Let it Out [Mr. Zimmerman]

[Autumn Wakefield]

Do you want to lay your head on my shoulder?
I don't mind if you cry.
Sometimes we all just need to let it out.


As though this day were different than any other day? Like she hadn't just walked into the 'empty' art room without a sound and moved to the large canvas in the back of the room. A hand moved to her forehead in a silent, yet somewhat mocking salute to the only other living being who spent most of their life in the Art Room at Talbot's, Mr. Frederick Zimmerman. A small smile dared to spread across her lips, which on rare occasions it did. Sort of like a truly blue moon. It only happens every now and then, and when it does its shocking and yet beautiful at once.

Other than that, Autumn crossed the room in near silence, the sound of her boots making little in the way of sound. Instantly, she moved for the supplies she kept hidden away, paint that she had mixed before even beginning the project. In her right hand the brush sat neatly, the other hand held the pallet. The canvas before her was ridiculously large, sent by her parents by request. It was nearly as wide as her arm span, either way it was held. The paint that was spread upon it had already started creating a hellish scene. Mountains, fire, red skies. It seemed that more and more she painted depressing things. She wasn't depressed, she just found more meaning in the dark.

[Frederick Zimmerman]

Frederick was staring sideways at the white textured canvas that sat in front in front of him. He was picturing what his next oil-based endeavor was going to be, when he heard somebody enter the room. It was his mos frequent visitor, Autumn Wakefield. Though by now she more like a resident than a visitor, she had spent near every second of her time at Talbot in his room, painting progressively more disturbing images. He could furnish the walls of hell with all the scenes she'd produced over the years.

He saluted her back and smiled at her, returning the small one that he was happy to see, since it didn't come 'round to often. Then he watched her collect her supplies out of the corner of his eye. He noticed over the years how much she'd changed. She came in as a seemingly innocent young girl, but developed into a exceptionally talented young woman with a unique beauty and a confidence she doesn't even know comes from her. To walk in on her painting would be quite intimidating to anybody not previously exposed to her. In her concentration she seemed so untouchable that she didn't even know even Mr. Zimmerman himself was impressed.

At this point his newest idea hit him like a brick, and he immediately went to work setting his minds vision on canvas to be documented for eternity.

[Autumn Wakefield]

As she painted, her body seemed to be moving to the rythm of music unheard to all. She had left her iPod shoved deep under her mattress where it wouldn't be found unless someone was being a moron and decided to flip her bed over, for which she might have to step out of her passive aggressive persona and put someone in the hospital. You don't smudge drying paint, and you don't touch a girl's music. Either way, the way that Autumn moved was vaguely reminiscent of a conductor. Perhaps that's what it was. She was the conductor of an orchestra of medium, each piece of medium like an instrument that was desperately needed.

Autumn pulled the brush away from canvas and stepped back, as a certain painter (Monet, was it?) did with his painting style. She knew well that everything she had been painting lately was almost Dalían with a hint more macabre, but it wasn't as though she were at a state of mental unrest, or was entirely disturbed. No, she had just always liked the look of macabre. In fact, sometimes she would dare to delve into the world of sculpture, and even then all that she produced was darker in it's imagery. Her canvas looked like Hell itself, people in gas masks like German SS troopers marching in what seemed to be an endless stream across mountains, a red sky blaring down on them, surrounded by the trees of fall, their leaves like flames. It could make a smile child cry. Good thing not many of them ventured to this room.

A smile smile, again, spread over her lips. "Acta est fabula, plaudite!" She exclaimed, though quietly, having noticed during her procession of movements during finishing that Mr. Zimmerman was at it again. Her smile widened a bit; She had always respected Mr. Zimmerman for his love of art, and his creations, and even that fact that he understood the creative process. Art doesn't come from air, and it cannot be forced from one like juice from an orange.

[Frederick Zimmerman]

As he set to work Frederick completely blocked out everything around him. He was alone in the empty whiteness and the only things left were him and his tools. With them he would have to rebuild the earth on canvas and bring back all the beauty that had once existed.

