The Colour of Broken

by Amelia Grace

  *~*~*~*~*

  ‘Sit on my right side, dear, so I can hear you.’

  I sat in my allocated seat once Gram was comfortable. I looked around for the exit, should we need to use it, but prayed that we wouldn’t have to. I relaxed and looked up at the stage. A thrill travelled through me. Once upon a time I was a ballerina. Once, a very long time ago. Never in a theatre like this, but still, good memories.

  ‘Swan Lake was the first ever ballet I saw, remember, Gram?’

  ‘How could I forget. And then you were stuck on Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy for what seemed forever.’

  ‘I still love that music,’ I said, feeling the warmth of reminiscence hug me.

  The theatre darkened, and a hush descended. The audience clapped as the conductor arrived and bowed. There was silence for a moment before the first piece of orchestral music began, and Princess Odette appeared out of the shadows on the stage to pick up the first flower. Our night of magical ballet had begun. I cast a glance toward Gram. She sat with a serene smile on her face. She was in a happy place.

  I watched with interest as Princess Odette was transformed into a swan, then the scenery changed, and out came the male ballet danseurs. Gram touched my arm and I stiffened. Was she having a vertigo attack?

  ‘Who do you think Prince Siegfried looks like?’ she whispered.

  I looked closer and kept my eyes on his every movement. I gasped. ‘It can’t be Xander, could it?’

  ‘If it’s not him, he certainly has a doppleganger!’ Gram said.

  Suddenly, Swan Lake became even more interesting. I looked over at Gram. She had her eyes closed. ‘Are you okay?’ I whispered.

  ‘Most certainly. I’m listening to the Swan Lake Waltz, and feeling it vibrate through my body. I want to memorize the sound and feeling for when I can’t hear anymore.’

  I lifted my chin to contain the tears that threatened to fall for Gram. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like, knowing you were going to lose your hearing. Although, I suspected she had already lost some of it, but I didn’t know to what extent. I turned my attention back to the ballet, and allowed myself to be carried away with the magic of the fairy tale, thanks to Xander.

  *~*~*~*~*

  ‘Oh, to be young again,’ Gram said, and placed her hand in mine.

  I wrapped my fingers around hers. ‘I’d like to go back just three years, before ... you know ...’ I said.

  ‘I know, and I wish we could. Things would be different for you then, my darling.’

  We walked in silence for a bit, hand in hand. Would I be here? Would I be married? Would I have a baby by now? What mischief would Mia and I be up to?

  ‘Do you think it was him?’ Gram asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know, Prince Siegfried ... was it our Xander?’

  ‘No. I had a look at the dancers’ names on the program. There was no Xander or Alexander ... but Prince Siegfried was performed by Zan Lucas.’

  ‘Prince Siegfried was a very handsome prince!’ Gram said, her eyes dreamy.

  ‘If not a little too perfect,’ I added. ‘You know, like, too perfect becomes an imperfection, if that’s possible at all ... like stripping away their personality because all you can focus on is their perfection?’

  ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘Maybe ... I don’t know. But I tend to think physical perfection would be a burden.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Think about it, Gram. You’d have the pressure to stay perfect, at all cost. I think it would wear you down emotionally. No matter how hard you try, or the amount of money you spend, age catches up in the end, one way or another.’ I opened the car door for Gram. She sat in the front seat and beamed Gramps a smile.

  I grinned and sat in the back.

  Gramps turned to me. ‘Andi, I’m going to alter a pair of court shoes for you so they have steel caps. Those work boots of yours just look out of place with that beautiful dress.’

  ‘It’s all right, Gramps. I can decorate a pair of my work books with glitter if I have to.’

  ‘How was the ballet, girls?’ Gramps asked.

  Gram talked at a million miles an hour. She was floating. I let her keep talking and looked out the window. Tomorrow was Sunday. My painting day in the studio. My “dare-to-be-bare” day. The colour red came to mind. I had to paint something red. Like the colour of ... blood. There ... I said it. It was a necessary evil to combat my panic attacks of all things associated with blood, just like on that day ...

