Fic: Wounds of the Soul
Feb. 20th, 2008 08:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
starsandseaTitle: Wounds of the Soul
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Pieter, Michael, mentions of JSA.
Word Count: 873
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Author's Note: For my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dcu_freeforall table prompt of 'Heal'. Unbetaed, so point and I shall correct.
Pieter used to paint. Back when he could see. The paintings were never any good, but it was something he enjoyed doing, something that made him happy. Oh, his friends would always praise him, say that they liked his pictures, how nice and good they were. But when he looked at them, it was only very rarely that he liked them. The rest of the time, he could only see flaws, see things that he longed to change. But it was too late then.
He had to hide the paintings away, up in attacks and in spare rooms he never ventured into, save to put the paintings away. He could never bear to look at them again, see how terrible they were, and feel so ashamed that he had ever shown them to anyone. But he still carried on painting. As other people would vent their emotions in their diaries, or in stories they wrote, Pieter would vent in his paintings: violent oranges and reds and black when he was angry; soft greens and blues when he was happy.
The first time he had failed to save someone life, he had gone home and just spent the rest of the night painting; red covering every canvas, blackness always running through it and surrounding it, his tears mingling with the paint. Those were the only pictures he could look at again. He had them hung up, so every time he saw them, he could be reminded how he failed. He had done the same when his mother had died. The violent colors of that night were hung the walls of the living room, staring at him.
When he had gone blind... he had walked around the house, bumping into walls and tripping over items he had carelessly placed on the floor, until he had come to the first of the spare rooms. He had gone in and felt the canvases, felt the paint, the brush strokes, and destroyed them all. He had woken in the morning with dried old paint on his skin, and splinters in his hands, and wept, surrounded by the remains of his former life.
When he had found Charlie - or rather, Charlie found him - and discovered he could see, in a way, things were a little better. And Charlie was around to pull him out of his darkest moods. But he didn't paint again.
Instead, he threw himself into his work, into the clinic, into becoming Dr. Mid-Nite, and just ignored his feelings. When he felt the need to vent, he just went out and walked among the poor of Portsmouth and saw those far, far less fortunate than him, or just worked at the clinic, and slowly gathered in helpers, first Camilla, then Nite-Lite and Ice-Sickle. And, of course, he had the JSA now, too, and there was always, always someone in need, someone who he would try and help.
It wasn't until one day, when Courtney had brought some of her homework - her art homework - to the brownstone, and he had unthinkingly given her some advice, that he thought about painting again. But when he went back home, and looked at his old paintings, the ones he hadn't destroyed, he had felt his old shame come back. Besides, he couldn't paint now, he couldn't even see properly, so he could hardly paint, could he? He threw himself back into his work, and didn't think about painting again until weeks later, when he had wearily gone home after a long shift at the clinic, and found Michael looking at his old works.
Michael had praised them, but Pieter could only feel mortified that Michael - who wasn't called 'Mr. Terrific' for nothing - had seen them. Pieter had accepted his words, knowing that Michael was only being kind, and discovered that Courtney had told him how he had given her advice, how she had got a A for her homework, and Michael had somehow discovered that he used to paint.
From then on, Michael encouraged him nearly every day to paint something, until at last, utterly worn out after he had failed to save someones life again, Pieter had gone home, and very nearly attacked a canvas, throwing all of his emotions into the paint, until he collapsed and fell asleep on the floor beside the painting, completely drained.
When he had woken up, he had been surprised at how peaceful he felt; how content. Michael was sitting opposite him, had come in sometime during the night and put a blanket over him, watched over his dreams. They had talked all morning, and much of the afternoon, and Pieter was surprised at how happy he felt afterwards.
He started painting again after that, not so much as before, but it helped. And Michael, then later the rest of the JSA, were always there to give him an encouraging word, when he felt the shame boiling up again. And even though he didn't always believe their words, he didn't care. The paintings helped him, helped him heal his emotional wounds.
