Ally Blaze paints away her turbulent life in New York City. With her deceased Mother locked in her memory, she travels to escape and create, away from her Father and his girlfriend.
When an unexpected destination with a haunting past greets Ally, sh...
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"Dad," I whispered through the crack in his doorway. A slender leg stretched over my Dad's body, but the only noise audible was the clinking of jewels on an anklet.
Vanessa Jo enjoyed collecting tacky foot decorations, almost as much as she claimed to enjoy my father's company. Vanessa was in the habit of gushing over shiny new toys, but never seemed to hang onto them particularly long. My Dad had been seeing her the best part of a year, yet she remained impartial to selective hearing when I had something to say.
"Dad," I uttered louder. I paid little attention to the fact their legs were intertwined with one another across an unmade bed. His job as a mail carrier and Vanessa's as a part-time hairdresser did not have physical demands leading to excessive, afternoon sleeping. "I need you to give me my plane ticket," I carried on. "I leave in six hours... otherwise I will be stuck here for the entire Christmas break."
These words trickled venom down Vanessa's ears, who woke without opening her expensive eyelash extensions. She moaned a tad, and I swallowed a laugh.
"Ally - fetch it - later..." she slumped back down. I heard my Dad yawn and asked who she was talking to. I was only the third and least important family member in the household.
"Nobody," she moaned carelessly.
I decided against storming into her room and ripping off her sleeping mask. I gazed down the hall at my scarlet suitcase, overflowing with mismatched sneakers, unwashed paintbrushes and my handmade jewellery which was already tangled up.
My Dad and I owned the smallest apartment on 356th Avenue. Yet, it seemed to be that our home was either a mess, or we were constantly losing things. This independent trip I was taking to Nashville re-affirmed that we had few life skills between the pair of us. I swore to him that I would never bare a child at nineteen like he did, not whilst I was learning how to cook or properly pack a large suitcase.
I unloaded it to begin again. My Dad usually helped me, and we would turn on his favourite 80's music. He spun me around the room until it was an hour until check-in time, and the top-floor neighbours came knocking to complain about the loud singing. However, I knew Vanessa wouldn't let that happen this time around.
I stuffed T-shirt's, shoes, shorts, my camera and all of my art supplies, until the case resembled an obese, thanksgiving turkey. Nevertheless, I managed to get it propped up and hauled down five flights of stairs after three hours. I glanced at my watch; 9pm. I had just enough time to begin marking out the latest addition to my art piece which I wouldn't be seeing for two months.
I heaved the canvas out from under my bed, and gazed at what I had already completed. It was aptly titled: Jemima Blaze, my Mother's name.
Yesterday I texturised my Mom's mass of dark, curly hair. The day before, I mixed the most vibrant shade of emerald green imaginable, and painted her eyes in the warmest, gentlest expression I could remember from when I was eleven. I had time to next mark out her thin, rosebud lips. She had a nervously charming smile. That's how I knew I was her daughter. She didn't like to put herself out there for all to see, especially not on a camera.
