The Eye (Ending 2)

So, here it is. I suppose it seems silly to post the same story with a different ending. But really, I feel the ending different ending redefines the piece. It makes it separate yet similar.

There was a quote that she liked from a book she once read. She couldn’t remember the title of the book; she had read it so long ago. Sometime in high school. The quote wasn’t clear in her mind either. Something about living. Or was it dying?

“Hey, I need this itinerary bound and sent out. Can you do it?” said her coworker, slathered in thick makeup.

“Yeah. I’ll do it as soon as I’m done with this stack of general information kits,” said Callie.

Her coworker eyed the huge pile. Callie could see what she was thinking. If she did it herself it would get done quickly. If she added it to Callie’s pile, it would be awhile before it got done. She placed it on the pile.

Callie went back to work. The machine cut holes and she bound them. Cut then bound. It was tedious and time consuming, but it required no thinking. Her mind could wander.

She wasn’t at work inside her mind. Her hands weren’t binding booklets. She was at home, in her room with her hands covered in color. She was running her oil pastels across a blank canvas. Smooth, they ran, her oil pastels. Smooth across the canvas like an ice skater across a frozen pond.

The idea had come to her during lunch at the park. A little boy had been staring at a blue jay that sat eye level with him. They stared at each until the boy stepped forward and the blue jay flew away. The spell was broken. She wanted to cast it again. Cast it so it would never break. Her fingers itched.

Time dragged on at work. Cut then bound. Cut then bound. Her arms moved on their own in their routine. It was dance they had struggled to learn in her first few months of work. After a year, they knew the dance so well she would find them moving in the pattern while she slept or was lost in thought.

She was so preoccupied with the drawing in her head that she worked an hour more than usual. She was snapped out of it when her boss told he was glad she was being so enthusiastic.

“Enthusiasm is a good thing. You might be rewarded.”

He winked at her. It made her skin crawl.

She packed up her things and turned her phone on. Alex had left her five messages.

“I’m outside. Where are you?”

“Cal, where are you? I’m outside.”

“Jeez, I’m going to leave. It’s been twenty minutes.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going.”

Callie sighed and laughed. She had done this before. He always threatened to leave. She would walk out, find him in the parking lot, explain everything and he would laugh.

But she walked out and he wasn’t there. This wasn’t the first time he had left her in the past month. Her heart still pained her a little but she dismissed it. She found the city bus and continued painting in her mind. When she got home he wasn’t there. Callie threw her stuff on the table and found her smock.

Inside her room the dying light lingered on the papers pinned to the walls and spilled onto her easel and the bare white canvas it held. She turned on the light and sat down before the easel and pulled her small table holding her oil pastels closer to her. She began.

Callie’s room was her studio. It was tiny and cramped even with the few pieces of furniture it had. She loved it though. It was her place. It was where she felt at home.

She shared her bedroom with Alex. That was her other home. The one she fled to when her hands were to tired too continue or when she had finished a piece and wished to celebrate. It was different kind of love, being in Alex’s arms than the love she felt in her room.

Callie heard the door open then close. Alex was home. She thought of going to see him but her hand was fighting to get the bird’s eye just right. He would come.

The door to their bedroom opened and closed and she could hear him banging about. Part of her was curios as to what he had been doing before he came home and, had she not been drawing, she would have gone to ask. She struggled with the bird’s eye.

Eventually Alex came in. He stood in the doorway and stared at her. She was hunched in her chair, her hair escaping her bun in wisps and falling about her face. He was angry with her for being late again and having him wait in the parking lot but her sight still softened him. He took her in: her small frame, her utter concentration on her piece, the wrinkle that appeared in her brow when something was not going right. Her hands were covered in residue from her oil pastels. Her picture took form underneath her hand.

He walked towards her and kissed the back of her neck. She giggled and her hand stopped moving.