This was the frame of mind he entered every time he created. You could scream and shout and stomp and cry and he would not hear you. Only by himself could he choose to come back to reality, and he would not do that until his work was complete. He would trudge on for hours and hours without break, and it would not scathe him.

This time he did not know how long he had been working for, and there was no way he could have known, time did not exist in his alter-reality. But he finally decided he was finished, and pulled himself back into our world to observe the piece in a different light. It was a river, only orange, red, and yellow hues from the setting sun. There was a profile of a highway running across. A highway that had no speed limits and no known destination. There was also a island somewhere in the distance, here he liked to think nothing but the wind lived, for he did not have a particular love of people or woodland creatures.

Another time-frame passed, and he did not know the length of this one either, but he heard a voice from somewhere, and was pulled out of his observations. He jerked his head upwards from its side-tilt and remembered Autumn was there once he saw her. It looked and sounded as though she had finished whatever she was doing, so he went to go look at it; a little bit of horror might make him look at his own painting differently.

He stood behind her and silently took in the image from edge to edge. Terrible, frightful, and dreadful, and yet glamorous, intriguing, and admirable. He clapped from behind her, "Applaud indeed, and well deserved."

[Autumn Wakefield]

Autumn had acquired a trait that was very much the same in Mr. Zimmerman. A painter always zoned in and out as they worked, even sometimes after they work. Sort of like a trance. She was staring at her painting now, face slack, hands at her side, and eyes wide. It was the voice behind her that made her jump, and rather noticeably. She sucked in a sharp breath and turned her head over her shoulder, her locks whipping quickly about. "I'm glad you think so." She said, almost humbly. A half smile crept onto her lips, a sort of excited-and-all-at-once-disappointed look.

"I feel like Dali." She said, "Every time I pick up a paintbrush I paint something that would make a little kid cry and even have nightmares." He hands folded behind her back and she turned to face her teacher entirely. If there was one soul upon that Earth whose opinion accounted for anything to her, it was Frederick Zimmerman. Of all the art teachers she had ever seen come and go, he was the only one who made art for the sake of art. His teaching style suited her perfectly, and even helped her to create some of her more beloved works. Turning from him again, she wandered carefully over to where Mr. Zimmerman had been painting.

Blue-green orbs swept over the canvas, and a smile slowly crept over her lips. No people. No signs of life at all. It seemed to be a trademark with her teacher. He didn't like people, this much she gathered. It struck her as odd that he would have become a teacher, a job where he would have to interact with people on a daily basis. That was another reason why she admired him so. He was, sadly enough, much like her in many ways. There were basically no similarities between the two, however, they shared one common factor, they were both undoubtedly, slightly insane.

She shook her head and looked up from the canvas. "Can I ask you something?" She asked, "As one artist, to another?" Her smile was actually almost warm now, inviting. Something along the lines of a flower blooming, or the sun coming up, or some other poetic sort of image. Too bad she wasn't a poet.

[Frederick Zimmerman]

Frederick smiled slightly wider, since he rarely laughed, to see Autumn jump. Not that he hadn't scared her before, being in her almost hypnotized states she wasn't hard to startle.

"Ah, but even the most horrifying things inspire beauty. War, torture, starvation, the list goes on.And it pleases me to have you around, Autumn," he gestured toward the painting, "most wouldn't dare even thinking about such an image, but the few who push the limits of putting it into a physical form, well..." he trailed off and stepped closer to examine the piece, "They are the ones that open the minds of even the most brainwashed people."

After a moment he turned and smiled at her again, proud of her work. But this was nothing new, he was always proud of her work. She was his most promising student and he knew it. He admired her for her passion above all, and her perception of the world around her. He could never relate to anyone, and she was one he could. Even if it wasn't that much he still had a sort of bond with this girl, even though they hadn't spoken very often.

