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I release a long puff of smoke and then stub the cigarette in the middle of the crowded ashtray. My cancer-inducing habit has been going on since my name started making the rounds in the art circles about eight years ago.
The prodigy.
The special one.
The gifted child.
It’s by no means due to pressure. If anything, the sudden surge of marketing my name experienced has stroked my ego in all the right places and given me better pleasure than a pro choking on my cock.
Smoking simply gives me the right balance while I’m using both hands to produce people’s next favorite sculpture.
My fingers hover over the countless pieces of clay I’ve created since I retreated to my studio after Mia ran away.
At that time, I had two options—follow her or purge the burst of inspiration that suddenly crashed into my skull.
I opted for the second, and ever since then, I’ve been modeling miniature sculptures in search of the right image of the inspiration I had at that exact moment.
A million mini sculptures later, I’ve exhausted my clay supply and I’m still not satisfied with any of them. I’m certainly not using them on a real sculpture.
If my art professors at REU were to see them, they’d fall arse over tits and call them masterpieces like everything I’ve made with my supremely gifted hands.
I don’t.
Something is missing.
If that little fucking shit had just remained still for a few more minutes, I would’ve gotten the full image. But she was more pressed about escaping me.
Granted, I might not have stopped at just touching if she hadn’t run away.
I grab the last miniature and throw it against the raw stone opposite me. My details were the sharpest in the first ones, but they dwindled as I made more.
The last ones are absolute rubbish and a staggering disgrace.
The first stab of inspiration that hit me has faded, and my mind is now the usual barren black.
Black used to be the standard for me. It was with black that I sculpted and with black that I continued to thrive.
But for the first time ever, this type of black isn’t as satisfying.
I want the dash of colors.
The strike of lightning.
The sound of thunder.
None of them come.
“Lan!”
I stare up from my distasteful miniatures to find my brother standing in the middle of my kingdom. Brandon is a striking identical picture of me, who can’t resemble my sublime character to save his life.
“How did you manage to get in?” I sound groggy to my own ears, so I pull out another cigarette and jam it between my lips.
My brother doesn’t like the smell of cigarettes, but then again, he shouldn’t be in my space.
“I helped.” My cousin Eli flashes me a vicious grin as he appears from behind Bran like a horror cliché.
He’s my second cousin, if we’re being specific, since his dad and mine are cousins. Being a couple years older than me, he takes that as a pass to brag about the King firstborn privileges.
