Crazy Things From My Mind

Flowers - Idea

The inky drawing of a flower starts to bloom on my wrist, detail coming to life with every stroke of the pen. Petals curling upward to a point and leaves sprawling out behind it haphazardly—no two alike. Shadows fall across the flower and depth stops becoming something of imagination and instead turning into reality. Salty blood runs over my tongue as I chew my lip, my forehead wrinkling.

Pages turn around me but I block out the rustling, focusing instead on the flower—my lone friend. My anchor from the sweeping tides of hiraeth.

A jagged line slashes through the middle of the flower and I jerk my head to the side, shooting a waspish glare at Helen. She smirked and pointed at my textbook, still sitting closed on my desk, its shining cover mocking me.

My pen drops to the desk with a clatter and I draw the jeering culmination of numbers and squiggly lines toward me, flipping it open to the page number that was scrawled across the whiteboard in drunkenly sloppy handwriting. Draw later, grape. I could hear dad's voice in my head, along with the clattering of dishes that we clean together every evening. For now, grab onto the education we're paying for. Paying for. That's always what it comes down to.

I heave a sigh off my chest and pick up my pen, jotting down the first question in my math book and staring at it blankly for a few seconds. Blank page, blank mind, blank look. Fist equation written, first thought conjured, first expression mastered. I shake my head, snatching up my calculator and punching in the numbers. Soon the bell will ring, and I can just get out.

A blank canvas calls me.

The flower on my wrist is smudged now—ink petals and leaves turning into wisp-like smoke; curling away and disappearing into nothing. Vanishing with the day. The stray streak of black across the middle of the drawing stands out the clearest—a mockery of hard work's ruin being the most permanent.

Talking and laughter swirls around me as I shoulder my way to my locker, waiting behind the tall girl—Mya?—whose locker is above mine. She mutters an apology and I repeat the words that are our only communication, 'No problem,' and drop down to start fiddling with the stubborn lock as she hurries away. Same mundane part of life, again and again.

I shove my textbooks into the locker with one hand, holding the rest of them back with the other. Dragging out a thick book, I back away from the chaos in a box, kicking the door closed. A hand with a ring grabs onto my elbow, guiding me back to the clear area with a few tables scattered like birdseed over the cement, complete with students in grey flocking like pigeons.

Helen's girly voice breaks through my hazy curtain of thought, piercing my mind like an unwelcome ray of sunlight in the early hours of the morning. "—Should totally enter the next fashion design competition. Then you may actually become, well..." I glance sidelong at her as she trails off, her red hair splashing against her cheek. "Interesting?"

I let out a huff of breath and brush her hand away. "Thanks a lot Helen." I punctuate the sentence with an eye roll. "I'm pretty sure I'm okay though."

She opens her mouth to continue, but I turn and hurry down the stairs to the art room, pushing the door open and inhaling the scent of paint and graphite. Home.

My fingers trail along the white walls, feeling the air bubbles in the sealer and the cracks from age. Different projects and half finished art works lean against walls and lie sprawled out on tables. I pick up a pencil and roll it between my fingers, feeling the coolness permeate my skin, despite the heat of the tears rolling down my cheeks.

Time to draw. Clear things out. Empty my mind.

Petals flake off my skin and onto the paper, somehow less vibrant and real than they were before. But somehow, my emotions echo through the simple image—whether it's by the tear smudged lines or the melancholy whispers of the room around me, I don't know.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and my hand drifts down to pull it out, mouthing the words a moment before reading them.

-- Want me to pick you up again for coffee?

I hesitate for a moment, before replying my normal, yes, thanks, to Jaide's question. Why did you hesitate? You always say yes. Always. Routine is the way of life.

I rub my hands off against my skirt and push my chair back. Snatching up my bag and sliding it over my shoulder, I head for the door. A strand of honey coloured hair falls over my eyes and I swipe it back, tucking it behind my ear. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, and I don't even bother looking; the text message, stellar, see you then, is fairly easy to recall.

The usual chaos of the school has died down, leaving me in a setting that borders ethereal. The absence of noise and people seems to make it all the more loud, and all the more busy. Memories press around me as Jaide walks in, a distant smile spreading over his face. "Come on Grape."

I walk up beside him and he falls in step with me, companionable in silence.

Only the gentle breeze accompanies us as we walk through the autumn leaves to the small shop by the edge of the forest. Only the warmth of coffee and friendship hovers over us as we sit and watch people pass by on our bench. Only the chirping of birds acts as music in the otherwise still afternoon.

Only the buzz of a text message from Helen is enough to break down the walls I had carefully built up around my heart over the years—along with a dam of tears.