by Maria Quinn
“You still hike?” I ask.
“Yeah, a lot. You should start coming again.” He offers with hints of nostalgia in his voice, remembering the old times.
“I would really like to.”
“Really?” He sounds surprised.
“Yeah, really. I haven’t done much of anything for a while so…I might hold you back…if that’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay, I love the company.” He says wholeheartedly.
I find a photo as beautiful as a painting; the smoke of the clouds, the mirror of the lake are all so…peaceful. “This one is beautiful.”
“Take it.”
“Really? You sure?”
He nods, “I said as many as you want.”
Setting it on Sage’s photo, I look to him and his wistful expression; I should have let him in sooner.
He senses the trial in my eyes, “What, what is it?”
I shrug my shoulders, “I just want to say thanks.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know…for still being my friend I guess.” I scan his room avoiding his gaze.
He just stood there and watches me stare at my feet for what seems like hours. Then I felt his heat through my sweater as he seizes me in his arms. My arms stretch around him too.
“You don’t thank me for something like that.” He whispers.
“Why not?” I say ask under my breath hugging him back.
“Because…” He starts, at a loss of words. “You thank someone for helping you clean or carry your groceries, not for this.”
“This?”
“Yeah, this. It just…is, you know?” He sounds confused by his own explanation.
I get exactly what he is saying. “Like nature?”
“Yeah, like nature.”
Then he got it too.
Like nature. This is natural. This feels right.
For the first time in while I feel right.
23
The sky bleeds orange as I stroll home in Greg’s sweater. I let the oversized sleeves swing at my sides with each stride. I feel so...good. I feel solid. I love this feeling. I think I’m smiling, I think this the first time I’ve ever smiled with no one around to see it.
The orange grew stale as I made it home. I set the photos carefully on my desk and flip on the light, casting a golden hue on an ugly mess. I stand in full view of a room that isn’t mine. It was a short time ago, but not anymore. I want the trouble with my walls to be gone, and I want the ghosts to hightail it out of here. It can’t be done without me though.
So I start over.
I clean everywhere, tearing down every last picture on my walls and putting it in a box. I clear my floor, my clothes, my art supplies, my everything. I even dust the cobwebs off of the vaulted ceiling. I’m an organization tornado.
Hours later, I have in hand the finishing touch; Greg’s photo of the lake. I go to the bare wall opposite of my bed and tape it right in the middle. The first picture on my wall.
My third step.
Standing in the same spot as before by my door, I take in my new room with clear eyes. And I think maybe even…a clear head. This is my room. It’s clean, smells of cedar, and is completely empty, waiting to be filled. I will not fill it with what I did before. I will do this right this time.
24
My un-shut window whistles in fresh air and blows something around my room. I thought I had rid this place of all trash; I must have missed a piece. I set down my journal before I even began and reach for the paper. Picking it up, I realize it must have fallen out of my pants pocket when I had changed.
Sliding back into the warm spot of my bed, I open my journal re-flattening James’s number I slip it into the crease of my book. I still don’t know why I have it; I don’t think I’ll ever know.
I find my pen.
This week is the last week of school, and it’s going reasonably well. I didn’t think I could do it, I did it initially to try and be remembered, but I don’t care about that anymore. I can change myself; I can already feel it inside. My doctor said it was a disease, that I can’t help what I do or what I feel, I need medicine to control it; I’m damaged. But I did it; I can control myself and change my future.
She’s wrong, I’d like to tell her other patients her lies as well, so maybe they can begin to heal themselves. And the best part is Greg is still my friend, my real friend. I thought I might have lost him, pushed him away, but I was wrong. He’s different. He says I’m back, I never really knew I was gone until just a few days ago. I think it’s this journal she gave me, to write what I feel down and sort things out. I thought it was the stupidest thing at first, but I realize it’s better to take out what I’m feeling on paper rather than on the people I love around me. Also, paper won’t judge me, or tell me I need to raise my dosage. This journal is the only good thing my therapist has ever done. Not that it will make me go back to her, ever.
Pounce joins me in my thoughts. I scratch his head as he purrs by my side.
I think Pounce likes the new me. He hates doctors too. Those bastards murdered the chance of him ever having any kids. I don’t want to think about doctors or hospitals though, that’s a whole other set of nightmares I don’t need to induce on myself. Oh, and I’m having that nightmare again, the bad one where the man with no face hurts me. I know it’s a dream, but it feels so real, like it was, or it will be. I don’t know what to think of it; maybe it’s just the medication. I just hope I get rest tonight; I have a big week of changes ahead of me.
Looking in the mirror and then at the new pills my doctor decided I need, I toss them in my side drawer and decide I can do it this time, I can get better without medication. Maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough the other times, I want to feel better, and I’m going to make my body understand this. I will not continue to live in the terminal wasteland of meaningless existence of my mind.
25
Fists.
Blood.
Begging for my life.