  Chapter Nineteen

  I DIPPED MY FINGERS INTO THE RED PAINT and held them above the white canvas. Red droplets fell, one after the other and splattered, just like that terrible day with Mia. I dipped my fingers into the paint pot once again. Twenty splots of blood wasn’t enough. Twenty splots of blood would never be enough! I turned my head to the side, fighting the memory that came unbidden, but at the same time, desperately needing to remember. I gave in, and let it fill my internal vision. I frowned and shook my head while the scene replayed in my mind ...

  ‘Ugh!’ I moaned, as my breath was punched out of me when I became wedged on a tree jutting out from the cliff. I groaned when I felt a terrible, sharp pain every time I inhaled the salty air. It was impossibly hard to breathe.

  Mia’s hand was still in mine. I could feel it. Gripping tightly. I looked down. Firstly, at the jagged rocks far below beside the sea, then at my hand holding on to Mia’s. It was covered in roads of blood. My blood.

  Mia was dangling mid-air, and our terrified eyes connected.

  My chest constricted. The pain in my ribs was unbearable and my shoulder was screaming at me to move. I couldn’t keep hold of her for much longer ...

  I watched as a drop of my blood dripped onto her face. Right there, in the middle of her forehead, like she was marked. Another drop of blood fell. She turned her head and it landed on her cheek. Like the kiss of death.

  She turned her eyes to mine. ‘I’m scared, Oliander,’ Mia said, using my childhood nickname. Her voice was filled with terror.

  ‘I’ve got you, Mamma Mia,’ I replied with her nickname.

  ‘Tell my parents I love them ... and my brother.’

  ‘You tell them yourself, Mee. Hear those sirens?’

  Mia’s hand slipped a little more. A little closer to death.

  There were shouts from above and hope bloomed. Just a little longer and we’ll be rescued.

  Just a little longer ...

  My chest tightened, and I began to suck in short, fast breaths. I wiggled my hands and feet as they started to tingle. An anxiety attack was coming on. Fast. I pinched my arm numerous times then concentrated on breathing in for a count of five, holding my breath for a count of seven, then exhaled for a count of nine—inhale-hold-exhale, inhale-hold-exhale, on repeat until I felt calm. I was a pro at it. And it worked. Every. Single. Time.

  Dr Jones said my fixation for hands and fingers and blood and the colour red was understandable after the tragedy. She said it was related to my post-traumatic stress disorder. She said educating myself about PTSD was essential. I did that, and the three therapies.

  She was also the one who introduced me to art. When words weren’t enough, or I had nothing but indescribable, devastating emotion, she always guided me to the paper and pencils, or crayons. And that was enough to release what I needed to express at that particular time. Even if it didn’t make sense to her, it made sense to me.

  But now I had paint. And for two years I had been painting. Every. Single. Sunday. Hidden in my parents’ studio here at Tarrin, or in my room at the defence force base.

  I touched my red fingertips to the paint splots on the canvas and closed my eyes. I lifted my chin and went inside my mind and heart to feel the depth of despair, of pain, of love, of loss of the ways things use to be. The past is done. You can’t change it. You must accept it. Mia would understand, wouldn’t she?

  Dr Jones said life was a journey. In the six m
onths after the “tragedy”, as she called it, “that terrible day of the scars”, as I called it, I wanted my journey to end. Every waking moment was too painful to bear. I wanted my earth journey to end ...

  Dr Jones said life was a story, and we were the main character of our book. Dr Jones said we could control the story of our life, and instead of letting things happen to us, we could take control. But I wasn’t convinced. You may be able to control yourself, but you can’t control others. So, in the end, you spend your time being proactive and reactive towards events and people.

  I pushed my dripping red fingers onto the canvas and moved my hand, working with the emotion ... the darkness ... the anger ... the fear ... the hate ... the guilt ... the loss ... of myself ... my injured soul.

  I slumped in the chair when emptiness consumed me. I wanted to change my memory. But I couldn’t. It would betray Mia. And besides, it would be a lie.

  I dropped my head and squeezed my eyes shut. I had to do more red art work.

  Red. Like blood.

