Caged

Fall

   

There's something exhilarating about bloody red. I keep myself at ease, as this particular painting requires patience.

My eyes squint. Breathe, Chloe. The brush, heavy between my fingers, swims across the canvas. The stool under me stills, unmoving and anxious as my bottom lip takes shelter behind my top front teeth. Compared to my usual projects, the work of art is a dwarf. My completed paintings in the past towered over me. Now they're stored away at the high school.

Since my father decided the garage would make an ideal spot to work out his midlife crisis by forming a band, I lost my work space.

I sign the corner of the canvas and drop the goopy brush into a spattered jar. The milky water inside ripples into crimson, tinting the liquid like smoke. I then leave the room and close the door behind me. Standing outside, my hand lingers at the knob while I cover my eyes. I need a fresh reveal. I swing the door open and uncover my face, peering through my fingers surveying my work. The colors blend perfectly, forming a mystical image of a burning sun falling behind a hyper-realistic ship sailing over the water's surface. It's actually quite stunning. Sometimes I surprise myself. I stand at the door tiptoeing over the detail. I can see every flaw in a rushed swoop here, a loss of confidence there.

Thumping bass vibrates under my feet, followed by a god awful wailing. My father must be 'practicing'.

"Should we tell him?" My mother says behind me. Her thin arms wrapping a woven laundry basket with bleached towels, all folded with specific measure. "I don't know if my ears can handle another Bohemian Rhapsody rendition." She grins.
"Maybe we should." I glance back at the painting inside my room. "I think he might make the paint peel right off."

She steps closer to peek into the room. "Oh." Her voice breathy, she places the basket on a table in the hallway and takes soft steps toward the easel as if it were asleep and she doesn't want to wake it. "This is fantastic, Clo." Her hand holds her chest as other fingers linger just above the drying paint.
"Thanks, mom." my cheeks burn pink. Below our feet my father's pitchy, off key voice blares into the microphone while he stumbles to keep his fingers in place on guitar strings. I imagine the neighbors stuffing cotton balls, their fingers, a freshly sharpened pencil; anything in their ears to drown out the sound.

"Oh, Z's here. He's in the kitchen." She informs me, grabbing the laundry basket and breaks off the hall into her room. She's always on the hunt for something dirty to clean, or something to clean again.

Zen meets me at the bottom of the stairs, his grease stained fingers stuffed into his ears.
"I think he's getting better!" He nods sarcastically. "I think my brain is bleeding." He laughs as I playfully punch his arm.

We find ourselves down the street at his house, far away from my father's ear assaulting singing. Well, a few houses down, but still out of earshot.

"So it's finished?" Zen pops a Cheeto into his mouth. His fingers come back dusted in orange powder.
"It is." I swallow my chip, and reach into the large bowl stationed between us, and grab another.
"You know you're a real artist, right?" He chews. His arm bends at the elbow, supporting his head. "You're not going to turn into one of those artsy chicks in college who cuts all of their hair off and leaves nothing but the bangs, are you?" He teases.

"What?" A sarcastic gasp giggles out of me. "And lose all of this?" The length of my hair tickles my waist. "I'd die before I cut my hair off." I laugh.

Terrible dating shows turn into hours sitting on Zens living room couch.
"Is it time?" He asks, as I look at my watch.
"I think so. The paint should be dry by now."
Zen shuts the tv off and checks the house for upraised light switches before leaving.
"What?" he shrugs at the sight of my tight line lips. "My dad fusses about the power bill."