Austin.
His was the face in my nightmare; wonderful. I want the man to have no face again. No face, no identity, not real. I kick off my covers letting a breeze dry the fighting sweat on my body.
Exhausted.
I’m cold; I cover up again.
I look at the clock: 4:15 a.m. I am not ready for the day. I hide my face under the pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. Please sleep, please, I need sleep. The darkness engulfs me, but refuses me rest. So I lie there. Waiting.
* * *
I lie there with one foot in another world, watching my clock advance its minutes until the alarm sounds. 5:59 a.m. I shut off the alarm before it can begin, turn over, and stare at the ceiling through my eyelids. I need something.
Red Bull.
My morning starts late, but the caffeine jilts me into overdrive. Meeting up with Lea before class starts; we have a non-versation about the weather before she helps me paint over my drawn on wall of memories.
“You said you were going to help.” I accuse her.
“This is more important; new knits for your new space.” She remarks matter-of-factly as she continues knitting away at new doilies for my owls.
At least she is committed to my half-assed new-room-new-me plan. I can always count on her for anything, even the absolutely absurd—like being my getaway driver while I freed those birds. Continuing to paint, I meditated on the long, broad strokes, smoothing out any horizontal discrepancies. I paint while she knits upside down on my bed for a half hour before we leave for school.
The high of caffeine wears off by the time I step out the door; I’m already crashing. I drag my feet two miles to school, severely scuffing my shoes and my attitude.
My classes decided to drag on more than usual, but I managed to raise my hand a few times in-between daydreams. I didn’t get called on, but I tried anyway, and trying feels good, I think.
Classes end. Three more days to go. Then freedom.
The freedom to work. After a Red Bull that
is.
26
I strut with a contagious attitude through backward street-goers along the way to Diana’s. Sunlight spills on short grass growing through impossible cracks; good sign. If blades malleable as tissue paper can find its way through solid concrete, I think I can make it through anything. It all seems so simple now.
The familiar clangor of bells is tripped as I push my way into my new daily grind. I find my way around the tempered oak counter as a mass of customers pile in like a mine-shaft cave-in. I’m just in time; fantastic.
Joan catches me with her eyes and points to my uniform; black apron, a pad, and a pencil. “Just do as I do.” She chimes as she’s maneuvers around the stale green booths and cracked tables taking orders.
I was hoping for more of a tutorial, but it’s a simple job, so I’ll flow with the current. After wrangling my apron on, I began knotting my hair into a loose French braid, when someone whistles at me. I ignore it, pretending it didn’t happen, that is until it is followed with the unavoidable words.
“Well looky here.” A man says with hints of northern country. “Triple-threat’s a workin’ woman now” He slaps his knee.
Oh God, that name. Only select people call me that name, and it’s the people I’ve always ran from. I smell bacon; I can’t distinguish if it’s leftover breakfast air or them.
Joan took the other table; I have to take this one.
A heated memory stole my focus of when I was 8 and took my dad's car for a joyride, straight into the side of a cruiser, shattering windows, spilling hot coffee, and freeing a suspect that was in their backseat. I jump out of the crumpled vehicle and rollerblade away, a chase ensues. A beginning to a fantastically sour relationship. The memory automatically cringes my face.
Finishing the last knot of my hair, I secure my mane in place with a bow hair tie. My skin burns from the inside out with something unforgiving. I whisk out my pad while slinking over to the table like a pig to the slaughter. I attain writing stance.
Joan airs her displeasure for my attitude.
So I plaster on a grin hard as set concrete. “What can I get you?”
“Makin’ an honest livin’ now?” Lieutenant David Bosch kids.
The air thickens as the whole diner suppresses laughter, it weighs on my skin. My mind races, I focus on foreheads not thinking about stabbing my pen into his eye. My grip tightens, I hold the pen to paper to stop my trembling. I stare silently giving him a death glare.
“I’m just messin’ hon, its kinda nice seeing you again though.”
“Really,” I state. “Why is that?” My words are whiplash.
“You’re the only action this town has had since we chased the Indians out.” He chuckles, and the rest of the table joins in too.
“Glad my escapades provided some entertainment, now what can I get you?” I repeat sternly.
“Awe, come on, don’t be like that.” He pleads.
This short, stocky man is an inch away from being punted out the window. Does he not understand anything?
“I’m being like that. Now order something or I’ll spit in your next cup of coffee.”
Smiles die, and I take orders.
I strut away passing the other cop saturated tables; one harboring James, of course. His face is blank. I pretend not to see him.
La la la I see no one la la la…
Meanwhile, Mr. Miller has made the back corner booth his usual spot to come and read for extraordinarily long periods of time while sipping hot coffee without giving it time to cool. I suspect he's a psychopath, no one can drink coffee that hot and put that much sugar in without stirring and not be a psychopath. But I see snakes on the ceiling and pour soda in my cereal so who am I to judge.
