Alone (3 page)

I stepped out of the shower after turning it off and proceeded to dry off. I guess I had to look now. When I saw what I had done, it was so matter of fact. A numbness to the fact of what the blood truly meant. Merely a paper cut, not a gaping flesh wound. I reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out the alcohol and started the all too familiar procedure of cleaning out the cut. I cringed when it got to the deepest part of my injury but it was nothing I hadn't felt before. I stood there staring into the mirror until the alcohol evaporated from my arm. This one, for sure, needed stitches but there was no way I could go to the hospital. Everyone would know how messed up I was.

After so many years of doing this, I had my tricks. I reached for the super glue in the cabinet and watched the thin stream of glue find its way inside the cut until I could help push the skin together and help seal the flesh and wait for the glue to dry. It was so strange working on myself in this manner. I was so disconnected from reality that it was like I was fixing someone else's arm.

I knew what was coming next, the guilt, but I quickly rushed to the bedroom to get dressed. If I occupied my mind with enough other stuff, I would trick my brain and skip right over the stage of guilt. I smiled as I put my arms into my favorite hoodie and thought about today’s agenda. Gallery, paint, write to Serenity, buy a new answering machine. I laughed at that last thought. What was it? My third answering machine in the last six months? All because of her? The electronics store must wonder why I am making the same purchase every time I am there. All their eyes on me while I picked up yet another machine from the shelf and brought it to the register. All their eyes on me, because of her. If they could only see what was underneath my sleeves, because of her.

Why was my mother the only one who could send me into such a stream of self loathing and hatred? Why did I hack up my body on a regular basis because of her? What the hell was I thinking? My mother, the one person who should love me, was the cause of such disgusting behavior. It was so easy to blame her, almost too easy. However, I knew at this point I knew it was a cover, a lie I had been telling myself for far too long. I knew it was
my
fault. It was me who allowed her to have such power over me. It was me who put the blade to my arm. It was me who let her win. It was me who was feeling like this. Guilty. Obviously the plan of skipping this stage didn't work and I collapsed to the hardwood floor as the guilt overtook me.

I don't know how long I stayed on the floor in a pile of nothingness. Long enough to ease the guilt so I could move without a wave of emotion pushing me down again. In a haze, I finished getting ready for my day. Hair and teeth brushed, bag packed with the necessities of the day, I was ready to go.

When I walked out the door, the cold air took me a bit by surprise. I had expected it to be much warmer with the sun shining so brightly through my window. I still decided to walk to the gallery instead of taking my Jeep. It was only down the road a bit and the cold air might wake me up from the stupor I was in. So I walked quickly down the road past the alleyways where the transients stood around barrels with fires lit inside. It always amazed me that the tourists never took notice to just how many people were homeless in this little town. It seemed to me to be an overwhelming amount for the overall population of 3,327 in New Jollie. Maybe I noticed because I could very well be one of them someday. I mean the paintings I sold in a month was definitely enough to keep me afloat but at any moment the people who came to this place could stop buying my art, then what would I do?

I tried picturing myself on a cold day like today huddled around a burn barrel and going to the local shelter for some hot food and a cot to sleep on. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was one that often crossed my mind. I never took my job for granted. I knew the minimal success I had here, was never warranted. The first time I had sold a painting at the five-hundred dollar base price, I was beyond shocked and that feeling never went away each time I went to pick up my check.

The gallery was almost like my second home. Not because I was there a lot, but because every time I brought a painting to be hung and sold, I left behind a small piece of myself. Miss Morgan, the director, gave me a spot in her gallery when no one else would. She praised me each time I brought in a painting saying how talented I was. More than once she told me that I should bring my art to a bigger gallery to have them sold. Someplace to truly make a name for myself. To be completely honest, I couldn't imagine a life outside of New Jollie. I was okay with the idea of spending the rest of my life here.

“
Hi Willow,” Aaron greeted me as I entered the gallery. He was a tall and skinny guy a few years older than me that has worked at the help desk of the gallery since before I started there.

“
Hey. Have a lot of tourists today?”

“
No more than usual. Here's your pay,” he said as he handed me an envelope. I opened it and took out the note inside.
Two paintings sold this week. Good job. Next week there's four spots reserved for you. Miss Morgan
.

I smiled as I waved goodbye to Aaron and returned to the streets of New Jollie. Miss Morgan must have known that I had taken a day off. To ask any other artist featured in the gallery to produce four paintings with decent quality in one week would be absurd. However, give me a single day off and four would be an easy task. Of course, I was one of the few lucky ones who didn't have to work a full time job. Doing what I loved to do, what I was born to do, was my only job, and it was quite possibly my only reason for existing.

I grumbled to myself as I walked into the electronics store. As quickly as possible, I grabbed the same answering machine model off the shelf and brought it to the check out with my head down.

“
You know, if they keep breaking on you, you should probably try another model,” the cashier said casually.

“
What?” I asked as my heart jumped. She had noticed. “Oh, no. I actually like this one, even if it has its flaws.” Like not blocking calls from my mother, I thought as I half smiled and handed the cashier my money.

Now that I was out of the store, it was almost amusing to me that she had noticed my repeat purchase. The guilt I was feeling earlier was definitely fading. I tucked the store bag into my backpack and started off to the woods. Writing, and confessing, to Serenity always made the guilt subside to the lingering dull ache I always felt.

I stopped as I saw some bright papers stapled to some of the telephone poles and trees along the roadside.