  I grabbed another canvas and dipped the paintbrush into the pot of red paint, then covered the entire surface. Done. I placed it next to the free form finger painting I had created and stepped back.

  More. I needed more red. I pushed my hand into the red paint and placed my hand onto the canvas to leave a red handprint, like a hand covered in blood. I repeated it over and over again, until I had thirteen handprints.

  Thirteen—the number of betrayal.

  I leaned the canvas next to the previous two artworks and grabbed another canvas and a stick of charcoal. I sketched a bowie knife then added blobs of red paint. Like blood. My blood on that terrible day of the scars.

  I let out a sob. Just one. Then held my breath before I released it heavily.

  Another canvas. I needed another one. This time I drew my eye with pencil, and a trail of red down the canvas that ended in a pool of blood.

  Done.

  I drew two hands, gripping on to each other, the one above holding on to the one below. And trails of blood. Like on that terrible day of the scars.

  Done.

  And finally, in exhaustion, I painted a delicate blood red heart of love. For Mia ...

  I stood back and looked at the seven complete canvases. They told a story. A violent story of two people. A story that ended in love; for my love for Mia would never end, and I would never forget.

  I had one more painting I needed to do before the sun set. One for Gram. I was absolutely fascinated by the fact that the inner ear, the cochlear, was in the same formation as a shell—like a nautilus cut, or a snail shell. And if you followed the path of the shell formation, it was like spinning, round and round.

  Vertigo.

  I wanted to paint a spectacular spiral for Gram. One that would help her to associate something beautiful with her cochlear, and the vertigo. I blew out my cheeks. The word vertigo left a bitter taste in my mouth.

  I needed to plan my artwork first, so I opened my sketch book and drew a spiral. And another and another. I opened my laptop and researched the inner ear and shells and spirals in nature and discovered the Fibonacci spiral. The more I researched the more captivated I became. It was then that I realised Gram’s painting was going to take quite a few Sundays of focussed artwork.

  When the natural light in the studio dimmed, I closed my laptop and my sketch book. But that was okay. I knew the image I needed to create for Gram would come and draw in my mind in its own time. The brain is ingenious in the way it works.

  I cast my eyes back over my red pieces of artwork. I was more than satisfied with what I had achieved. I pulled out my phone and photographed them. Dr Jones would love to analyse what I had done.

  I could even imagine her almost breaking into a smile.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dear Xander,

  The ballet was absolutely enchanting.

  Swan Lake was the first ballet I saw as a child,

  but watching it as an adult was pure ecstasy.

  A passionate thank you from Gram and me.

  xx Andi

  I folded the floral paper in half and wrote Xander’s name on the front. I slid it into my work apron to put into the bouquet of flowers in Gram’s bicycle basket when I went out the front to refresh the flowers.

  I placed a gerbera in my hair. Today was a good day. Gram was here and she was on top of her game. The store seemed to take a big breath of fresh air and release a combination of relaxing meditation notes to enhance the flowers, like a magical mist had descended the entire store, like Tarrin’s “more”.

  ‘Flowers, tea, coffee or books?’ The words rolled off my tongue like poetry. The young man standing before me was the colour of bubblegum pink—happy and caring.

  ‘Flowers ... I’m meeting my girlfriend’s parents.’

  ‘Are the flowers for your girlfriend?’

  ‘No. For her mother. I want to make a good impression.’

  ‘Aaah ... that’s a lovely gesture. This girl must be important to you, then.’

  ‘Yes. She’s the one.’

  ‘The forever one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I smiled at him. Young love. ‘Flowers and chocolates, then?’

  ‘Depending on the price.’

  ‘How much were you thinking of spending?’

  ‘$25.’

  ‘I have the perfect combination. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I took quick steps to the freshly prepared popular flower arrangements, then grabbed a box of handmade chocolates. It came to $32.00.

  I returned to the sales desk. ‘Smell these flowers. They are divine. Your future mother-in-law will adore them.’

  I watched as he moved his face closer to the flowers and inhaled. I laughed inwardly at his response. It was a typical male response to the perfume of flowers. He just didn’t get what all the fuss was about. He blinked, four times, quickly.