And really, that was all that mattered.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Pieter, Michael, mentions of JSA.
Word Count: 873
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Author's Note: For my
dcu_freeforall table prompt of 'Heal'. Unbetaed, so point and I shall correct.Pieter used to paint. Back when he could see. The paintings were never any good, but it was something he enjoyed doing, something that made him happy. Oh, his friends would always praise him, say that they liked his pictures, how nice and good they were. But when he looked at them, it was only very rarely that he liked them. The rest of the time, he could only see flaws, see things that he longed to change. But it was too late then.
He had to hide the paintings away, up in attacks and in spare rooms he never ventured into, save to put the paintings away. He could never bear to look at them again, see how terrible they were, and feel so ashamed that he had ever shown them to anyone. But he still carried on painting. As other people would vent their emotions in their diaries, or in stories they wrote, Pieter would vent in his paintings: violent oranges and reds and black when he was angry; soft greens and blues when he was happy.
The first time he had failed to save someone life, he had gone home and just spent the rest of the night painting; red covering every canvas, blackness always running through it and surrounding it, his tears mingling with the paint. Those were the only pictures he could look at again. He had them hung up, so every time he saw them, he could be reminded how he failed. He had done the same when his mother had died. The violent colors of that night were hung the walls of the living room, staring at him.
When he had gone blind... he had walked around the house, bumping into walls and tripping over items he had carelessly placed on the floor, until he had come to the first of the spare rooms. He had gone in and felt the canvases, felt the paint, the brush strokes, and destroyed them all. He had woken in the morning with dried old paint on his skin, and splinters in his hands, and wept, surrounded by the remains of his former life.
When he had found Charlie - or rather, Charlie found him - and discovered he could see, in a way, things were a little better. And Charlie was around to pull him out of his darkest moods. But he didn't paint again.
Instead, he threw himself into his work, into the clinic, into becoming Dr. Mid-Nite, and just ignored his feelings. When he felt the need to vent, he just went out and walked among the poor of Portsmouth and saw those far, far less fortunate than him, or just worked at the clinic, and slowly gathered in helpers, first Camilla, then Nite-Lite and Ice-Sickle. And, of course, he had the JSA now, too, and there was always, always someone in need, someone who he would try and help.
It wasn't until one day, when Courtney had brought some of her homework - her art homework - to the brownstone, and he had unthinkingly given her some advice, that he thought about painting again. But when he went back home, and looked at his old paintings, the ones he hadn't destroyed, he had felt his old shame come back. Besides, he couldn't paint now, he couldn't even see properly, so he could hardly paint, could he? He threw himself back into his work, and didn't think about painting again until weeks later, when he had wearily gone home after a long shift at the clinic, and found Michael looking at his old works.
Michael had praised them, but Pieter could only feel mortified that Michael - who wasn't called 'Mr. Terrific' for nothing - had seen them. Pieter had accepted his words, knowing that Michael was only being kind, and discovered that Courtney had told him how he had given her advice, how she had got a A for her homework, and Michael had somehow discovered that he used to paint.
From then on, Michael encouraged him nearly every day to paint something, until at last, utterly worn out after he had failed to save someones life again, Pieter had gone home, and very nearly attacked a canvas, throwing all of his emotions into the paint, until he collapsed and fell asleep on the floor beside the painting, completely drained.
When he had woken up, he had been surprised at how peaceful he felt; how content. Michael was sitting opposite him, had come in sometime during the night and put a blanket over him, watched over his dreams. They had talked all morning, and much of the afternoon, and Pieter was surprised at how happy he felt afterwards.
He started painting again after that, not so much as before, but it helped. And Michael, then later the rest of the JSA, were always there to give him an encouraging word, when he felt the shame boiling up again. And even though he didn't always believe their words, he didn't care. The paintings helped him, helped him heal his emotional wounds.
And really, that was all that mattered.