Open Mic Night

October 27

Poetry, Music and Comedy

Limited Spots

Call for more info

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. The annual Open Mic Night in New Jollie was, for some reason unknown to me, a big deal. Usually it was just a bunch of teens goofing on each other while on stage with an occasional second or two of actual talent. I was sixteen the last time I went to watch. Apparently there was one year where a real music producer came to watch, and ever since, open mic was seen as a chance to be discovered in this small town. Personally, I thought the owners of the club started that rumor to get people to go to Open Mic.

When I reached the woods, I lay down underneath the trees and stared up into the multicolored leaves. Fall has always been my favorite season. I remember when I was younger, my mother told me that the leaves changed color because they were dying, and that's why they eventually fell off the trees. I refused to believe such a depressing explanation to such a miraculous thing, when one day I had an epiphany. In some ways, death can be beautiful too.

The contentment I felt staring into the leaves was extremely pleasant, no matter how undeserved. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that this was the closest thing to actually being inside of a painting I would ever get. All the vivid colors, swirling about in the light breeze was beyond beautiful. I wondered if any of the people I saw around the burn barrels this morning were ever able to break away from their daily survival instincts to appreciate the beauty that existed all around them. Or was that too impossible? Had the girl? Weird, I hadn't even thought about her until now. Was it only yesterday that I saw her? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Why was a two second glimpse of her still invading my mind?

I sat back up and pulled out the journal along with my pen and stared at the blank page before me. Where do I even begin?

Dear Serenity,

Well, last night was too much for me and I did it again. My arm hurts a bit. I already went through the guilt stage of cutting, so I'm hoping this doesn't become a letter of self-pity.

I know I need to stop. It's just so hard and right now isn't exactly the best time to go through the withdrawals from it. Do you remember the last time I tried to stop? It was when I first started writing to you. I would sit on the couch for hours with the knife in my hand, the internal conflict was worse than I had ever experienced. The best comparison I can think of is holding your breath so long it hurts. Your head is screaming for air, your lungs aching from the deprivation. Eventually you have no choice anymore, you either breathe, or you die. It wasn't too long after that when I had no choice but to give in. Cutting is more than an addiction, it is a necessity. Just like breathing.

I just thought of something. I can't help but wonder what I would write to you about if I stopped cutting. Boring day to day stuff? Would you want to hear my incredibly mundane story?

Okay, I think its time for me to head off home. I have four paintings to create by next week.

You are, and forever will be, my serenity.

Willow

I laid down one last time. A silent goodbye to the impossible beauty that surrounded me. Some days it was a struggle to leave this place. Part of me wanted to stay where I was until the bitter cold of nightfall pushed me out. I grumbled audibly as I packed my things into my bag and headed home. I thought about the different things that had inspired me on my day off. Attempting to pull the emotion I felt out of each moment. The autumn leaves, the building, Mrs. Schneider, the kids playing hopscotch, my mother, and finally, the girl.

I took the same path home as I did yesterday, a small hope inside of me that I would see the girl again. I didn't see where she hid yesterday, but I was pretty sure it had to be in the old apartment building where I now stood. I can't be sure what exactly compelled me to do it, but I was walking up the steps to the front door. I had to laugh at myself. Of course it would be locked, but there must be a way to get in. I glanced around trying to find the way in when I saw the broken window with no board on the first floor. I took a quick look just to be sure there were no police in sight and when I knew it was safe, I threw my bag in and heaved myself through the window. I landed hard on the cold floor.

It was dark inside, the small beam of light showed me where a door was so I decided to see where it led. It was a grand hallway, which must be where the front door led. There were numbers on some other doors and a stairway with a tarnished banister. I went up two flights of stairs to the third floor where the windows were no longer boarded up. There was a door with the number 27 on it, I opened it and walked inside. It was elegant, the floors were marble, slightly faded in green and very scuffed and dirty. The walls were covered in graffiti and dirty hand prints, but it still didn't take away from the beauty I saw. There were three windows about eight feet high and around each one, it looked as though someone had taken the time to carve intricate floral scroll work. It was so beautiful and unlike anything I had seen before. There were some pieces missing from the wood, but I could imagine the whole room as it was new. I could tell there were walls that had been torn down. There were breaks in the flooring where one room ended and another should have begun. I turned around and saw a wall that created an entrance way to another room. The wall was huge, twelve feet wide by ten feet high was my guess. This wall was different. It was white, untouched, a blank canvas. I ran my fingers along the wall, trying to picture what was meant to be there.

 
I could feel the rush inside of me. The intensity I felt every time a blank canvas spoke to me, showing me what was supposed to be there. I took the pencils out of my bag and began sketching on the wall. Large swooping lines that would be meaningless to anyone else, but I could picture each color and where it belonged on my wall. My hands were working fast and I was sweating, my arms were aching. I pulled a broken, wooden chair I had seen in the hallway to the wall so I could reach higher on my canvas. I’d lay on the ground for the details on the bottom.

 
The room was getting darker as the sun was setting and I decided I had no choice but to go. The sketch was nearly complete and I could finish the creation over the next day or two. I got out of the building and headed home once again. There was a spring in my step, but part of me still anguished over the idea that I had wasted nearly an entire day doing what I wanted to do instead of doing what should have been done for the gallery.

When I got home, I set up the answering machine and got myself something quick to eat. I realized I hadn't eaten since yesterday and I was actually pretty hungry. The phone rang and I ignored it letting the new machine pick it up.