WATCHING PAINT DRY
Dylan Davis was a normal 8-year-old boy, or at least that's what his parents had told
him. Yet, the film crew mobbed the Davis' semi-detached house, careful not to
damage the outdated decor. "Oh, this is so exciting! Watching their little faces light up
has to be the absolute highlight", Camilla Staines, a chirpy thirtysomething TV
presenter, gushed to Dylan's parents. Dylan's mum nudged Camilla before the
cameras started to roll, "You wouldn't mind signing my Strictly t-shirt, would you?", she
tried to whisper.
"Of course I will, anything to make another person happy, eh- Annette?"
"Just add the 'J' on the shirt, it's actually Janette...", but Camilla ignored her and jostled
the shirt back at her, now with something unreadable scribbled in black marker pen.
"Is this one terminal?", Camilla asked the producer without making eye-contact as
they approached the boy's room. "Dunno- gotta be cancer or something- got on the
show anyhow."
The bedroom door was covered in stickers with characters from various television
shows, including one of Camilla- she pointed and smiled. "Oh yeah, he especially likes
you- thinks you're badass." The boy's father tried to make conversation, without the
slightest clue about who she actually was. "I actually didn't like that role, but we all
need to make a living!"
"Some more than others, apparently", David whispered to his wife.
Inside the sanctuary of his bedroom, Dylan rested on a clinical bed and stared up at
the wall as he had been for the past five hours. Unfortunately, the wall hadn't
changed. He didn't know what he expected to happen, but the off-white paint wasn't
even drying. It just sat motionless, like him- he and the wall had that in common. The
wall understood what it was like.
Suddenly, there was a burst of light through his bedroom door, and an influx of
strangers flurried into the room. "Good morning Dylan!!!" Camilla called to him, as she
danced through the doorway. The boy’s face immediately lit up like a ray of sunshine.
"WOAH- it's Princess Darkstar!!!" his mouth hung open, his hands rushed to try and put
his jaw back into place. "But you can call me by my real name- CAMILLA!!!" Dylan went
bright red, he was too stunned to speak- it was surreal. She perched on the corner of
his bed- careful to avoid his feet- but quickly pulled away when she realised she was
too close. "Say something then Dylan!", said his father causing the producer put his
finger over his mouth rather aggressively.
"You're my inspiration..." a high voice beamed.
Everybody smiled.
A phone rang. Camilla dug into her many pockets.
"Oh- hi babes, I'm working now… Yeah, got another one of these sorry sickos after
lunch and then I'll call. Okay, bye-bye."
Everyone looked at Camilla.
"Can we do that again for the camera?" she asked, changing her tone completely.
Dylan reached for a glass of water on his bedside cabinet and accidentally knocked it
onto Camilla. All eyes were on him. Some confused, some angry, some hysterical.
Dylan just looked directly at Camilla, his role model.
“I’d rather watch paint dry.”
SHORT STORY BY JOSEPH HOLMES