He had been at the halfway house for six months - and his relationship with Laura continued to grow. He was reading books, helping with the cooking and going to his therapy sessions and taking his medication.

He had found an old bike in the garage behind the halfway house, and he had asked Stan if it was okay if he fixed it up and used it. Stan said it was fine - and even dug out some tools for him to use. He fixed the bike up and would go on long bike rides around the neighborhood in the spring sunshine. He would ride along leafy avenues, and watch the light flickering through the branches of the trees and cherry and apple blossoms.

He bought a sketchbook - and would sit in the park, drawing pencil sketches of the duck pond. With each passing day he felt more normal - feeling less anxiety and fear. He still remembered the nightmare he had awoken from - with its reality and perversion, but with each new day and with each new experience he thought of it just a little less. One day when he was cycling back to the halfway house to help with dinner, he saw a poster outside of a community center - advertising art classes. He wrote down the information in his notebook and then cycled off again.

A few days later he arrived at the community center and found a group of middle aged men and women gathered around talking and chatting. A woman wearing a bright purple waistcoat, thick black framed round glasses, and a blue colored beret walked over to him.

‘Hello dear - are you here for the art class?’

He nodded.

‘We’re just about to start - we’re working on texture and color today!’

The woman clapped her hands and told everyone to get into their positions. A circle of easels were set up with sheets of white paper clipped to them. Away to the side was a table with a huge variety of brushes and paints with charcoals and pallets.

Inside the circle was a small table with a lace doily. On the doily was a pitcher of lemonade, a bowl of dark purple plums, a bunch of bananas, and several glasses. Light from the skylight in the ceiling lit the table in the middle of the circle.

The woman clapped her hands - ‘It looks so refreshing - doesn’t it dears!’ - She walked around the circle of people and easels.

‘Tart lemonade, sweet juicy plumbs, and ripe bananas! Today I want you to be free - we are going to work on capturing the shininess of the plumbs, the dullness of the lemonade, and the vividness of the bananas. Let those colors and textures flow through your eye and into your hand - capture what you see, and translate that vision into bold brushstrokes and freshness!’

She walked behind him - ‘Now don’t be fearful dear - we like to work for 40 minutes, and then spend the last 20 minutes critiquing each other's work - all very gently though - and then cleaning up!’

Some of the others were getting brushes and paints and pallets. The woman wearing the beret had walked away and clicked on a stereo that was playing soothing classical music. He stood and wandered to the table and said hello to a few of the others before returning to his easel. He sat and looked at the ensemble of lemonade and fruit and glasses brightly lit from above - and then he took a stick of charcoal and began sketching.

The woman wearing the beret walked around the group - and occasionally stopped to give encouragement or a tidbit of helpful advice. When she stopped behind him, she looked at what he was doing - and then lifted her large glasses and leaned in.

‘Very nice dear - lots of energy!’

He continued to sketch in charcoal, and then began applying paint. His brush strokes were bold and fast. He continued to work, and before he knew it the woman wearing the beret had turned off the stereo and was clapping her hands.

‘Very well done my dears’ - she was saying - ‘Now let’s all stand up and we will walk around the group and give each other a little critique. But do remember dears - we are not art critics for the New York Times!’

The group stood and went around the circle. The feedback was generous and kind - and everyone was thankful for the kind words of encouragement that were being shared. Some of the paintings were okay, some were quite good, and others were not so good - but everyone got told that they had done a good job. And then they came to his painting. The group stood and looked at it - he was at the back, and a wave of fear and anxiety washed over him. His throat was dry, and he could feel sweat running down his back.

‘Okay - thoughts?’ - Asked the woman in the beret.

‘I like it - it’s very modern’ - said a middle aged man wearing a tweed cap.

‘I like the colors - very vibrant’ - said another woman.

‘Yes’ - said the woman wearing the beret - ‘I’m seeing Hockney or Thiebaud - this is a lovely bit of work.’

He had his eyes closed - and he could feel the room and the world outside of it coming crushing down on him. He wanted to vomit….

‘I said this is a lovely bit of work dear.’

He opened his eyes - everyone was staring at him.

‘Oh - thank you’ - he said, weakly.

The wave of fear and anxiety receded.

‘If we can all clean up our brushes and pallets - once we’re all sorted out perhaps we can have a glass of lemonade and some fruit, dears!’ - Said the woman wearing the beret.

He stayed and chatted for a while - and then rolled up his painting and cycled back to the halfway house. He pinned the painting of the lemonade and plums and bananas to his bedroom wall, and sat staring at it for the rest of the day. The next day he visited the public library and asked one of the librarians if they knew who “Hockney” or “Thiebaud” were. The librarian led him to the art section and found a couple of books for him. He sat in the library for the rest of the day reading about David Hockney, Wayne Thiebaud, and Pop Art.

