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23 October 2006 @ 10:48 pm
Lower East Side, Manhattan: Isaac's Studio  
Open to Simone.

Isaac realised, blearily, that it was daylight because his eyelids seemed to be painted cadmium red on the inside, and that meant there was more light than just streetlights and starlights and the occasional police helicopter. Daylight meant getting up out of bed--was he even in bed? His back seemed to suggest he wasn't, so at least he was a step closer to the end goal. Daylight also meant that Simone would probably be over. She hadn't been by, not since the overdose. So she would be, more than likely. To pick up paintings or to lecture him on how much electricity he was using or something stupid that meant, in Simone-world, that she cared, that she was invested in him. Art was a language of subtleties, and he knew Simone's well. He should, after all this time. He knew her language and she knew his, and that should be enough to make sure they could communicate, but shoulds rarely panned out into actualities. That, Isaac had to admit, was frustrating. Spanish, English, body language, sketches, something should make sense. Something.

Groaning, Isaac opened his eyes and pulled himself upright. He was on the floor, and the latest canvas was there on the easel, completed, unremembered. It made Isaac's head hurt to look at it, so he just dragged himself to the bathroom to splash water on himself and try to remember which day it was. She'd probably ask if he knew, anyway, and having an answer would be a good first step.
Current Mood: groggygroggy
Isaac Mendez: Portrait of the artist//greyviridian_hue on October 24th, 2006 05:03 am (UTC)
Slowly, Isaac shook his head, jaw setting in a firm line. "They're better now. So much better. And you know it. They're clearer," he insisted. "It's all better now. You can't tell me you don't see the difference." Those last words, they were almost questioning, as if asking for some kind of aknowledgement, trying to draw her back into his orbit. "The art is what matters, Simone. It's better now."
enabling on October 24th, 2006 05:09 am (UTC)
Simone moved her eyes up to him, looking him clearly in the eye. It was all in his body language, that silent plea. He was right. The paintings were clearer, more defined, frighteningly so. But he'd been right the first night. Even if they were hauntingly beautiful, the ends did not in any way justify the means. Not to her. No amount of art mattered that much.

"Baby, you need help," she said, her voice pained. "It'll only get worse. You almost killed yourself. I want to help you."
Isaac Mendez: Blues//down and outviridian_hue on October 24th, 2006 05:26 am (UTC)
His body language changed with those words, turning defensive again, turning inwards, buffering himself. "I don't need help, I need...Christ, Simone, I need a lot of things. I need you to just believe me. I can't stop, don't you understand? If these are...if this is the future, I can't stop. I have to keep painting. And this is the only way I can see it, I can get to it. And if this is what's going to happen..." He trailed off, tracing his bare toe across one of the lines of the painting on the floor. "I have to know. I have to see, carida. I can't just let it go."
enabling on October 24th, 2006 12:11 pm (UTC)
"Believe you. Like you wanted me to believe that you could just stop?" Simone replied, expression torn between concern and frustration, her hands moving to gesture around them. "Like you'd wanted me to believe you last time, with the wild claims? You lied to me. It's crazy, Isaac. Painting the future. It's the drugs. I'll admit, this- these-" she took a few steps closer, eyes moving to the paintings. "-They're so alive it's creepy, but that's all it is."