  ‘And these are chocolates to die for,’ I added. ‘That’s $22.00 please.’

  He raised his eyebrows when I said the price, then handed over the money.

  ‘Good luck. Be yourself and you’ll be fine!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Happy to help.’

  He walked out of the shop with a quick step. I wondered for a moment whether I should have recommended wine instead of chocolates. But no. His fumbling indicated he was a chocolate gift type of guy. He wasn’t smooth and sophisticated to gift wine. Yet. But it would come as he matured.

  ‘Landi?’ Gram called.

  ‘Yes, Gram,’ I called back, then walked to her.

  ‘Let’s have a pot of tea. I have something to tell you.’

  I frowned at her, wondering what needed to be said over a pot of tea. ‘Here, or at a table?’ My question was answered when Darcy arrived with a tea tray. He placed it on the workbench, being careful not to make a sound with it, and poured two cups of tea.

  ‘Thank you, Darcy,’ Gram said.

  ‘What she said,’ I said to Darcy, and gave him a pat on the back. He held a stern face and raised an eyebrow at me. I raised an eyebrow and shot it back at him.

  Gram waited for Darcy to leave. What was it she had to say that he couldn’t hear?

  ‘I don’t need you at the store anymore.’

  ‘What?’ My heart rate picked up.

  ‘I’m completely better. Cured in fact!’

  ‘How?’ I narrowed my eyes at her.

  ‘The meds are working. I feel like my old self, before the disease started. I have so much energy I could run a marathon!’

  ‘Gram ... what meds are you on?’

  ‘Aah ... betahistine dihydrochloride and prednisone. It’s the cure!’

  I took a sip of my tea and studied Gram. This was not her true self before the disease. This Gram had too much energy. Was it the steroids? It didn’t matter. She was feeling one hundred percent better and that’s what mattered.

  ‘Once you finish your cup of tea, Andi, you’re dismissed!’
Gram beamed me a smile.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Anxiety rattled through me, and I controlled my breathing.

  ‘Absolutely. You’ve devoted enough of your time here for me. Go back to your career. I can call Charlotte if the store gets too busy.’

  I picked up the florally decorated cupcake Darcy had placed on our plates and took a small bite and frowned. ‘I’ll miss you, Gram.’

  ‘And I’ll miss you, Landi.’ Gram walked around the workbench and wrapped her arms around me.

  My throat felt scratchy and my eyes watered. When I woke this morning, I had no idea I would be saying goodbye to Gram, Gramps and my parents today. But elation soon flooded out the gloom. Gram was feeling well, and I could return to the job I loved the most in the whole world.

  ‘Let me sell one more bouquet of flowers, and then I’m happy to go,’ I said. I needed to feel like I had earned my leave.

  Gram stepped back from me and placed her hand on the side of my face. ‘I’d love you to do that!’ She walked to the other side of the workbench and took her fill of tea and ate her cupcake, while I finished mine.

  I walked to the sales desk and waited. A dark-haired man walked towards me. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, burgundy tie and brown leather shoes. A businessman, I would guess. He was the colour of navy blue: knowledge, power, and seriousness.

  ‘Flowers?’ I asked. He didn’t look like a tea or coffee drinker, nor a book reader for that matter, so I didn’t say the rest of the usual question.

  ‘Please,’ he said, then ruffled about in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. ‘Hello ...’ He turned his back to me while he conversed. Then he faced me again. ‘Yes, flowers please.’

  ‘Would you like a prepared bouquet, or we can create you something special to suit your flower landscape.’

  ‘Flower landscape?’

  ‘Yes ... you know ... flowers for the office, to get well ...’

  He smiled at me and started to nod his head. ‘I see. My flowers are for a marriage proposal.’

  I smiled and raised my eyebrows. ‘How exciting!’

  He looked down with a grin. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Go over to Fleur at the workbench to your left, and let her know that you need flowers for a marriage proposal. She’s the best. Your girlfriend won’t be able to say no when you present her with a Flowers for Fleur bouquet.’