Behind His Lens(26)

I’ve painted ever since. I don’t have a strict medium, everything collides together and usually I let the work lead me. Each time I start a new painting, my heart beats wildly and my limbs feel light. My stomach quivers and a high spreads through my veins like a drug.

But then, every time I finish, I step back, tilt my head, and feel the spiraling downfall carry me back to the darkness of my life. Every single time I finish a piece, I think the same thing. “This is all there is?”

But then, I begin anew, grabbing a fresh canvas and racing for the next high.

…

Mrs. Jenkins came by earlier, but I brushed off her left-over coffee cake and told her I still wasn’t feeling well. I stayed in bed and skipped my morning run. I can’t help but replay last night in my mind. I was tipsy when we got to the bar and those shots pushed me over the edge. Yet, sadly, I still remember everything. I remember practically throwing myself at Jude. What guy watches a girl strip and then leaves? Every time I think about it a new wave of nausea hits me. He could see the sadness beneath the thin layer of makeup. That’s why he left. Why would he want to be with someone as messed up as I am?

Naomi called me last night and a few times this morning. I know she’ll be over soon if I don’t respond to her texts. We’ve been friends long enough for her to see me when I’m low, but for some reason I just want to file away last night in the recesses of my mind. It’s embarrassing and I’m sure I’ll have to see Jude again if Naomi and Bennett are serious about each other. That thought makes me dip my brush into the paint I’d mixed earlier and spread it harshly across the canvas.

I have a splitting headache, but I don’t take any of the aspirin Jude left me last night. I relish the pain; I used it when I chose the brushes. I used it when I mixed the acrylic paint until I ended up with a deep, red hue. It’s beautiful and sad, like a wilting rose. I’ve heard every single argument concerning whether or not abstract painting can be considered art, and to be honest, I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks. I stood in front of my first Rothko painting when I was eighteen years old and it broke my heart. It tore at the sadness that I felt every day the summer my father died. I sat on the floor of the museum with my knees tucked toward my chest and wept.

I didn’t go to his funeral.

Staring at that painting was the first time I’d acknowledged his death anywhere outside of Dr. Francis’ office.

Rothko’s canvas stood floor to ceiling, painted a solid black. There was nothing else, no abstract elements, no faces or shapes. Just a dark, rich black. The spotlight in the museum highlighted the texture of the paint on the canvas, the way Rothko streaked the lines. The brush strokes were visible, alive, organic, and they spoke to my soul.

I let myself feel more that day in the cold museum than I did in a year and a half of therapy.

…

“Open this door, Charley, or I will bust through it. I’m serious,” Naomi calls as she hammers on the door to my apartment. It’s almost seven at night and I’ve avoided talking to her all day. I shot her a text saying all was well, but of course she saw through it.

I hover on the other side with my cheek pushed against the cold wood. “Naomi, I’m fine.”

“Charley, let me in,” she begs, and her voice cuts through me. I don’t mean to make her sad; I don’t mean to make anyone sad. This is why I wish she’d just leave. I hate being the friend that brings everyone down. It’s not fair that she’s always the happy one trying to cheer me up.

A second later a slip of paper slides under my door, hitting my foot. I glance down to read her chicken scratch. Naomi + Charley = Bad Bitches for life (no exceptions, not even on the sad days).

I let a smile break through the cloudiness and unlock the door. Dr. Francis said part of recovering was choosing to be happy, to allow people in and to accept their kindness.

“I’m doing it for your sake, Naomi,” I say as I crack the door open and let her walk past. “Can’t you see that you should be sexing Bennett right now, not hanging out with me?”

I shut the door and whip around to look at her, but she completely ignores my logic. A timid smile dots her face and she reaches out to show me the contents of her intervention. I cup a hand over my mouth, trying to quell my emotions. She has all the essentials because she’s amazing, and I love her. It’s that simple. I have to accept her kindness because she gives it willingly and without strings attached.

“Dinner,” she says, holding up a white cardboard box, “Obviously pizza because what else would you want?”