by Sarah Buhl
I was drifting closer to death then and I was only sixteen. I was so sick inside from the pain my mother had caused me. She was pure evil and her control over me was tiring. In her sick mind it was okay or at least acceptable to abuse me. I was her property and she had told me that on several occasions. “Wynn, you came from my womb, so I can do with you as I please. I own every part of you—remember that,” she had whispered in my ear. She told me that no one could help me and no one could love me as she did.
My father left her when she told him she was pregnant with me. She always told me he was the love of her life. She said I looked like him and every time she looked at me her heart cracked even more. It wasn’t from a lofty mother/son love we shared, but because I was a constant reminder of her lost love. She looked toward a distant unreal place when she spoke of him. I wondered how much of what she said was true and how much she created in her mind.
My mom had grand interpretations of what happened in her world. Sometimes when she spoke of him it was as if he were two different people. She loved him, but I had a hard time believing he loved her in return. One part spoke of him as a saint brought into her life to save her and another part spoke of him as pure evil. She had this idea in her head that they had a fairy tale romance—she was damsel and he her prince charming. But something happened and he was the villain again in her constant roller coaster of emotions.
For the last few years of her life she used guilt to control me and she used my fear towards her as a tool to take her aggression out. She hit me, knowing that I would never hit her back because I had more than fifty pounds on her. As much as I hated what she did to me, we still had good times. There were moments when she wasn’t drinking and we lived a normal life, as normal as our life could be.
I remember my ninth birthday being one of those times. She invited Blake and his family, as well as Sid over to our house. She made a cake and they sang to me. It was one moment in my childhood I remember being loved. The attention embarrassed me and I kept my chin lowered as they sang. She held sadness and guilt in her eyes when she looked at me. I wondered if she felt guilt for what she did to me and if the sadness came from that or if it was because I was so damn shy. Later that night, she found her sadness drawing her back to a bottle of Cabernet and it morphed into her anger. As her memories of my father changed, her emotions did as well.
As I grew older, she grew frailer. But when she drank her wine and grabbed her belt, she struck me across the back or arm with as much strength as she always possessed. She screamed at me that I ruined her. I believed her—my birth ruined her. My entrance into the world brought her sadness. I was the cause of her pain. I drove my father away and caused the hollowness in her eyes.
That was our insane life—constant sorrow and emptiness. Sometimes, I welcomed the strike of her belt, because the physical pain brought me from the void that entombed me. The belt or hand connected me with the woman I called Mom.
Then one day during my sophomore year of high school we were reading Shakespeare in my English class. I always read as a child, but started reading more around that time. I discovered the escape it brought. I never read Shakespeare though as I always bought into the stereotype. Shakespeare was for lovebirds. I learned I was wrong.
We were reading Macbeth aloud in class and I never thought much of fate, but that day I questioned it. On my turn to read I got Malcolm’s part. Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break. Those were the first words I read that caused an explosion inside me whose force of impact started a crack in my walls. I couldn’t speak of what happened to me throughout my life. I couldn’t tell anyone what my mother did. But in my silence it was devouring me and I wanted release. I chose to give my sorrow words without speaking.
Sid offered to give me a tattoo when I decided on one. He lifted an eyebrow at me when I told him what I wanted. It wasn't because of the tattoo, but the placement. "You really want to tattoo your neck?" he asked me. I thought it strange, considering he had a neck tattoo himself. I nodded and told him that it was what I needed.
The words could not cross my lips to tell him why I needed to get it on my neck. But seeing them every time I looked in the mirror I gave them a voice. It reminded me that yes it did happen and it does happen and that someday I could speak and it will stop.
After describing the details of the tattoo to Sid, he looked me in the eyes for a long while. My pain reflected in his expression and he was helpless. I never spoke to Sid of what happened, but he had an idea. Without question though, he agreed. He didn’t even bother asking my mother’s permission, because she wasn't aware enough to make a decision.
Included was a hawthorn tree on my upper left arm whose branches climbed my shoulder and stopped to surround the words on my neck. I wanted no colors, but black with gray shading. On the topmost branch sat a raven looking towards the words. I chose the raven because I read somewhere that they were bringers of light, truth, and goodness and I wanted each of those. I chose the tree, because even though I didn’t know my family, it was their namesake. It took Sid several hours over several days to finish the tattoo and I asked him to put the words on last.
The day he finished the tattoo, I went home and found my mother dead in the bathtub. She choked on her own vomit and drowned in a drug and alcohol induced sleep. I didn’t call 911 right away. I sat on the floor leaning my back against the toilet as I stared at her.
Her eyes in death were as blank as they were in life. She wore a vacant expression that made her look as if she were longing for something she once had. Part of me wanted to know what her story was. Part of me feared it. I hated what she did to me. I hated her for it, but she was still my mother and she made me who I was.
With my elbows resting on my pulled up knees, I fingered the wrap over the tattoo on my neck. I didn't miss the irony of her choking on her own sorrow. This woman never learned how to give her sorrow words. She fed her sorrow and let it fester and grow until inflicting it on others was what gave her release. I received her pain and trapped it in me. Our pain will burden me the rest of my life.
