Tossing a coin

 The sun went down at the peak of the mountain, leaving the world a hazy, orange scene, with a peaceful and harmony beam shooting on the side of the table. I sat on the rusty old chair, leaning the small chair backward, with a squeak, cacophony sound, disturbed the peaceful world. Pens and all kinds of pigments made most of the space inside the room, occupying the only void in the small room, covered with dust, losing its original color. 

Inside the small room, there were two beds, my brother’s and mine, with tidy and simple quilts and sheets. The sheets were white and clean at first, but years after years, it was polluted by the soot and gas, with a grey and white appearance. We were all miners, working in a colliery for over five years. 

Knock, knock. The door opened and a tall, stout man with dark skin and high cheekbones came in, carrying with him a pickaxe and a huge bag covered with dirty mud. My brother was back. He was strong, mature, with big eyes full of determination. He worn a suspender trousers, sank by soot and sweat, just like most of the miners. I hurried towards him, taking the huge bag, and found dozens of toothpaste-like tubes. The tubes, compared to the rusty old bag, looked especially shiny and elegant, with uncommon words like crimson, azure and ultramarine writing on the back. “Hum, the new painting appears good, and I bought them with a whole gold coin! You can use them to paint and stop collecting those dirty minerals!” (P.S. painter suffered from poverty in the 16th to 17th century make paintings by themselves by picking colorful stones and making them into dye) My brother shouted. Without waiting me to reply, he continued, “And good news. We can begin painting next Monday.” 

The words magically stroke on my nerve, just like an electric shock touching my skin. I jumped up, but still with hesitation: “What about the bread and butter? We cannot pay for the rice and barley without working for 18 hours a day in the colliery.” 

My brother smiled secretly, bending his head to my ears, and whispered: “I have been saving my salary for a whole month, and now, we can pay for our living in the next week without working anymore!” We smiled towards each other, packing up all the pens, pigments and drawing boards, and began to brush the colors on the papers. Sun went down and the city was covered by darkness, but a small beam of light ejected the small window, leaving an abyss of light and art in the chaotic night, bringing out happiness and beautifulness from the small room. 

Days passed and we painted pictures after pictures. The room was completely a mess now: the floor was covered with all kinds of pigments and our cold turkey, the quilts were totally a mess that we never folded them, and even the ceiling was dyed with a few colors. I was sitting at the center, with red circle under my eyes, painting the yellow sunflowers just like the great masterpiece of Vincent Van Gogh. The sun went westward, reminding me that I had to paint quicker or there would be no time for me to finish my masterpiece. My brother went out to sell his work in the market for food and candles, and the room was in silence besides paintbrush shuffling through the paper. 

It was the last day of the week, and our deposit was depleted. We had to work or starved to death. During the past seven days, I painted and practiced a lot, with an intolerable question unsolved: I couldn’t paint the lines well. As a “professional” painter studying art for years, I had never met such silly questions like this, and it became even weird when my brother found out he couldn’t make a simple line straight, either. 

The door trembled and my brother came expressionless. All of his painting was on his back, and his money bag was nearly empty. It looked like his works were not welcomed.

“Listen.” he called me with his coarse, hoarse throat.

“I think you noticed something uncommon for all of us. We couldn’t paint those basic lines and curves well. We have taken classes in private schools, and are not supposed to make those simple mistakes.”

“I have a plan. Now, it’s the time for us to toss a coin,” he said with excitement, “and the one who gets the ‘head’ side will attend the art college; the one who gets “tail” side will work in the mine for four years, until the one who attends the college graduated. Then, we would change our side. After eight years, we will be able to create masterpieces both.”

“Why should we do that?” I asked with a trembling voice. 

My brother healed a breath, “We could do much better in drawing if there is a chance for us to study continuously and professionally, and this is the only way for us to improve our painting skills.” Seeing the longing and the hope in my eyes, he said to me with a sense of commitment: “Now, you first.” He put down the money bag, and picked a coin from his pocket.

Taking over the coin from my brother’s hand, and without carefully observing the coin, I threw it into the air without waiting. The coin began to rotate at great speed, floating in the air, reflecting the golden sunlight shooting in the room. My heart skipped a bit, as if someone had pinched it hardly. I starred at the coin with a piercing eye, starring at it as it falling down, down, down to the ground with a sound of mental colliding. It then rolled across the floor, fell down, with the “head” side. 

My heart relaxed, and I jumped up just like an exciting kangaroo, rushing to the door, as if I would like to tell it to the whole world. My brother watched me in the shadows, smiling towards me, happily and regretfully. 

Four years later:

I stood on the huge stage with all of my classmates, winning a certificate as an artist. Despite the excitement of graduation, I couldn’t wait to tell my brother that he could attend the college he dreamed day and night. I grabbed the certification and hurried towards the station to the colliery, to the place of my brother. I didn’t contact to my brother often due to my schoolwork, but I could feel the passionate in his writing and his words.

I finally met my brother in the darkness underground. He noticed my certification, and tried to speak a few sentences. He made great efforts, but in the end, he only gives me his hands with shivering.

I lowered my head: it was a hand of an ordinary miner, full of wrinkle and scars. For years, it worked under great pressure, submerged by water, burned by fire and sliced by pungent stones and coal. The blue veins humped, just like infected blood flowing in the blood vessels of a dying patient. His hands shaking and trembling, couldn’t even carry my certification.

“My hands cannot hold brushes, and will not be able to hold it either.” He said the words in a low voice. His voice was even more hoarse after not seeing him for several months. The words were like gavels, judging his life and his fate in the most crucial way, snuffing his ways towards art and his dream. We stood still in silence, without speaking a word. The shade of the candles covered my brother’s strong but hunchbacked body, leaving me in the light. He sobbed, leaving tears and snots.