Ami for 22, Family

presidentnerd:

Ami only when she visit her father once as an adult. It was during her senior year of college, when the break allowed her a little time, and she thought that she could give him a present for his birthday. During the last semester, she had taken some painting classes and the final project lay against a wall in her room, staring at her every time she woke up. It was a picture of a lake ridden by the chill of winter, snow falling from the night sky. The art teacher had given her a B+ on it: the notes said her technique was that of some one too strict. She followed the rules of art too closely, that she needed to learn to break away and let herself breathe. Still, there was passion in what she had painted and the teacher told her that if she wanted to come back to her class, she would be welcomed. “There’s something there, Mizuno-san.” The woman smiled, her wrinkles crowding at the corner of her lips. “Let it out.” 

Ami didn’t think she would be back, but she loved that painting. She was proud of it. The colors, the way she sketched it, the way the water shined in the dim light. It was just like Papa’s pictures.

He would have to love it.

So, in the sort of untamed boldness she’s only seen in Minako, Ami pulled in the information out of her mother and found her a way to her father’s cabin–and she had done so alone, because she was aware that not one of her friends would have let her do this. They were protective over her and as sweet as that was, she didn’t want it right now. They didn’t understand–Papa loved her, it was just different from the love they understood.

So she popped up there and…her father didn’t recognize her. He peered at her through his glasses, uninterested as can be, and when she was finally able to muster the courage to tell him that it was her, his daughter, he only gave a vague nod. “Ah, right. Right. You got…tall.” She smiled, waiting for more, but he didn’t give it. He turned around and gestured for her to follow and Ami did, like an eager puppy after its master.

The rest of the visit went by uncomfortably–with Ami trying to tell him about her life, her friends, her work, but he only gave absent minded hums, his eyes always on the window or his paintings. He’d wrinkle his nose when she’d laugh and look up at the ceiling–she was boring him, she realized half way through the visit. Slowly, the confidence she built up during her teens had drained out of her; she curled in on herself in that chair and searched her brain for a solution, for a way to make him happy.

The painting. She took out gleefully, her last chance at earning his approval, and told him it was for his birthday. At first, when she held out to him but he wouldn’t take it. He peered at it over his mug, his lips twitching into a frown. Finally, when he did take it, she breathed a sigh of relief.

He got up and stared at it in the natural light of the sun shining outside…

and proceeded to tell every thing wrong with it. The colors, the lighting, the stroke of her brush, feeling behind it. In the same way Ami could pulled information out of a single math problem, he could tear a painting into sections and know everything about it. Ami’s heart sunk into a cold pit in her stomach. When he asked where she had done this, she could only answer in a small, stuttering voice “In…i-in class…”

He tsked, “Of course. You didn’t even do it for me. You did for a grade. Like always.” He dumped it on the table in front of her and took his coffee away. Ami watched helpless, her eyes pleading for any kindness, as he turned away and sat down in front of his painting. “Don’t insult me, Ami.”

It was the first time she had heard him say her names in years. Numbly, she uttered a sorry and excused herself. Picking up the painting, she took her stuff and walked out the door, muttered a small, choked good bye. She didn’t hear him return it when she closed the door.

The painting went into a nearby river. She screamed when she flung it out from her and the sobbing that cracked out of her body left her feeling weak and useless–drowning her tears like that painting in the water. Then, she went home and she never talked about what had happened. Everything remained the same–except when she received a postcard, she threw it in the trash, and she never went to art class again.