####

He continued to attend the art classes at the community center - and he continued to make improvements. The woman with the beret told him that he was her star pupil - but she told him not to tell the other students, and that she was very surprised that he had never had any formal art training. His bedroom at the halfway house became decorated with his bright and bold paintings. He managed to save up from his government allowance for a set of paints and brushes, and he painted a stunning picture of the duck pond in the park. He gave the painting to Laura.

Laura sat on the park bench and looked at the painting - ‘You painted this?’

He nodded.

‘It‘s….beautiful’ - she said, at a loss for words, as she held the painting and admired it.

He watched Laura as the sunshine hit her hair, and he smiled.

‘I don’t have anything - but I wanted to give you something as a thank you for everything you’ve done for me. For your help - and for your friendship.’

She turned to him and smiled - and then leaned forward and very gently kissed him on the lips. She leaned back and looked back at the painting - smiling.

His heart was all a flutter - and he continued to stare at Laura, surprised by what had just happened. He had hoped that it might happen - but he doubted that it ever would. And now he sat on the bench in the sunshine and she had just kissed him.

Neither of them said anything for a while, and then he spoke.

‘What was that for?’

Laura turned from the painting and smiled at him - ‘A bit of encouragement.’

He smiled back at her - looking at her pretty face. He left the park and cycled back to the halfway house with his angels singing.

####

He had met and become friends with one of the other artists at the community center. The man’s name was Lawrence, and he had a studio that he was letting him use. The studio was in an old warehouse near the railway tracks. It was a large place - and he was allowed to come and go whenever he wanted. He was given a bit of space, and had to bring his own supplies and contribute whatever he could to the studio’s bills - that he paid for out of his government allowance. Most of the time he was in the studio by himself - with other artists coming around every once in a while. He made other friends and started working on a series of paintings.

He painted - from memory - a landscape of his farm that was given to him by his grandmother. His latent artistic ability had blossomed - and the other artists who were in and out of the studio all commented on how much they liked his work and his style.

He would arrive early in the morning and paint all day - working on the landscape of the farmhouse, surrounded by cedar trees and a blue sky filled with fluffy white clouds. He painted his mother looking out of the window of the farmhouse.

He had discussed his artwork with his therapist - and she had thought it was an excellent idea. A chance for him to confront his past and darkness - and to allow himself express himself through creativity. When the painting of the farmhouse was complete, he took it to his therapy session and showed it to his therapist.

His therapist was pleased - she said that the work showed a lightness and positivity. She had asked why he had included his mother in the painting - and he had said it was because he wanted to remember his mother in a peaceful and happy setting.

The therapist said she would very much like for him to continue with his work - and that she was very pleased with the positivity he was showing.

He continued to visit the studio and painted other pieces. He painted a portrait from memory of Dr. Ambrose and another of Brian. He painted landscapes from around the city - and still life works. He stretched his own canvases, and scrimped and saved to buy paint and other supplies.

He worked for months from early in the morning until an hour before the door was locked at the halfway house - and built up a small collection of work. He invited Laura to the studio one week - and she arrived with paper cups of coffee and Danish pastries.

‘So this is where you spend your days - a real artist’s studio’ - said Laura as she looked around the space.

Another artist named Pete was working on an abstract landscape from a series of photographs. She walked over to his easel and said hello. Pete was a friendly guy - and was smoking a hand rolled cigarette whilst he worked. Laura said she liked his work - and he thanked her.

The man had a new painting on his easel. It was larger than other works he had produced - and it was a bold and striking portrait of a woman. A beautiful, tall, blonde woman. The woman in the portrait was nude, sitting in a burgundy velvet armchair with her legs crossed - and smoking a cigarette and smiling at the viewer.

‘Oh my - that is really stunning!’ - Laura said, looking at the portrait - ‘Who is she?’

He looked at the portrait and smiled - ‘It’s Annabelle.’

Laura stepped closer to the painting and studied the face - ‘So this is the famous Annabelle. She’s beautiful.’

He continued to stare at the painting - ‘Yes, if she was real she would be a real stunner.’

Laura stepped back - ‘Yes, of course. And you did all this from imagination?’

He nodded.

‘It’s very brave of you - confronting your past like this.’

He nodded - ‘Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing.’

Laura put her hand in his - and they stood and looked at the painting of the naked Annabelle holding a smoking cigarette and smiling at them.

Lawrence brought a friend to the studio - a lady called Michelle who ran a display space for emerging artists. He showed his work to Michelle, and she marveled at his work and creativity, and adored the portrait of Annabelle. Michelle asked whether he would be interested in showing his work at her space - and with some encouragement from Lawrence he agreed.

He met with his therapist - and shared the information about the gallery wishing to exhibit his work. His therapist was pleased for him, and made arrangements for him to be given a late pass for the opening night from the halfway house.

Laura helped him with all of the arrangements.