Indigo: The Boy Who Can't Find His Paintbrush

Indigo is a 50-year-old boy. Content and happy with his mediocrity in his mother’s attic. Unmarried without children, he sure doesn’t mind wearing the cloak of irresponsibility with pride. Committed to sticking to his life’s path after a fatal stroke years ago.

His God-given second chance to life.

Surviving such an ordeal, he soon realized there is nothing else more important than letting his eyes meander over the sea of farmers planting rice; his nose sucking in the punch of greens; his ears basking under the warmth of chirping birds singing for him to warm his heart. Away from people’s ultra-high expectations, away from the bustling cities, away from social chaos.

He’s done enough of that. Only took him a few years of working hard as an accountant in one of the mega-companies you know to figure that out and quickly realize capitalism, and he will never be good friends. And his seventy-year-old mother has never been the same again since he left his post.

Quite shameful for a Summa cum Laude. Major in Accountancy. Unemployed. Total embarrassment for the family. Being a mother is no more.

Who cares, he argues, giving up the idea of gaining her back, curving his lips into a soft smile. His face glows, though old and gray, his skin crumply and aged, scrawny. Looking way too thin for his height. Too different from the Indigo he had known before. Living each day with forced smiles. Lost in touch with reality underneath the crispy Tux and well-trimmed hair. Stressed out, good-looking zombie.

Realizing the miracle of escaping the disastrous adulthood, he briefly closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath, letting the blissful air seep into his lungs—forgetting the old chapter, hoping that someday he can finally forget and bury those memories into the depths of his consciousness.

And now, the opportunity is finally knocking on his door. Because only when he can finally sell one of his paintings at one of the best auction houses will he be able to do that. To finally start anew, search for an apartment, and cut ties with her forever. And he’s been working on that. For years, he never stopped exploring his way, carving himself a name locally, and finally, the results paid off. One of the country’s notable auction houses has its eyes on his work.

Satisfied, he moves his attention to the canvas he had prepared earlier, stretching his arms, his fingers, his joints. His eyes on the oils he plans to use for this project. He’d done a lot of acrylics before, so he itches to try something new. Lingering his gaze at the empty canvas, he hovers his fingers over the set of paintbrushes in his favorite leather case he bought on Etsy, selecting the one he likes to use for the base coat.

Then, his hand stops dead. His eyes flicker, his senses widen. Something catches his attention. Something is off. A sharp frequency rams his ears. He dips his head in that direction and sees the empty slot. His face pales. His mouth tightens as he swirls in place, searching for the paintbrush with piercing eyes, now stabbing his workspace like swords. Rage fumes his lungs, expelling warm air in his flaring nose.

Even if he hasn’t made a single cent from it, this is life, he argues. So there is no way that paintbrush leaves his sacred space for another. It must know his undying commitment to make this work. And the deadline is fast approaching. He must get this done before he sends this to the auction house he’d promised to deliver.

It is crystal clear in his brain. This is his only chance. The only chance to get out of this messy 80-square-meter space. The only chance to pay his unpayable rent and all the loans his mother had done for him from the time he was born. The only chance to welcome his breakthrough.

“Ma, where’s my paintbrush?” He screams as frustration hits the peak of his skull, his fingers find his head, raking his scalp like stubborn twigs. Hearing a muffled ‘What’ from downstairs, he screams again, stomping around, frantically searching for that one paintbrush. He needs that paintbrush to start. Without it, nothing will go well.

***

Nothing goes well in this house, Mother concedes, wearing a big frown on her face preparing breakfast. If she knew her retirement life would end up like this, taking care of her only child for the rest of her life, she might not haven’t married. She might have had a better life, exploring greater heights with her creative talents and skills. Not like this, stuck in a rut, retired, living each day with a mid-century kid who never failed to drive her crazy and bleed her dry.

With a heavy heart, she rests the ceramic plates on the table, with streaming rice and chorizo for breakfast. Though a simple one, she is okay with it. A simple reminder of her childhood memories when her mother did the same for her; when lately things aren’t been easy, when all her son knows best is to demand and complain. Life was once good for her until her husband cheated for a better one, then abandoned them. Since then, things soured in her family, forcing her to leave her comfort for the baby’s sake. The rest is history.

Wanting to bury that memory into the depths of her consciousness, she downs a glass of water and cries out for his name, only to notice him ignoring her. She opens her mouth again, raising her voice, demanding him to stop his ruckus and come down to eat, only to welcome another blast of loud thuds above her instead. Giving up, she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, ignoring his tantrums with a decision to head on and enjoy herself.

Besides, with a cup of coffee and a delicious breakfast, she is more than ready to fill in and leave this hut for the rest of the day and visit friends. She would rather waste her time listening to their bullshit than staying at home with a thick air of misery, reminding her of what she shouldn’t have done way too many times, even though she loves her son so much. She has done her part as his mother, and that part has long been over. She is retired now and is supposed to be sitting around and chit-chatting with folks in town.

But here she is, still babysitting a fifty-year-old man whom she has given up hopes of finding a stable life. And she is already exhausted, unusually feeling sorry for herself. Breathless. Perhaps the old age has begun to hit her somehow.

“Ma! I asked you many times, but you did not listen to me. Where’s my paintbrush!” Indigo’s baritone stabs both ears. She sighs and ignores him at first, only to hear him throwing his things up there. From the sounds of it, she assumes his paints, canvas, fabrics, and whatever is on his shelves are now tossed onto the wooden floor.

When she notices the thuds outside, her face pales as the image flashes before her mind. Is he throwing his stuff out? Please, not his acrylics. Definitely not towards her garden. No.

