Bryan's Arc

Chapter 6 of 21

Bryan worked past midnight on the red armor. He pushed a thin glow into the edges, chasing that lit-from-inside feeling. Then his phone buzzed. A name he hadn't seen in over a year sat on the screen. An old mentor. The message was short. Send me a photo of what you're working on. Bryan set the brush down. His hand had gone cold. He lifted the model under the lamp. The robed figure stared back, skull mask pale, blood drop sharp on the forehead, armor lit like coals. He snapped the photo before he could talk himself out of it. He hit send. Three dots blinked. Then stopped. Then blinked again. One line came back. You finally stopped painting scared. Bryan read it twice. He set the phone face down and picked the brush back up. His hand was steady now. He remembered the first model the mentor had shoved in front of him a year ago. A bulky marine with sloppy layers and clashing colors, held up as proof Bryan would never be more than a hobbyist. He'd walked away from that desk and never written back. Tonight the robed figure on his mat looked nothing like that old bar. The glow held. Bryan opened a new note on his phone and typed one line for himself. Keep going. He didn't reply to the mentor. He didn't need to. He pictured the long road between then and now. A blonde figure in a leopard pelt, monochrome and unfinished, marking the painter he used to be. He was past that statue now. Bryan slid the phone into a drawer and shut it. The robed model glowed under the lamp, steady and alive. He loaded the brush and went back to work, alone with the piece that was finally his.