Blank Canvas

by Mere Joyce

  Evernight Teen ®

  www.evernightteen.com

  Copyright© 2015 Mere Joyce

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-393-0

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JC Chute

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Byron

  For the dreams we have while we’re asleep,

  and the ones we live while we’re awake.

  BLANK CANVAS

  Mere Joyce

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter One

  “Madison, will you tell me what happened?”

  I give Klara a stare of practiced indifference. “You know what happened,” I say flatly.

  Klara doesn’t respond, only lets my words dissolve until the sole remaining sound in the room is the little desk clock, ticking away the seconds of our session. Klara loves to use the silent method. She thinks if she waits long enough, I’ll be incapable of suppressing my innermost secrets. She doesn’t realize I spent two and a half years of my life in silence. I’m a master at holding my tongue.

  I keep my gaze steady on hers, and eventually she speaks again. “I’d like you to tell me, anyway,” she says calmly. She sits across from me, hands folded neatly in her lap.

  When I first started seeing Klara, I thought she’d be taking constant notes about my condition. She doesn’t, at least not while I’m in the room. She only sits, her purple blouse bunched at her waist because it’s a size too large.

  It’s my turn not to respond. I hold off answering Klara’s question and let several stiff, awkward minutes creep by. The less time remaining in my hour, the less I have to say. Klara’s familiar with this routine, but she doesn’t try to push me. As much as I dislike being here, I appreciate her patience.

  When my fingers start tapping along to the incessant melody of the clock, I finally open my mouth.

  “I was kidnapped.” The words lack emotion, my voice deadpan in the way most people around me find disturbing. It’s like everyone thinks I should be in tears at the mere suggestion of the memory. In reality, I make a strong effort not to cry whenever I can possibly manage to hold it back. Crying is embarrassing, and it’s one more discomfort I don’t need.

  “I’d like to hear the whole story, Madison,” Klara says in her gentle voice. If she weren’t a psychiatrist, I would’ve guessed Klara worked in a spa. Her tone is quiet, soothing. It makes me drowsy, and on more than one occasion I’ve been tempted to ask if she’s ever actually talked until a patient fell asleep.

  I’m not sleepy now, though. I’m annoyed.

  “W-Why do you need to hear the whole thing?” I ask, digging my nails into the sides of the leather chair I sit on. I cast my eyes about the room until I notice the manila folder on Klara’s desk, neatly labelled with my name in block letters: DEACON, MADISON. I wish I could take it, and rip it into a thousand insignificant pieces. “You know the story. I’ve told you. And yet, e-every single session you a-ask me to tell you again. Why?”

  Light glints off Klara’s glossy lips as she gives me the hint of a smile. “Because it’s important for you to talk about it, Madison. You won’t do it at home, and that’s okay. But you need an outlet. You can’t keep it all bottled up inside. I ask you to repeat the story so you can learn to accept it, learn to live in spite of it.” She pauses, and the smile turns into something like a mischievous smirk. “You haven’t told me the whole truth, anyway,” she adds, eyeing me closely. No matter how playful her lips are, Klara’s eyes always remain serious. I squirm under her stern stare.

  “I was taking part in my school’s Art Showcase,” I recite, ignoring her comment about me keeping something hidden. “I was there alone. My parents couldn’t come. They were both working, and my sister was spending the night at a friend’s. But I had a painting in the Showcase, so I had to be there. I–Iwanted to be there.”

  “What happened after the event?” Klara asks, and I sigh, slumping down into my chair. I hate this part.

  “I figured I’d just walk home. I o-only live a few blocks away from the school. I’d promised my parents I’d get a ride with someone, but it was warm outside, and I wanted the walk. Besides, it wasn’t like I was a child. I was thirteen, I could . . . I could handle walking home in the dark.”

  I close my eyes. The memory doesn’t come flooding back––it doesn’t need to, because the memory never leaves. It lives forever just inside my mind, and as my eyes slide shut, the scene of my abduction becomes as clear as the photograph of the beach Klara keeps on her office wall.

  “I d-didn’t hear him,” I admit, cringing inwardly as I work to ensure my voice stays detached. “I was listening to music, and I didn’t hear. He came up behind me, and he hit me over the head. W-When I woke up, I was in a house. Locked in a room, with my arms tied to the closet doors.”

  “Tell me about the room,” Klara says, as if she hasn’t heard these details at least a dozen times. It was in all the papers. Snapshots of the walls, the mattress on the floor where I slept, the charming chamber pot chipped and stained, the washbasin in the corner where I got a weekly bath. As usual, the visions send waves of queasiness rippling through my stomach. Why does she think this will help me?

  I describe the scene as simply as possible, never spending more than a sentence on any one particular feature. Then Klara prods me to tell her about the walls.

  “They were covered in paint,” I say, swallowing hard. My feet begin to tingle, and I resist the urge to curl into a ball on the chair. “P-Paintings, I guess, but not really. They were lines and shapes and sometimes words. All in different colors . . . but none of it meant anything. It was gibberish, in paint form.”

  “And whodid the painting, Madison?”

  I open my eyes. I can’t keep them closed any longer. I can’t bear to picture his face.

