or maybe a tiny bit... And yeah, it’s not exactly a rainbow in here, but… I don’t know. I like to think there’s still some color left. You just have to look for it.”

Carter’s lips curled into a faint smile, but there was no warmth in it. “Maybe. At this point, I don't really know if this piece is good or not, but even if it's slight, something seems to pulling me in... as if my art is trying to swallow me whole. And the next moment, I see the colors all around me. I’m still in reality. But I realize how stark it has become.”

“That is, your art speaks to you...?”

“Kind of. Yeah.”

Damn, that was catchy of me to say. And how does art even speak to someone in the first place? He's quite the odd one for sure. But one thing's evident, he sounded like someone who has already resigned himself to something I wasn’t ready to face. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to lighten the mood. “So, you’re an artist, huh? You do this a lot?”

“Just a hobby. Helps pass the time.”

“I could use a distraction like that. Not sure if I’d be any good, though.”

Carter turned to look at me, raising an eyebrow. “You ever tried?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I can barely draw a straight line.”

“Good,” he said, with a smirk. “Straight lines are boring.”

There was something about the way he said it that made me laugh. It was strange, but I liked his quiet, almost cynical sense of humor. It made me feel like, for a moment, the walls of this place weren’t closing in on me.

Carter looked back at his painting, adding a few more strokes before finally setting the brush down. “If you want, I can show you. Not much else to do around here anyway.”

I blinked. “You mean… teach me to paint?”

He nodded, wiping his hands on a rag. “Why not? You said you could use a distraction. I’ll even let you use color. Maybe you’ll find something in it that I can’t.”

I didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

That’s how it all begun. Amongst the smell of bleach and broken dreams, something seemed to shift between us. Someone waiting for futures to break through the shackles of uncertainty. Someone waiting for an uncertain future. I was Jim, the guy who was going to learn to paint. And Carter… well, Carter was the one who would teach me... whether he believed in color or not.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d show him that there was still some left.