Callie expected him to kiss her again but he stood unmoving behind her. She turned to him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“You lie. What is it?” she said, pushing him.

He knocked her hand away.

“You’re going to get my shirt dirty.”

Callie looked at her hands.

“I’m sorry about being late,” she said as she grabbed a towel to wipe them.

“It’s fine. I’m used to it,” he said.

“I just got caught up with the idea for this painting. You know, I got the idea at the park. At lunch today and"”

“That's good,” he said.

“What is it?!” she asked frustrated.

“I said nothing.”

“Then please leave,” she said, hurt. She threw the towel to the side and picked her oil pastel up again. The bird’s eye was not coming out right at all.

Alex turned to walk out.

“Can you do something other than your art for once?” he said softly.

Her hand stopped.
“What?”

“Every other day you are late because you have some big idea, then you lock yourself in your room and spend entire nights in here. Could you be with me for one night? Just me?” The words were out of his mouth before he thought about them.

Callie looked up at him surprised. Hadn’t he realized that she wasn’t painting as much as she used to? She barely found inspiration anymore. Why didn’t he know that when she was in her room she wasn’t working, she was staring at the canvas wishing her hands would move?

“We aren’t in college anymore,” he continued. “You can’t do this for the rest of your life.  What happens when your boss gives you harder jobs? Ones where you have to actually think? Are you going to spend the whole time thinking about painting?”

“I pay attention to my work!” she said.

“What is going to happen when we have kids? You can’t put a baby in a crib and expect it not to cry so you can paint. Or are you going to leave me and the baby alone so you can work on your art?” he said, his jealousy rising up out of his chest and flying from his mouth. He knew this was hurting her.

“I wouldn’t! You know that. That's different"”

“Do you even want to marry me?” he said voicing the question that had been plaguing him for weeks.

She froze. His question wrapped around her and squeezed her tightly. How could he ask that?

“How could you ask that?”

He was her second home.

“You don’t act like it.” He said.

He was where she loved to be.

“Why would you ask that?”

He made her happy.

“What is more important, your art or me?”

She slapped him. The black residue from her oil pastel smeared across his cheek.

They stood silent. Her hand stung as his cheek throbbed.

“If you want to be with me, stop painting. I can’t do it… I can’t stand it.” He said softly.

His words slapped her. She felt them echo in her head. She didn’t know how to respond.

            She didn’t know what to do so she sat back down and continued working. He stared at her.

            “What are you doing!?” he said.

“I’m working on this eye,” she said softly.

She realized she had made her choice. Tears filled her eyes with this realization but her hands moved steadily across the canvas keeping her from faltering.

“Why?” he said.

It was then she remembered the quote from the book she had read.

“I could die for you. But I couldn't, and wouldn't, live for you,” she said softly.

He stared at her incredulously.

“What are you talking about?”

“I love being with you. I would die for you.  But I can’t live for you. I… I need to live for me. I need to do what I want,” she said realizing the truth in what she said as it came from her mouth. She continued drawing.

Alex turned and left. He went to their room and began packing his things. Callie heard him and realized what he was doing but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. She continued working even after she heard the rolling of suitcase wheels down the hall. She continued working even after she heard the door slam shut. Tears flowed down from her eyes but the sadness didn’t reach her hands.  Her love had left her but they kept working.

She fell asleep in her room hours later.

The picture was finished. The eye was finally right.

Author's Note

Well, there you have it.

If you took the time to read both, please leave a message on which one you liked and why. I like both of them and I would love to see opinions on it.

Reviews

[J.M]

I love this ending too, it's really sweet with the eye finally being right, but I think over all I prefer the other one, it was just so unique and beautiful.

[BodilessSoul]

I love this one just a tad bit more than the other. The ending tied everything together. It kinda didn't make sense that she would stop painting in the last one and this one makes a stronger statement about her love for art over her love for Alex. It tied in how her hands kept working in work and how they kept working now. It put a little bow on the story : )