  “He did,” I tell her. I struggle against my inclination to avoid her gaze, and force myself to meet her eyes directly. “My captor. The P––The Painter.”

  “You call him that because he painted a lot, didn’t he?” Klara’s interested in my reaction. If I ever react at all, it’s when I talk about him. I’m careful today, though. It’s bad enough I can’t stifle the gentle stammer I’ve developed over the last five months. I refuse to let any other indicators of emotion peek through, especially today. Especially after the phone call I overheard this morning.

  “He painted all the time. He painted everything he could. The . . . the walls were marks of his insanity. He never stopped painting. N-Never.”

  Klara pauses her interrogation. She glances briefly away from me, her eyes fixed on the wall of degrees hanging behind my head. She’s working on her next question, wondering what the most effective method of attack might be. I understand her routine, too, and my shoulders ache with tension because I already know what she’s going to ask me next.

  “Madison,” Klara begins cautiously, “tell me about your feet.”

  Discomfort shivers through me from my toes up to my hairline. A faint buzzing takes up residence in my ears, and black dots multiply before my eyes while I try desperately to blink them away. Anxiety grips at me, my heartbeat erratic. My ribs cut into my chest, preventing me from taking a full breath.

  I try to collect myself, try not to let the panic take hold. I search for something else to focus on, something to get my mind
off my dizzying vision and suppressed lungs.

  The only thing I can safely grab onto is the soft metronome of the clock. I peer over at Klara’s desk, careful not to let her see my worry. I let the black lines of the wood-framed clock form into minutes and hours, until the clock’s design finally makes sense again. I watch the ticking hands in relief as my breathing evens out and my heart slows, and smile when I at last notice the time.

  “Session’s up,” I reply, my legs shaking as I stand too quickly. I want to sit again, but I don’t give into the temptation. Klara’s displeased with my sudden movement towards the door, and if I don’t hurry away fast, she’ll corner me into resting a while longer in her office.

  I just have to make it out into the hallway. So I give my psychiatrist a fake smile, and walk away with aching feet and half-numbed limbs.

  Chapter Two

  Wesley’s waiting for me out in the parking lot, and his decade-old mini-van rumbles to life as I hurry unsteadily across the pavement, trying to push unwanted memories to the back of my mind.

  “How’d it go?” he asks as I pull open the door and hop inside. Wesley’s van smells permanently of old fast food, and there’s a lingering scent of stale smoke from the previous owners. It’s a disgusting combination, but I can’t complain. I don’t even have my driver’s license yet, so the fact that Wesley Cole––who is seventeen, and only eight months older than I am––has his own car is an impressive feat.

  “How do you think?” I ask dejectedly, and Wesley smiles sympathetically as he shifts into drive and heads out of the parking lot. I grab my messenger bag from the floor of the front seat, and rummage around for an elastic band to put my hair up. My dull, limp blonde locks are too long. I need to get them chopped off. I’ve been telling myself this everyday since my escape, but I haven’t stepped foot in a salon yet. It’s weird, but during my captivity, my hair was one of the only things still … mine. It’s hard to imagine getting rid of it now, even if it does annoy me.

  I find a Scrunchie and loop my hair into a messy bun. Then I sit back against the cushy seat and try unsuccessfully to relax. I get about ten minutes of respite from my life as a psych patient, but the short taste of freedom is wasted on my quivering nerves.

  “If we skip out on the clinic, we could go grab something to eat. My treat?” I try to tempt Wesley with the promise of burgers and fries, but my chauffeur doesn’t take the bait.

  “You have to go,” he says simply, almost casually, like he’s taking me to school and not to another therapy session.

  Traffic is busy, so while Wesley focuses on getting us through the gridlock of Bayfield Street, I focus on him. Wesley is my best friend. Or at least, he was.Before. I’m not sure what to consider him now. My neighbor, for sure . . . and I guess he’s still my friend, or still wants to be. Since I came home five months ago, he’s been around a lot, driving me to my sessions and having dinner at our house. My sister told me he hung around while I was away, too. Helped with the search parties and kept my family company on restless nights when they waited to hear something,anything, from the police.

  I grew up madly in love with Wesley. But those feelings are as confused as everything else these days. He’s taller than he used to be, lanky in build, his hair the same sandy shade but now gelled into a style reminiscent of a ‘50s preppie. His dark eyes haven’t changed, and he still has the same soft freckling on his cheeks. But his chin is sharper, and there’s the shadow of a beard to mark the passage of our time apart.

  Still, while others treat me like I’m a fragile doll, Wesley acts as if I’m nothing but a normal girl. This, more than his eyes or his freckles, reminds me he’s the same boy I’ve known practically my entire life. Three years ago, I wanted to be singled out as someone extraordinary. Nowadays,normal is a relief. Wesley’s always been remarkably good at giving me the attention I crave, or the nonchalance I need.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than drive me around?” I ask, hugging my bag to my chest and studying his reaction. When he smiles, my stomach still flutters like it did years ago. But I’m not a child anymore. I don’t have romantic visions of the future like I once did.