27
The long day tires my body, respite comes in many forms, mine is in a good book in one of my favorite places; the library. After a long lull from regular visitation, it's time I reenter my old habit. I fish for my keys in my black hole of a purse; my mother, being good friends with the librarian convinced her to give me a key for after hours, as I use to run away a lot to clear my mind and my mother felt safe knowing this was one of those places I’d run to. Better than a bar which is where most run to around here.
I take in the smell of fresh paper and binding, a scent that should be bottled and sold. Although some scents you just can't replicate, like rain, which often ends up smelling like laundry. I catch my reflection in a framed reading poster, I'm smiling.
Hours went by before I realize the time,11:40am. I slump knowing I need to leave now to get at least an hour of painting in before I sleep. Collecting my tower of carefully selected books I use the self check out to scan everything into the system before turning off the lights and locking up.
* * *
The brush strokes are soothing. Sage emerges from the canvas as if she will take flight before I’m done. Her careful spots trail down her sides as the plume of her wings unfold. Greg’s camera lens is his eyes, my paintbrush is my soul. Two different mediums yet equally matched in talent. Similarities stop there; his passion is unyielding whereas mine has dwindled over the years. Greg sparked something though; hopefully, this is the start of my old flame. I want to keep doing this always; it’s a great way to easy tight tendons after a day like today. I cannot believe I work at a cop joint; why didn’t anyone warn me? Well, I guess I didn’t tell anyone about it, except my mom. A lot of help she was.
Dipping my brush in a deep blue, I give the sky its dramatic contrast.
That’s the downside of keeping to yourself, not sharing a thing. I don’t like opening up, I don’t like it when people know me too well. Knowing my best and worst is a burden a small pill can barely handle. I know I could tell someone something to lighten the load, but that is just a saying, easier said than done. This is why I don’t get James, I don’t know what he wants, I want inside of his head. He might think he is helping, but he really doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into. I carry more emotional baggage than physical luggage. Doesn’t that scream turn around and run the other way? Why bother getting involved in something like that? Imagine the toll it would take on both parties; it’s not worth it. I legitimately think that I’m just not worth it. Or anything really; what do I contribute to society?
Yeah, that was my answer too.
My brush slides against the other oil paints.
I have got to stop depressing myself like this. I’m serving patrons food at work, that’s clearly a service to the community—no matter how much I hate the patrons.
My sky starts to bleed angst, becoming my visual journal.
Maybe I should use more white.
28
My eyes are grainy as if they’ve been rolled in sand. A dull ache lingers throughout my veins. I pull my covers around tight thinking about faking sick. I tune my ears to the chirping outside my window, it asks me to reconsider. It’s my first night without nightmares in a while; I should use my fully rested self to the fullest before they strike again. I shrug to no one as I unwind my blankets.
Another day of a fake week.
I sit up to Greg’s beautiful mind; the lonely picture needs friends. I'm supposed to hike with him today, but since I have work he might have to settle for an excursion in my back woods.
* * *
Work was extensively tedious and thoroughly long, which is how I imagine every day will be working my last summer. Exciting.
Smelling of condiments and countertops I arrive home the back way through the woods. I see the clearing where my house sits when someone grabs me from behind.
I almost scream until I realize it is just Greg.
“Starting without me?” He says out of breath, as if he went out of his way to catch up and scare me.
“Greg!” I broke free, pretending I’m not startled. “I was taking the back way home from work, why are you here so early?” More importantly, can he smell ketchup and mustard on me? I wanted to shower before we got dirty hiking.
“I wanted to sur
prise you.” He says picking up his backpack.
“You mean to scare me?” I snarl. Not exactly the best week for surprises.
He brushes off the comment like the leaf on his shirt as he got out a small camera.
“Where’s the colossal camera?” I asks.
“It’s in here, this one's for you. I thought maybe you could find your own inspiration, instead of using mine.”
“Hey, you said to take those pictures, you can have them back if you want.”
“That’s not what I meant; I just thought there might have been something else instead of my boring nature pictures you would want to paint.”
“Oh, but your pictures aren’t boring,” I say kicking away some leaves.
“So you don’t want the camera?” He teases.
“Give it to me.” I snatch it away. “I haven’t really taken pictures before.” I begin toying with the digital camera.
“You want me to show you?” He asks pulling out his big lens.
“I know how to point and click, thank you.” I want to spit at him for some reason.
He smiles coyly while readying his camera.
He stood up sharply, “Alright, let’s go.”
And we hike.
Halfway through our trip, I threw myself on the ground with exhaustion. “You’re a freak,” I call to Greg who is barely sweating. I’m so pathetic.
My long bed bound depression has clearly atrophied my body. I struggle to climb the one-mile hiking loop without gasping for air and feeling that painful stitch in your side that whispers "weak ass bitch your pathetic pick up the pace." Lack of sleep isn't aiding this endeavor either—why did I agree to this?