Monthly Bonus Content #1: 'Grief Comes in Waves' (Silas Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A top-down view of the waves crashing to shore that is vast enough to show the different colors of the sea from foamy white to deep blue. The title, 'Grief Comes in Waves', is right-adjusted in a wavy font with 'Silas' typed beneath it.]

Another streak of cobalt blue is added to the eddying waters that surround the lonely island meant to serve as the focal point, but it's steadily losing ground. The river seems to be rising with each rough addition of pastel Silas is layering on. The forgotten dock he carefully penciled in is now lost, swallowed up by frantic swipes of blue and gray; it's not at all balanced.

His mom always encourages him to freely create and feel without a set idea or fixed composition in mind, but he is only destroying.

Maybe that's what he needs…

Silas frowns down at his drawing, sighing softly as he glances at the old illustration in the nearby fantasy novel he is reading. There is no comparison; he turned a hidden haven for water spirits and those select few humans they once trusted into a hell. An Atlantis on a much less epic scale that is dark when contrasted with the sun-dappled waters, bobbing row boats, and happy, thriving island in the book.

While he wasn't trying to recreate the image, he is aware of the stark differences between them. The pages of the novel are well-used with a broken-in spine since he was borrowing the book from a friend, though it's now impossible to properly return it to Mr. [Surname]. More cobalt is thickly layered onto the paper as soon as that bleak conclusion crosses his mind, line after line, until most of the shore is eaten up, but it doesn't stop there.

Turning the rectangular, pastel wedge on its side allows for a broader stroke as it drags across the landscape, recoloring it into a murky sea with only the suggestion of sunken land. It's only when the tips of his fingers graze the soft, packed-on pigment that he stops the repetitive, swiping motion. Caked-on pastel resides beneath his short nails, staining his hands too.

Silas only borrowed the book for his artwork, which wasn't an easy feat with how much Mr. [Surname] treasured his library and privacy.

He doesn't ever want to finish this piece.

It was supposed to be a gift.

Silas startles when his personal telephone rings, knocking some of his selected colors from the desk so the blue and gray wedges fall like heavy rain to the floor. At least pastels aren't very delicate. He picks up the phone with his left hand to spare it from stains. "Mom?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Are you okay?" Silas asks with some measure of concern since they are in the same house and she typically talks to him in person. If his mom fell somewhere, she wouldn't be calling, but shouting. He pushes his chair back, rising from it to stretch out the crick setting into his lower back from staying bent over the workspace rather than resting before his night shift; it's late.

"Yes, we have a new arrival, so I need you…"

"Who?" He immediately asks the question despite having an idea of its answer; you're back. Silas distractedly wipes his hand on a nearby cloth, grimacing briefly at how the color isn't entirely coming off, but it is dulling. He's essentially in comfy loungewear while drawing, and now, there is company. "Is it—?"

"A very special guest."

Silas detects the gentle admonishment to his mom's tone; she isn't about to say your name aloud when you're standing in front of her. That would be impolite. He knows the town is probably not going to be overly welcoming, if not tempted to gossip about a returning visitor, so does his mother. "Do you need me right now?"

"Yes, hun, now, please."

"Okay, sure," Silas mumbles. It's not like there was an alternative answer, but he feels a little blindsided by your late night arrival when he thought it was going to be earlier. Maybe he is lucky his mom was still awake to see you first. There isn't enough time to find a proper T-shirt or fuss with his style; those things don't matter.

He hangs up the phone, scooping up his denim jacket and shrugging it on, though he hesitates by the book that remains open to an idyllic scene. Your return won't be a happy one. How can it be when another family member has been lost? Silas picks up the book with more care than needed, gentle with its worn leather and aged stitching that occasionally creaks as each page is turned. Maybe with more time and closure, he can give it back to a [Surname].

Quick steps guide him out of his room and down one of the many halls; they are a touch eager, fueled by his own brimming curiosity. Silas has the presence of mind to slow down towards the end, lengthening out his gait as he rounds a corner to see the makeshift lobby area, except his attention hones in on you despite his better judgment to play it neutral. Mr. [Surname] found it hard to talk about you at times, but he would sometimes wonder or pose what-ifs that no one could really answer, but Silas listened.

He always listened.

Some questions are better left unanswered.

"What exactly qualifies as 'special'?"

His question carries down the hallway, turning the heads of those gathered. Silas's focus barely rests on his mother, returning to you within a fraction of a second. He schools his expression when your eyes finally meet, unsure how to proceed after the years apart, though it doesn't come easily.

There is nothing neutral about the past…