  Wesley makes me feel safe, and for the moment,safe is a blessing. I’m not sure I could have survived this long without him.

  “Someone has to make you go to therapy,” he replies, but even when he says the wordtherapy it still sounds like it belongs in everyday conversation. Like it’s normal. I lean back against the headrest and let a smile lengthen my lips.

  “I don’t mind seeing Klara,” I tell him, even though I hate sitting in Klara’s office, repeating the story of my abduction week after week. I’m not sure why I lie. I guess it’s petty to complain about the woman assigned to help me, when he’s volunteering his time to make sure I have the chance to receive her help in the first place.

  “But you hate art therapy,” Wesley finishes for me. His voice is tight when he says it, and I’m surprised. My reluctance to attend this second form of therapy has resulted in many drawn out conversations with my parents. Some have ended in shouting matches, others in tears, and most have been dispirited, fruitless attempts to find a solution to please us all. It’s no secret I want to stop my art therapy, nor is it a hidden fact Mom and Dad think art therapy is the most crucial aspect of my rehabilitation. But I didn’t realize Wesley thinks the sessions are important, too.

  The van makes a clunky right turn off Bayfield Street, and after driving past a neighborhood of old houses and new townhomes, an office park comes into view. I can spot the windows of the Healing Expressions clinic, three floors up in the far building. My throat is already dry, and we haven’t even parked yet. My legs regained their strength during the ride, but my feet are tingling again. I grip my bag tightly.

  “See you in an hour?” Wesley asks as he pulls up in front of the building. His phone buzzes, rattling in the cup holder. I wonder who’s calling, and wish I could stick around to find out. I would love to sit in this van, answering phone calls or spinning the radio dial, talking to Wesley or not talking and simply enjoying a drive down an endless sunny road.

  Instead, I only nod at Wesley’s question, pushing open the door and climbing out of the seat before I lose my nerve and beg him to take me away from the clinic. Wesley gives me a wave before reaching down to grab his phone. I stare at him for a few long seconds, and then turn with a sigh and walk, still a little dazed, towards the building.

  The glass windows catch the sun, and I have to shield my eyes from the blinding gleam. Around me, the world is bright and warm and alive. It’s beautiful outside––late spring in full bloom. I used to love this time of year, but today the vibrant landscape is shaded black and grey.

  To me, the world has lost all color. Once, I would have delighted in painting it. Now, the idea terrifies me.

  Chapter Three

  I push open the glass doors and cross the lobby to get the elevator up to the third floor. The heady aroma of packaged gourmet coffee wafts up from the small cafeteria in the complex’s lower level. It’s an odd location for an art therapy collective. Most of the doors here lead to small businesses or telemarketing firms, but the six art therapists who joined together to create Healing Expressions managed to get a good deal on rent.

  I ride the elevator up and head down the third floor corridor until I reach the clinic’s door. I have to brace myself before I can go inside. Compared to this, Klara’s sessions are like a cozy afternoon spent chatting with a close friend.

  Art therapy is something I would have loved three years ago. The concept is simple: To help me get over my trauma, I’m supposed to make art. Paint. Because painting is what I used to like to do, I’m supposed to confront my fears and delve into my psyche through a paintbrush.

  Once, I would have found it a perfect way to spend an hour each week. And I can’t deny the abstract idea is still appealing. Art is the perfect way to channel emotion and soothe the wounds of life, and as I step into the clinic I’m reminded of an
imagined future in which I am healed and I help others heal in a place like this. I enjoy those dreams, short-lived as they may be. Whenever they appear, I bask in the daydream of their pleasantries until reality scatters the clouds of the vision, leaving me cold and cracked.

  “Hi, Maddie.” The receptionist, a girl in her early twenties named Juliet, waves as I walk through the waiting area. I like Juliet. She’s overly perky, with her glittery pixie cut and funky, bright dresses, but she means well and is sincere in her kind greetings.

  “Hi, Juliet. I-Is Tim ready for me?” I ask, passing by a little boy and his mother waiting to see one of the other therapists.

  “Yeah, go right on in,” Juliet says, and I round the corner to Tim’s office.

  Art therapy started out okay. At first I just drew things … trees and roads, like word association in sketch form. But lately, the agenda here has changed.

  I open Tim’s door, and see the easel set up in the middle of the room. It’s like the air disappears, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I want to faint, to black out and wake up away from the clinic. I have to work to drag oxygen in through my nose, out through my mouth. It’s torture, even now, and I have yet to actually step inside the room.

  Tim sits behind a small silver desk, his black hair pulled back into a long ponytail, his wrinkled eyes watching my struggle. He doesn’t offer to help. He’s seen this too many times to be concerned.

  I didn’t think it would be this hard. I wasn’t thrilled by the idea of therapy, of any therapy, after I came home. But at first I didn’t mind sitting with Tim, drawing as he spoke, interpreting his vague instructions and making my own doodles to pass the time. When he told me he wanted me to start painting again, I was uncomfortable, but not altogether resistant. If I could do a few paintings with him, I’d be considered well enough to stop my sessions. But when I saw the easel up close, I froze. And as the weeks passed, the idea of painting progressed from unpleasant to horrifying.