by Mere Joyce
I avoid the art schools at first. I know which ones are the top contenders because even in the eighth grade I was obsessed with my choices. The night I was taken, I had brochures just like these ones stuffed in my backpack. I never saw the brochures, or my bag, after The Painter knocked me unconscious, but I can still remember the thick wad of pamphlets I’d gathered before setting out into the disturbed darkness.
The pamphlets now are as tempting as they were three years ago and as I have nothing else to do, eventually they find their way into my hands. The crisp, glossy papers unfold to tell me about all the programs offered, some close by, others halfway across the world. If I could take Wesley, my sister, Mom and Dad, I’d like to choose a program so far away. I shouldn’t be looking at these pamphlets in the first place, of course. The location of any potential programs shouldn’t matter one way or the other, since I’ll never attend one of these schools, at least not for the classes they’re promoting for this event.
“I have to say I’m surprised to see you here,” a voice scowls from behind me, and I turn, surprised myself at the vicious tone making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. My gaze settles on Shelia, who is just coming to set up her own table for the Showcase. The landscape I saw her painting last week rests carefully against her legs.
“Hi, Shelia,” I say, old irritation flaring up through my core and flowing like scorching lava across my limbs. The fire does not burn, does not make me want to run away or throw a tantrum over her presence. It only heats me, gives me a spark. I like it.
“I heard you were afraid of art now,” Shelia says, her face smug and ignorant. Leave it to Shelia to be so completely inappropriate about my abduction. I wonder if she ever felt bad after I disappeared. Did she find it strange, coming to school each day while I was missing, probably presumed dead? Or was she only glad I was gone from her life? Shelia and I have never liked each other, but I’m not sure how deep our dislike spreads. Are we merely opponents in artistic competition? Or full-blown enemies, outside of it?
The whole concept of rivalry is immature and trivial. But it doesn’t stop me from allowing it to continue, from even enjoying the bite of my words as I callously respond.
“Is that what you’re showcasing?” I say, changing the subject. Shelia’s eyes narrow at my simple question. She thinks I’m making fun of her artwork. Maybe I am.
“Yes,” she says, in a haughty tone. She lifts the painting and carries it towards her assigned table. “And it’ll be the best piece of the show.”
I should be silent. I should let Shelia have her moment of glory. After all, I’ve been through enough to know petty competitiveness is pointless.
If only I wasn’t secretly loving this nasty exchange. I’m alive with her annoyance, and mine.
“Because I’m not in it,” I say, and Shelia’s head snaps towards me. She eyes me closely, and her face scrunches into a foul expression, her brown eyes slits, her round nose red in anger.
“Rumor has it you haven’t painted a thing in years,” she says. “And while you’ve been cowering away from the canvas, I’ve been perfecting my craft.”
“I could paint something better than that,” I say. It’s a conceited boast, but the weird thing is, I’m positive it’s true. The rumors are correct. I haven’t painted a thing in years. I haven’t even been capable of putting brush to canvas. But I could still paint something better than Shelia. Because it’s not about technique. It’s about emotion. It’s about heart.
I could paint something better than Shelia’s valley. And I already know exactly what my painting would be.
“Well, since you’re so terrified of painting, I can’t prove you’re wrong. So I’ll just have to assume it,” Shelia says sarcastically. She turns away from me then, busying herself with setting up her display. Which is good, since I don’t have a response to what she’s just said.
I let her work, and move myself out of her line of sight. But I don’t stop watching her, studying her art, thinking about the aggravating way she finished off our bickering.
It takes Autumn another twenty minutes before she’s ready to go, during which time I sulk. When Shelia disappears from the auditorium, I walk aimlessly among the displays again, wondering at the empty tables still shrouded in mystery. The smell of floor wax and paint and laundered linen tablecloths makes my heart ache with fondness. I keep thinking about what Shelia said, about the truth of her statement, about the ridiculousness of it.
It’s not like some unexpected truth hits me. It’s more like a series of facts have been buried in a sandpit, and slowly an expert team has started digging them out.
I could start my future here. I could win a scholarship, maybe more than one. My dreams could start to unfold right now, if I still wanted them to. I keep telling myself I’m not interested in this world anymore, but it’s difficult to ignore the way my stomach rolls with longing each time I approach a different table.
Okay, so maybe I do still want the fantastic future invented by my imagination. The problem is not a lack of desire––it’s a lack of realistic possibility.
Wesley said I couldn’t let The Painter win. Which means I have to stop being an artist because an artist is exactly what he wanted me to be.
But now, standing here among the people I used to call my classmates, my companions, even my friends, I have to wonder: have my declarations and assumptions been right, after all?
Or have I gotten it completely wrong?
My pulse quickens, and my legs start to feel like tubes of liquid. But it’s nervous anticipation I feel as I study the artists and the auditorium before me, not nervous fear. At least it’s not all fear.
“Hey, there you are,” Autumn says when she finds me after her practice is over. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Still not used to the hair. But I love it.” She grins at me, her forehead glistening with sweat, her eyes wide with tired excitement. “You ready?” she asks.
I loop my arm around hers, and take a deep breath.
