I Need You Now

Part 1: Painting Flowers

Painting Flowers

February

I stared at my wrist, the faint line travelling a crooked, gentle curve. Swallowing thickly I remembered the colour it had been back then, how I’d watched and counted as the crimson beads had bubbled to the surface and trailed like snakes into my palm.

One.

Two

Three…

I felt the goose bumps rising on my skin and blinked myself into the present, forcing the sickening image out of my mind, but I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the scar. I saw my door open across the room and my mother poked her head round the door. I jumped, quickly thrusting my arm back underneath my sleeve and I stared at her blankly. She tried to stop herself flinching as she met my cold gaze, but I saw.

“Come on, love.” she called her voice gentle but I could see the lines of weariness ageing her face and growing steadily in her eyes. “It’s your birthday.” she tried to reason.

“No it’s not.” I tried to keep my voice smooth but I could hear the sharp, brittle edge to it. My mum frowned at me disapprovingly, growing more frustrated by the second.

“Of course it is, love. It’s February the 15th. I know my own daughters birthday!” she chuckled and I gripped the blanket beneath me, my knuckles going even paler white at her defensiveness.

“No,” I said, “it’s not my birthday.” My mother’s frown was no longer inquisitive. “I celebrate my birthday with Adam.” I could feel the tension radiating around the room at the sound of my best friend’s name. “Today is not my birthday.” I added quietly, securing my point. She left in silence.

I settled back against the hard edge of the windowsill and twisted round to stare at the harsh orange light beaming through the glass. I reached my fingertips out and touched it, the smooth surface icy cold beneath my touch – or maybe that was just me.

“Adam,” I whispered. “Come back to me.” I stared at that streetlight until my vision went blurry and all I could see was a bright orange haze. And through that colour all I could see was the birthday cake Adam had made me last year; a pumpkin, carved out of cake and smothered in fondant icing. He’d made it so we could boycott Valentine’s Day, the eve of my turning fifteen, and watch horror movies and Tim Burton cartoons.

I never had particularly liked horror films, my mind always saved them for late at night, when I was most vulnerable, to pull out the images and scare me out of sleeping. I watched them for Adam though. And I wouldn’t have gotten nightmares anyway – we stayed up all night talking and laughing, drawing random little scenarios in the sketchpad he always had to hand. And when – if ­ - we fell asleep, I’d always wake up to find his arm slung casually across my stomach. Adam was my home.

He’d drawn me that night as well, our last birthday together. He’d lit a candle and drawn me by firelight. Most of the sketch was in shade of course, but he always made my eyes bright, like I was laughing – then again, with him I usually was.

I pulled that drawing out from the picture frame it was hidden in, a year after its creation, and held it carefully, trying not to snag the delicate edges of the paper. I looked at the beautiful strokes of pencil he’d made, the image bright and vivid even without colour. But, staring at the drawing, spots of red started to enter my vision, droplets at first, easy to blink away. But the more I stared at that gorgeous fragment of memory, the thicker the red got, a trickle then a stream, flowing past my eyes and splattering the paper. I scrunched my eyes shut, blinking hard to press the pictures back and shake some sense into myself, but when I opened them again it was still there. I looked to my wrist and saw the wound was open again and bleeding more than ever. I watched the drawing of myself fade under the deep oily darkness and felt something scream inside me.

 Not again.

I scrunched the paper up, it was ruined now. I threw it across the room, not looking for where it landed, just listening for the thud as it fell to the ground and skittered away.

Hissing slightly through my teeth, I glanced back down at my wrist, expecting to see the worst. But the cut wasn’t open anymore. I had to look hard to find it, that faint, pale white line that told my darkest moment. I turned my arm over, but there was no sight of blood, no open wound. There were no blood splatters on my sheets or my hands. It was clean – like it had never been there. Screwing my eyes up I rubbed at my temples and forced myself not to shriek out loud. I got up, pushing myself away from my bed and tiptoed across the room, suddenly anxious of what I might find. I spotted my drawing, a crumpled mess of paper that had dropped down under the light switch. I picked it up, careful not to hold it tight, and unravelled the sharp creases until it was flat. With the lights out, I could only see by the glare off the streetlight, but even by that, there was nothing to see. I quickly flipped the switch, wincing as the yellow light filled the room, striking my eyes hard. But still, there was nothing there, just pencil marks and deep, ugly creases. I flipped the paper over, searching for any sign that I was not completely losing my mind, but I found nothing.

Defeated, I dropped the paper back where I found it, switched the light back off and slid back across to my bed so I could collapse onto the mattress and try to stop feeling the hole in my chest. I curled myself up, hugging my knees to myself in an attempt to hold myself in one piece. I felt the slight ache smouldering inside my chest and whimpered quietly. I cradled my wrist protectively against my chest as I stared into the dim light of my room and longed to feel his arms around me.