Now every year since, I get a new tattoo. My anniversary tattoos are always quotes. The last six years I got Shakespeare, Salinger, Orwell, Bukowski, Bradbury, and Hemingway. This year I am getting Vonnegut. The tattoo is a recreation of his tombstone drawing from Slaughterhouse-Five. I wished for that phrase to be true.
A few hours later I was in Sid’s shop. Blake did come through and he was there waiting for me. I removed my shirt because I was going to have the tattoo put on my right upper arm and I didn’t want to have to hold my sleeve out of the way. The scars across my back were stark in contrast to my pale skin. Even the large tattoo across my back could not hide all of them. Sid saw more of me than my family doctor. But he was only aware of my physical scars, not the emotional ones.
We were talking and joking until that moment. The removal of my shirt showed the “X’s” that intertwined and formed within the wings of the gargoyle tattoo. Sid told me once that it was going to hurt tattooing over any scars and after that first tattoo he never gave his spiel again. I could handle it.
Scars traced my arms and thighs as well. I couldn’t blame her for those. It took me a couple years after her death before I stopped. It started when I was thirteen. It was at that time, I realized the pain could fill the void much as her strikes had. A slice across my skin with a knife or any sharp object brought me back to reality. I sometimes imagined I floated outside myself, but the physical pain brought me back. I wasn’t suicidal. I only needed to stay grounded. I needed the physical pain or I might explode and watch as particles of me drifted into nothingness. I breathed a deep breath and exhaled into the chair, awaiting the connection the needle to my skin brought.
Neither of the two men spoke as Sid tattooed. They both saw what she was capable of doing. The scars I bore showed almost everything she had done. Almost. She kept our doors tightly locked so the world couldn’t see the
darkness. I learned from the best.
The next morning, I had my first art composition course. This was the class I was looking forward to least. Stinson pushed me to take this particular class because his theory was that I might be more inclined to drop my walls when I saw another human being in a vulnerable position.
I didn’t see how staring at an old, naked guy and drawing his every detail was going to make me closer to humanity. Taking photos of people was enough. I wanted to keep my distance from them, but still capture them in their reality. Plus it didn’t take from me to do that. I didn’t have to be near them or examine them. It was unfortunate that most people choosing to be figure models are old hairy guys with beer bellies and I was going to have to look at them longer than I wanted.
I took the seat by the door and found myself more relaxed than in the classrooms on Friday. I didn’t focus on the circular formation of our desks. I appreciated how open it was and I wasn’t sitting near anyone this time. The professor entered the room with an air about her. I should say she flowed through the room. She had on a long dress and wore anklets with bells on them. Every time she took a step she made a tinkling sound.
“Hello, class. I’m not going to ease you into this. If you managed to get into this class, it means you have drawing experience. So let’s get to it. I have our first figure model for you today and just as you take a bandage off a kid; we are taking one off of you. We are going straight to nudes.” Great.
I pulled my drawing pad and charcoals out and tried to focus on the items before lifting my head. I took a deep breath to prepare myself. “This is Hannah, everyone,” the professor declared. I couldn’t look. I didn’t want to see another Hannah. I didn’t want to see the Hannah. I was already nervous and that possibility intensified the nervousness. There is more than one Hannah in the world, but I knew it would be her.
I repeated her name in my thoughts since yesterday. I let out a deep breath and allowed myself to look at the girl who walked into the room. I started at her feet and kept my head lowered as my eyes traced up her body. I was playing Russian roulette with my emotions and I couldn’t decide which would be my end—it being her or it not being her.
When I took my last blink and opened my eyes, I saw the same blue eyes that haunted me. She was looking right at me and she pulled the terrycloth robe around her tighter as if she wanted to hide. She wore a demure expression that was different than how she looked the other day. She wore no makeup and there was a silent purity surrounding her. I was seeing another side of her. She was cautious and hesitant as she dropped my gaze and looked around at the rest of the class.
“Hannah, go ahead and have a seat in the middle of the room on the pedestal,” the professor said and looked back at the class before she continued. Hannah walked toward the pedestal and she passed my chair as she did. The edge of her robe touched my leg and my hand twitched as I fought the urge to touch her and run from her at the same time. She took her seat and toyed with her hands in her lap. She kept her gaze away from everyone in the room and I wondered where the freedom went she wore the other day.
The professor circled the pedestal and continued telling us what she expected, but I didn’t hear a word of it. Hannah’s eyes went back on me and she smiled. I tried to smile, but I struggled to even look at her. I was left with what I was sure was a dumbfounded expression. She was exquisite.
Her eyes remained on me, and others in the class noticed the obvious attention she gave me. We were having a silent conversation and I wondered how much of it was in my head and how much was real.