“I might be,” I say quietly, and when Autumn gives me a perplexed look, I just smile and lead her out of the auditorium.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After dinner is over, I make my excuses and hurry upstairs. Once I’m there, I lock myself in my room. I haven’t even locked the bathroom since my return. I like the presence of an escape, the easy access to a way out. But tonight, I need my privacy. And I need to keep myself contained.
My art supplies are still under my bed. I haven’t checked to see whether my parents discovered the contraption I devised years ago to store extra supplies in the space under my bed frame, but I don’t expect my secret to have been discovered. A quick check tells me I was right. As I slide under my bed like a child wiggling into a good hiding space, I see the old belts I strapped along the width of the bed, holding a blank canvas in place. Along the sides, in the shallow shelves created by the wooden frame, I find brushes and paints, sponges and rags, a stained palette and an old bandana to keep the hair out of my eyes.
It’s like a treasure trove. I’m giddy as I take out the supplies, my recollection vague about why I originally hid them. I think it was in preparation of being grounded, so if my parents ever ordered me to stay in my room, I could while away the time in perfect pleasure.
I smirk at my own creativeness, at my past desperation to forever have paints nearby.
I lay the items on my bed, and stare. Tears are streaming down my cheeks before I have time to realize I’ve started to cry, but I don’t dwell on it. I brush the tears away with the back of my hand, and then slowly I reach out for the bandana. I hold it to my nose, breathing in the old smells of paint and dust and time. Salty tears drop onto the fabric. I pull it on and tie it tight behind my head.
The process of setting everything up is surreal. Switching on my night table’s lamp, unfolding the easel stashed deep within my closet, placing the canvas and preparing the brushes, the sponges, and paints. I don’t stop to question my own actions, and it’s almost like
an out-of-body experience. I’m not bothered. The whole scene is so familiar I slip back into it easily, and now I’ve decided to do this, it’s like I never had a problem with it at all.
I shut the vocal part of my brain off, refusing to let nagging worries throw my determination off course. This time, I’m not going to throw up, not going to run away. This time, I’m not even going to hesitate.
Because this time, there’s more at stake than my comfort or even my pride. This time, I have a battle to wage, an attack I cannot make with anything less than full, raging effort.
I don’t have to think about what I want to paint. It’s got nothing to do with want. It’s about need, and what I need to paint is already etched in my mind, carved deep into the soft folds of my brain. For the last five months, I’ve desperately tried to pretend the picture’s not there. I’ve avoided the television, the papers, even my own traitorous visions. I’ve pushed the mental scar away, trying so hard to convince myself it would disappear if I could only ignore it for long enough. But I’m not going to pretend anymore. I’m going to accept it, and use it to my advantage. I’m going to enter this battle, and I’m going to win.
I open the gates, the ones I’ve been forcing shut since my captivity came to an end. And with the unlatching of the lock, it all comes flooding to the front of my mind.
Him.
The Painter.
With one deep, steady breath, I dip my brush into white and black paint, mix them into a neutral grey, and then I begin. The brush slides against the canvas like a knife soaked with enemy blood. I make the first jab, and when I find I’m still standing, realize I haven’t been struck down in retaliation, I allow a dark smile to spread across my face. I color the upper portion of my background in a grey hue infused with an undercurrent of blue, setting a dark and melancholy tone for the entire piece. Then I outline the painting’s subject, preparing myself to start on the details of the face I hate and fear more than anything else in the world.
And it comes so naturally I feel like I’ve just recovered from a bout of amnesia. How did I ever think I could forget this? How did I ever think this wasn’t something I wanted to do? After a few shaky minutes, I find my rhythm, and soon I am painting with fury. I strike the canvas with my brush, smearing edges with my sponge, adding shadow, texture, and emotion.
I suppose I expected this to be a more climactic moment, where music would swell from out of nowhere, my hair would blow back in an unseen wind, and my skin would glow with the radiance of achievement. But there’s no movie-worthy magic happening here. It’s like when tragedy strikes, but outside the sun continues to shine and other people go about their day happily laughing and acting like nothing unusual has occurred. The world doesn’t pause for moments like this. My return to painting is not even witnessed by someone who can make a grand story out of it later. It’s just me, and my work. And it’s so normal it could almost be disappointing, if I weren’t so relieved to finally be doing this again.
It doesn’t take me long to acknowledge this will be the darkest painting I’ve ever done. But it’s comforting to hope it will be the darkest I ever do. The idea sits well within me, like a glorious goal. If I can manage to do this piece correctly, I stand a good chance of never having to create anything so horrendous again. I like the odds, and it spurs me to make sure this attempt is perfect.
I asked my family not to bother me tonight, and they comply with my wishes. I paint as the sun sets, as footsteps creak in the hallway below my attic room, as mother and father and sister all eventually make their way to bed. I don’t stop. I have no intention of sleeping. I paint hour after hour, never breaking for more than a minute to refresh my paint supply or consider at which angle I should tackle the next bit.