As she examined his work he watched, her eyes moved slowly over the warmed hued canvas. She didn't voice her opinion, but he could tell by her eyes it was not a bad one. He himself was grim when he judged the final product for himself. There were things he could have done better at. The silhouettes weren't black enough, the island could have a greener tint, and worst of all, there was to much yellow.

"Of course you can, Autumn, a teacher never denies a student the right to ask a question. I don't believe even the personal ones should be refused, the pupil should have the right to know about other people," he explained. He never noticed how he rambled, and he never understood why other members of the staff didn't like his input at meetings.

[Autumn Wakefield]

"From all bad comes come good?" She asked, though it was more of statement and rhetorical than anything else. Her smile widened slightly, warming her face. Of all the people on this Earth, only three that she had ever met brought a smile to her face with such ease. Occasionally she would stop to question why this was as it was, but all of the answers she came up with were wrong. They were wrong, bad, immoral... and... No. She dare not think about it, even going so far as to tear her gaze away from perhaps the only friend she had come to find in this place. "That really means a lot to me." She professed, her eyes concentrated on the bar floor of the art room, a speck of black paint that had been flung on the floor during the creative process. Though her dark hair created a curtain over her eyes, her lips were still visible and smiling.

Autumn carefully propped her butt upon the edge of Mr. Zimmerman's desk, careful not to muss anything. Her eyes moved from the speck of paint on the floor -- symbolic in color and placement, though more-than-likely entirely meaningless -- to the canvas upon which he had been painting. She studied the details carefully: The realness of the trees and sky, the highway leading to nowhere, the lack of people... The island in the distance. An English Major she was not, but the symbolism was incredibly strong: The highway like life, leading nowhere in particular at whichever speed it wishes to take, the lack of people the most obvious -- a lack of people to turn to, and or a distrust/distaste for them -- and the island a sort of... Utopian Heaven for the sort of person Mr. Zimmerman was.

Autumn snapped to attention once more and looked up from her study, almost instantly regretting that she had even bothered to say anything about it. She couldn't bring herself to say 'Oh, never mind', because it just wasn't fair. It happened too often to her, and she found it annoying. "Mm. I guess, really this is sort of a question I should hand to an English teacher, but I don't really... care much for them." She paused to think about how to word the question so that it wasn't entirely obvious so that it sounded dumb, "Have you ever found yourself with a question that you already knew the answer to, but really didn't want to admit the answer as a fact? Where it just feels wrong, and terrible that you would even come to such a conclusion?" She didn't think he'd know what she was talking about, and that was fine with her. She didn't want him to.

[Frederick Zimmerman]

"Yes. And from all good comes good, and from all bad comes bad, and from all good comes bad. From every small action there comes every type of response," his ability to answer any question, logically or not, had never failed him. It also didn't fail to earn him detentions at school.

He gave a small smile to her again, "I'm happy you hold my opinion so highly," it was rare for him to smile so much in one day, or to talk outside of class this much. Except for at home to himself, then he was a regular chatterbox. He stepped forward to get a different angle on his portrait, stepping on a black spec as he went. He didn't realize how much of himself he had put into this while he was making it, but now it hit him. This happened, it seemed, most often.

Frederick stopped dead. His mind flashed to his parents. They didn't love you because you were crazy. You're different. You're a freak. Nobody can ever love you again. You're insane. No. He forced the thoughts back into that same repressed part of his brain, where they had resided for the past 24 years of his life, ignoring the fact that everybody knew repressing things was not healthy.

At that moment he was lost. Between reassuring his own mind that none of those things were true and trying to get back to the place where such thoughts did not exist, and trying to remember what Autumn had even asked, his mind was about to shut down.

"Umm," he blinked and tried to remember where he was. Then he remembered what he'd been thinking to himself (It could never true. You're just more mentally advanced than them, he told himself again), and that led him to remember why he'd been forced into such a state. "Well, that is a hard question..." he turned his back to her, thinking. He knew how hypocritical it would be to say he couldn't answer that, when not a minute ago he had been saying how the student had the right to know about the teacher. "Yes. I have had a question like that."

