Why She Drowned [1]

the eighth gulp

• viii. •

CLAIR COULD NOT REMEMBER WHEN HER room had turned into an art studio, reflective glass covering her cherub wallpaper (and hiding the indents she'd left behind on a particularly bad day). Her large bed had been downgraded to a lone, single mattress as the side of the room with her bedside drawers and dresser, atop spotted bed sheets draped over her flooring.

She was putting away another easel to the side when her closed door silently slid open. She could feel the cold stillness before she heard it in her aunt's voice.

"Your room is abhorrent," said the chilly voice, "and is an absolute mess. How can I allow you to clutter all your belongings here like this?"

Clair let her paintbrush swirl clear onto her paper. "I know that the empty rooms in this house are not for me. And no one ever comes in here."

Clair held back the wince when her aunt leaned into her space, nails digging into her shoulder. "What did I say about smart talking, sweetheart?" Clair twists her mouth at the pain. "I'm neither your parent nor your caring foster parent."

Her aunt stepped back, a broad smile plastered on. "Now, tidy up. Hurry on."

"I'll clean it up every night," Clair said quickly, the defiance absent from her voice. "I won't even leave a trace behind, I promise, just let me do it here. I don't have any other place to."

"What about those ridiculous classes you have at school?" her aunt said undeterred. "You're just trying to get out of cleaning your own mistakes, aren't you? I won't have that."

When Clair didn't respond fast enough, her aunt's heeled boots kicked one of her easels. Clair watched silently as the canvas cracked slightly through the middle, dust bellowing around the portrait. Her aunt continued, already swiping away the excess off of her shoes. "I won't ask again. Clean this shit up before I place you in the basement next time."

Satisfied, her aunt left the room behind, taking with her the serenity of a creative person in their environment. Creativity was no good in a practical world, Margaret believed, and it was her duty to make sure delusions didn't hinder her niece. They were family, after all.

Speaking of family, Clair had already cleared out her room. Her hands were wet from the paint and ink and tears that flowed out of her like a squeezed paint bottle. Streamed as she picked her imperfect canvas with trembling fingers, tracing out the outline of her father until she'd memorized it.

Afterwards, she quietly placed it under her mattress, allowing herself to forget the family she'd once had and start learning the one that left her more than broken easels and dreams.

[ • ∞ • ]