I work all night, and in the morning I pause only long enough to come downstairs, grab some water and a raspberry muffin, and tell my mother I can’t go to school. She doesn’t argue with me. On any other day, she would assume I was tired, or scared, and she would gladly call the main office to explain why I would miss my classes. Today, she’s so stunned by the masses of paint on my shirt and jeans and hair and skin, she doesn’t respond at all.
I take my breakfast, scarf it down, and get back to work.
I know exactly how I want this painting to turn out because I designed it a long time ago, and I’ve had ample opportunity to plan its exact specifications. Living as a prisoner, stuck with an artist’s mind and nothing else to occupy me, I couldn’t help but occasionally look at my captor like a subject I could paint. I like portraits, and I like painting people. This isn’t a typical portrait, and I don’t consider him a person. But my past includes many hours spent studying his features from an artist’s perspective, and even without him in front of me, I have no trouble determining precisely how everything should be laid out.
It’s an ugly painting. Because he’s an ugly man. Try as I might, I’m unable to escape all feelings of terror while I work on pulling his image out of my mind and placing it before me on the canvas. Each time the likeness starts to show through on the portrait, when I glance up and see his eyes, his chin, his hair before me, I shudder. I cry while I craft his nose, and it takes considerable effort to hold the brush steady as I shade the underside of his fingers. He is a revolting subject, and for all the strength I try to have, all the nonchalance I attempt to show, fear still claws at me whenever I think of him. When I think of what he did. When I think of what he might still be doing, if things had turned out differently.
I finish the painting at two in the afternoon. When I’m done, I collapse on my floor, and pull my knees into my chest. I rock back and forth with my eyes squeezed shut, my body exhausted.
Then I grab my phone, and dial the number for the school.
“M-Mrs. Hewitt’s room, please,” I say to the lady at the front desk. When I’m patched through, Mrs. Hewitt’s voice sings through the phone like a beacon of light.
“Mrs. Hewitt?” I begin, smiling even as I say it. “It’s Maddie. D-Does the offer still stand? Can I still have a table at tonight’s show?”
I can imagine Mrs. Hewitt’s unsurprised expression at the other end of the line.
“Of course,” she says without missing a beat, and I nod. I already knew I could have my spot. I just wanted to tell her. I want someone to be there waiting for my entrance.
“I’ll see you tonight, then,” I say, wondering if I could sneak into Autumn’s room for a nap beforehand, away from the haunting creation drying by my window.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Mrs. Hewitt replies, and it’s satisfying to know she’s telling the truth.
We say a quick goodbye and I hang up the phone. I don’t look at the painting again. I don’t have to. It’s burned into my memory, was before I ever copied it onto the canvas.
I sit on my bed and collect my thoughts. After finally painting again, I at last understand why I was so petrified to approach the canvas. I didn’t want to see his face, for sure. But there’s more. Just as my feet, paint-stained or not, will always remind me of my time with The Painter, my captor will always play a role in my painting, too. I will never recreate the work I’ve done today. But nevertheless, he’ll be with me every time I paint from now on. When I want to draw something dark, I’ll turn to my memories for inspiration. When I want my work to exude joy, I’ll contrast it against the way he made me feel. It’s an awful truth, one I’ve gone to great lengths not to discover. Somehow, through the insanity of the world, The Painter’s become my muse.
It takes several grave moments to accept what I’ve learned, and to realize the monster fuelling my creative energy is less important than the outcome I’ve achieved. I’ve finally done it. I’ve painted again, and painted something good, damn good.
I don’t mean to be arrogant, but it’s simple fact. For the first time in a long while, I’m not going to disappoint anyone with what I’ve accomplished. After the hours of torture I’ve just put myself through, it’s a spectacular way to feel.
; Chapter Thirty-Four
Wesley holds my hand as we walk into the auditorium, my family behind us. The painting has already been placed carefully on its designated table––a feat I managed an hour ago, after Wesley drove me over. I made him avert his gaze as I sat in the back of his mini-van, the second row seats folded forward so the painting could lie flat. The paint is still not completely dry, and it took some creative manoeuvres to get it here without any smudging. But I did it, and after returning home to get ready and wait for everyone else to do the same, I’m back. My stomach feels full and tight, and I’m slightly nauseated. But I’m excited, and ready.
No one has seen the painting yet. I put it up and placed a bristol board tri-fold before it to block it from view. Mrs. Hewitt has promised to keep watch, to make sure no curious, or suspicious, bystanders sneak a peek.
I see her there now, standing in front of my table, chatting animatedly with someone I don’t know, a grey-haired woman I assume is from a college or university. When Mrs. Hewitt sees me she waves me over to her, eyes alight with bubbly anticipation.
“Here we go,” I mumble, and Wesley squeezes my hand reassuringly.
“You’ll be great,” he says, and even if the bristol board came down and revealed a stick figure drawing, I’m sure he’d still be proud of me for showing anything at all.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling. I glance at him, at his neatly combed hair, his russet-brown eyes framed with thick, black lashes, his deep-green dress-shirt and pale sea-green tie. He is so handsome I want to paint his portrait to capture his perfection, and then I want to take him to some dark room and wrinkle his shirt, undo his tie, and mess his hair with delicious frenzy.