[Autumn Wakefield]

Autumn watched him carefully, her brows furrowed in worry. It wasn't the first time she had seen it happen, but nevertheless it worried her every time. She blinked in confusion, her hand rising weakly as though she would reach out and touch Mr. Zimmerman, as though it would break this sudden trance he was in. Instead, however, he broke out of it before she could touch him and she stuffed her hand quickly under her butt. Her eyes dropped to the floor, inspecting the leg of the easel for anything. Anythiiing at alll. Biting her lip, she carefully listened to what she he had to say.

She nodded, once he had finished. "At least I know I'm not alone." She said, trying to be as vague as she could. How in the Hell was she supposed to explain to anyone that she was in love with the Art Teacher? She certainly couldn't explain it to him. Autumn was having a difficult time registering it in her own mind, so even if she did have someone to tell, it probably wouldn't make sense to them. She didn't want to get him in trouble, either. God knows that last thing Mr. Zimmerman needed was a lawsuit and label on him as a child molester. But was he really? Autumn was a woman, and recognized as such in the eyes of the British government, since her birthday the year beforehand...

A sigh escaped her lips, and she shook her head. "Thank you, Mr. Zimmerman." She said, her eyes still trained upon the easel. Now what? Where could the conversation go from here? How's the weather? How's your mum? Have I told you lately that I'm desperately in love with you to the point where whenever I think about you my heart aches and I know deep in my heart that we could be happy, but within these walls we could never know one another much past the casual 'Hello, Mr. Zimmerman's, and 'Hello Autumn's? Yeah, right.

[Frederick Zimmerman]

Frederick stared at the white wall. It was the only one that he had not yet filled with as much artwork as he could fit on it. He tried to gain inspiration from it. That way he could create, and while he was creating he would shake his depression, that had suddenly washed over him and he had forgotten why.

"No. But it's good that you are, if it doesn't sound to harsh. It shows you reason things out and think for yourself, a skill most people lack these days," he said. He didn't know why, but there was a part of him that was glad she didn't ask what his question was, and for a split second he wondered himself, but quickly went back to staring at the wall.

"And you are welcome, Autumn," he replied, not turning from the wall and thus not noticing the peculiar look on Autumn's face. But all for the better.

"There was a wall... very similar to this one, in my room... when I was a child. Actually, there were four of them. My parents made sure they stayed plain. I suppose they thought it would dull me down. But I remember one day, for reasons I cannot recall, I took all my hidden art supplies and painted a mural of raging seas all the way around the box-like encasing. I do believe that's when my parents stopped trying." He meant for that to stay in his head. But within his regret came his inspiration, and he retrieved an easel for his next creative endeavor, still mentally scolding himself.

[Autumn Wakefield]

Autumn almost laughed at the cynical words of Mr. Zimmerman. "You've got that right." She said, the laughter easily recognizable in her words, but not quite tangible. Her eyes fell to the lacquered concrete floor, tracing along the little patterns below the shining surface. She shook her head slightly, at herself mostly, and then looked up when he started telling his story. Autumn smiled, then. Was he... Letting her in a little?

As he told her about the walls in his room, something seemed to click in her mind. Her beloved art teacher was more of a genius than she had even realized -- Everything he seemed to do held some kind of wonderful symbolism. She could only but imagine the way that it looked, sitting there drowning in a waterless sea for so long, and she swallowed hard. Well, she would have been drowning in that sea, anyway. Her parents had always been so supportive of her, even loving the most evil-looking paintings she could imagine. She couldn't imagine her parents doing such a stupid thing. Give a painter a blank canvas and he will paint. That was just how it worked.

She shook her head and looked up. "Give a painter a blank canvas and he will paint." She said, saying aloud what she had been thinking for perhaps one of the first times. It was alright, this time. No personal information divulged. Just then she thought of that old, marvelous black and white, Casablanca. 'I wish I didn't love you so much.' The words had been spoken by Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, and played out in the very same voice in her head. She shook it off, and look back to Mr. Zimmerman.