Teach Me Dirty(127)

Most of the time I’d end up in the alleyway at the back of Helen’s, and I’d ache to charge in there and lift her into my arms and take her away and put this stupid situation to bed, once and for all.

But she’d hate me for it, maybe not now, but someday. Just another example of someone making her decisions for her, telling her what’s right and wrong and insisting she toe the line.

She was worth so much more than that.



I thought it would be a matter of days before she saw sense and asked me to hand in that letter, but days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a serious lack of coursework. It just added another colour to the rainbow of anguish that Helen Palmer caused me in those horrible weeks.

Professional concern.

The icing on the f*cking cake.

***

Helen



“How’s your art going, Helen?” Mum’s voice was a whisper at dinner.

I didn’t even look at her. Only shrugged.

“I haven’t seen you paint anything for a while, love.”

“I’ve nothing to paint.”

She sighed. “Oh, love, there must be something.”

“Art comes from my soul,” I said. “And mine is broken.”

Dad left the table with a scowl. Again.



I’d hear them arguing late at night. Mainly about my coursework.

We have to do something, George! This isn’t right!

She’ll f*cking snap out of it, Angela. She has to f*cking snap out of it!

They really didn’t know me at all.

***

Mark looked tired, and drained, and sad.

He knelt at my side and my skin prickled. It hurt.

“You need to paint,” he said. “I need an assessment piece before the break.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think I can.”

And he was angry, too. His anger was under his breath, not like Dad’s that blew and bellowed and roared. Mark’s anger was quiet and full of sadness.

“You wanted me to help you through your exams. That’s what you said you wanted. But I can’t, you’re not letting me.” His whisper was so harsh, so raw. He looked around the room and as usual nobody was listening. Just as well. “What good is all this if you’re going to fail anyway? Just let me hand in the f*cking letter, Helen. For pity’s f*cking sake, just let me hand it in.”

I shook my head.

“Christ, Helen. I have no f*cking words.”

I thought he’d given up on me, that even Mr Roberts had limits of patience, but he hadn’t. The others left at the end of the afternoon, but he blocked me off. He blocked me off with his hands around my wrists and he didn’t even care who saw. He marched me back to my seat and he got me the most ridiculous sized canvas and the sheer whiteness of it broke me. I cried all over again.

“I have to go! My dad!”

“Fuck your stupid father,” he hissed. “Jesus, Helen, you have to f*cking paint something. For God’s f*cking sake, Helen, please.”

He took my hand in his and it was the most beautiful pain in the world. He set out my palette and he pulled up a stool and he waited.

“I can’t…”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you can.”

“There’s nothing there…”

“You have to feel it. If you can’t beat it then use it. Fucking hell, Helen, just use it. Take that pain and feel it, and make it real, and use it. Please, God, just use it.”

It was something in his eyes. Some sliver of hope. Of desperation.

I looked beyond the pain to the happiness before it, and it made my gut hurt.

“My heart is broken…”

“You and me both, Helen. You and me both.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Please, God, just let me hand in the f*cking letter.”

I looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in weeks because I hadn’t dared. He looked drawn, and miserable, and his hair looked more grey, as though I’d sucked the life out of him by trying to preserve it.

Oh the irony.

“You don’t want to leave this job,” I said. “You don’t want to leave this town, either.”

“Give it a rest,” he said. “I’d leave both in a f*cking heartbeat. Please, Helen, just paint something. I don’t care what it is. Anything. Just make it mean something. Make this mean something.”

But it did mean something. It meant everything.

“You have no idea how hard this is,” I whispered. “How hard I have to try to be strong.”

His eyes were dark, and angry. “Yes. Yes, I do. I know exactly how hard this is, Helen, because I’m feeling it, too. I’m feeling every-f*cking-thing. Now paint, or let me hand in this letter, or both. Both would be good. Really f*cking good.”

I picked up the paintbrush and splotched a big streak of purple, and it reminded me of his brush on my skin.

It sizzled and stuttered and cried.

And I did, too.

Angry lines, sad lines, crazy, chaotic lines that made no sense, until they did.

It was me. A sad version of me, my heart in my hands, bleeding. It bled down the canvas.

And it was good.

I hated that it was good, but even when I tried to make it bad it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop being good.