Before she can react, her eyes catch some of his canvases thrown out the window. Her face tightens in fear. Afraid of damages, she sprang out of the chair and bolted to the entry door. Immediately, she welcomes stacks and stacks of his art on her fresh-trimmed grass, destroying her newly blooming flowers. Too late to save.

“Stop it now. You’re destroying my garden!”

“I don’t give a fuck! Just like you don’t give a fuck about my paintbrush.” He throws the loudest cuss in his life.

Slamming a palm on her forehead, she cusses back with her old lady voice, wanting to throw him out of the window, too. Under the sun, she runs outside slowly and lifts her face to the window, screaming, begging him to stop this madness. It is still early morning, and he already has an unsolicited soap opera playing out in the village. To her dismay, he has no plans to stop and keeps throwing out more and more things instead.

Frustrated and annoyed to the bone, tears burst out of her eyes, dampening her cheeks while enduring the whispers from behind. And she isn’t the type who cries. She isn’t the type who quickly feels shameful and embarrassed. But this time, it hits her differently. Maybe because she already has enough of his drama and elusive dreams. Right now, all she ever wants to do is to shut him up and kick him out of her house while she can. To finally retire and rest.

She opens her mouth, drawing out the remainder of her strength, wanting to release everything she had been keeping inside. Imagine the sleeplessness she had when he was a baby, more than a handful of overtime she did to survive him alone without a husband. When her friends stayed home to be full-time mothers for a few months after giving birth, she went to work a month later, leaving the baby Indigo to her parents full-time. She’d given her all.

“For what?” Reliving those memories in her head fuels her knuckles to grow white, oddly resentful for that old decision to be the best mother in the world. As much as she wishes to suppress these feelings and thoughts just as she has always done, she thinks ‘No.’ She is already at the end of the tightrope and is more than willing to spill the most precious beans she has. After all, she is old. The sun is about to set for her. If things go wrong from here, she’ll die soon anyway. She has nothing to lose anymore.

She screams her lungs out, letting the words she’d kept close to her chest slip out of her mouth. “I wish you would become that paintbrush you’re looking for. You’re such a piece of shit. Smart but dumb. I don’t need you in my life. I just want you to leave me. I want to be alone and enjoy my breakfast in peace.”

Then, there is a loud, maddening pause.

***

Inside, without Mother knowing, the room, though in complete chaos, is empty. Because Indigo is nowhere to be found.

Where is he, you ask, searching for him in every nook and corner of his messy space? I tell you, look behind the empty shelves. Look over the window, his unfixed bed, his curtains. Tell me if you find him. Let’s look together. You agree, nodding.

Wait. We pause, noting the sounds of utensils hitting the ceramic. Mother is downstairs, finally enjoying her breakfast. We should be silent. She shouldn’t hear us.

Do you see the paintbrush he’s searching for? The one for his base coat. Yes, you’ve seen it? Where is it? You point your index finger at the leather case. I nod, heading in that direction to check if anything is interesting.

As you head over his toppled canvas and pick something up, you still see nothing. You see no Indigo’s silhouette in this room. You keep whispering, ‘Where is he?’ too many times, I shut you up with a finger. No movement. No noise. Unusually silent. Your eyebrows curl and meet in the middle, throwing your eyes at me. I shrug at you, saying, ‘I don’t know.’

Unconvinced, you hum as you continue, moving over to the opposite side, to his bed, bending down on his carpet to check if he’s hiding underneath the mattress, under the blanket. You skip no detail, no section unsearched, until you find something that catches your attention.

Out of nowhere, your eyes round, your breath catches up in your constricting throat. Your chest pounds like taiko drums in a festival as fear clutches on and panic sweeps in. You expel air out of your mouth and stretch your arm to grab something underneath. What is it that you see, I ask, but you say nothing. What surprises you now? Have you seen Indigo? I ask again.

You say nothing at first, as though you can’t believe what you’ve just seen. Instead, you suck in a breath and briefly shut your eyes to ease yourself. Whatever it is you see has left you frozen for a second. You dip your eyes in your hand, grayed with layers of dust. You tap both palms to clear your skin and wipe it with the hemlines of your shirt to free it from dirt.

“Yes, I think I found him,” you say, carefully resting the canvas on the easel. It is as if you’re letting the thought sink in deeply in your brain before opening your mouth. Perhaps you might have felt this is too auspicious and magical even to consider it happening in real life. But it does, and it is happening right in front of you. Right now.

I ask you again, only to welcome beads of sweat forming on your forehead. Your face flushes as though you are internally debating whether to tell the truth over a lie.

When ready, you look at me, offering your frightened but empathetic red-rimmed eyes, leaving me even more confused and drowning my mind in question marks. Before I open my mouth to ask what is happening with you, you clasp my shoulder with your trembling hands. Your fingers sink deeper into my skin and carefully rest the paintbrush on my palm. My eyes narrow at the sight of an ordinary brush without any mark on it, my eyebrow arches, my chest expands, wanting to speak and demand answers.

Then, you sigh, distracting me, and say, “I know what you’re thinking. You won’t believe this. But Mother is right. Indigo became the paintbrush himself.”

“How come? He’s here a while ago.”

“Look closely.”

Your eyes shake, and I jolt when I notice his face as etched on the wood. My mouth eases open. Shrugging, you move your attention to the canvas and flip it in the opposite direction, revealing the words you’ve already seen earlier but are too afraid to reveal. 

Your wish is my command, Madame. I turn your son into a paintbrush. — Mr. Skittles