Then, that instinct was back again. I broke eye contact and looked around the room. There were a couple guys that though they were here for the art, they still wore an infatuated expression. One’s jaw was even hanging slack and I wanted to push it back up and not allow Hannah’s robe to come off until they respected the fact that this was art, not a porn magazine. I scoffed to myself, because I was no different. I had traced my eyes across her body, examining her as if she were here for my pleasure alone.
“I’m going to pose Hannah. Now, you don’t need to draw her as you see her, I want your interpretation of her. I want to know what you see when you’re drawing her.” A sunrise. Oh my fucking god, where the hell did that come from? I scoffed again and this time it must have been louder because others in the room looked at me as I put my attention on my easel.
The professor turned back to Hannah. “Dear, please remove your robe.”
Hannah pulled her lip in as she removed her robe. Her nervousness was apparent as she gave the robe to the professor, who set it on a chair next to the pedestal. She adjusted Hannah so her heels rested on the bar of the stool and her delicate hands held each other, resting on her knees. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun at the back of her neck and a few pieces were hanging out the sides. I was thankful the professor didn’t have her facing me. I couldn’t have Hannah watch me as I drew her. I wanted to draw every part of her without being insecure.
I had looked at the picture of her on my phone several times over the last couple days and the determination in her eyes replayed in my thoughts. Though her eyes weren’t facing me, I was drawing them as I remembered how they were. It was a cross between the bench girl I saw and the way they were in the alley, filled with the sad freedom she wore as a burden.
I started at her lower back and took in the delicate curve of her hips and waist. I put my charcoal to the paper and began to draw without hesitation. I didn’t want to stay on any part of her for too long, because I wanted to remember all of her.
My heart began to beat in a faster rhythm the longer I drew. I found her interesting before, and beautiful was not the right word to describe her now. I couldn’t think of the right word, which was odd for me, because I always found the right word. She just was. She held an undefined allure containing every possibility and definition I could imagine.
Every curve of her body begged for a touch and I wondered how soft her skin felt. Despite her earlier nervousness, she was at ease the longer she sat there. She captivated the other students in the class as well. The guys who bothered me before now held the same artistic determination as me. I paused for a moment in my drawing to look at her without interference. I realized that though she was physically striking, it was her spirit I wanted to know.
I looked across her arms and up to her shoulders. She carried sadness and pain. I was selfish. I focused on what I wanted from her, without noticing how deep the heartache was she hid behind her false air of freedom. The other day when I saw her at the pub, she projected a free spirit. But I could tell she was playing a part. It was a facade, but it was the first time I wanted to break through one.
She was trying to get past a wall in her life. Every time she stepped forward she turned back and let it imprison her. She wanted to break free, but I understood her caution. I had my own walls.
“Okay, that’s it. Hannah you can stand now dear,” the professor said as I hadn’t noticed the time passing. I watched her stand to put her robe on and she hid behind her hair as she removed it from the loose bun. She left the room with her chin lowered as she passed everyone.
I needed to talk to her. It was weird, seeing her so many places, even for me. I put my drawing supplies back into my bag and checked it the usual five times. I looked under my chair to make sure I wasn’t forgetting something. I looked back at the pedestal Hannah sat on and tried to decide how to move forward. I took a deep breath and turned for the door and with each step, I breathed in what I was going to do.
I stepped into the hallway and didn't see her, so decided to head to the exit. I walked a few feet before I heard a wispy, yet deep female voice ask, “Do you want to get a coffee?”
I turned around and saw her standing there. She dresses fast. I smiled, because my thoughts were moronic. She leaned on the wall and gave me an expression that said she questioned what she was doing. She put her hand up to her mouth and toyed with her bottom lip as she furrowed her brow at me and ra
ised it as if to say she was waiting for a response.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Yes, you know those little beans that smell divine.” She breathed in as if she could smell it now. “The drink people get when they want to converse with someone. When you go for alcoholic drinks, not much happens.” A broad smile formed across my face as the word converse reverberated through me. She said converse instead of talk or speak. She used her hands to express her statements as if she were making the coffee with her bare hands. She was amazing and I hung on her every word. “It amounts to, get a beer, loosen up, and talk about random shit. But coffee is reserved for more serious conversations. Coffee is life changing,” she said with a slight smile and tilt of her head, waiting for my response. I tried to gather my thoughts as her subtle beauty hypnotized me.
“Oh. Okay, that coffee. Yes, I could do that. But I may not be able to converse as much as you would like,” I grinned at my choice of words, despite the tightness forming in my chest when I thought of speaking to her—sharing with her. The few dates with others before never amounted to something. I was nervous when I went on them, but more because I was in a public place surrounded by strangers. This nervousness was different. It came from the fear of her expectations of me. She was a woman with experience and wasn’t afraid to speak with strangers and my experience paled in comparison to hers.
But there as she looked at me, I saw that look in her eyes again. The look said she saw more than others and she tried to forget most of what she has seen. I understood that look. I saw it every time I glanced in the mirror. When I understood the similarities, it set me at ease because fear of what to say to her receded.
“Okay then. You driving?” she asked as she ran her hand through her hair.