Mess

Chapter One Part 3/3

I lay soundlessly in my bed, thinking. I peer up at my blank, white ceiling. This ceiling is my canvas—whenever I can’t deal with the myriad of horrific struggles constantly being propelled at me anymore, I simply paint a mental picture.

Sometimes, I paint Dylan and me, us being together. There’s this one recurring image I envision of us sitting atop the levelled and easily-accessed roof of his house. This is because it actually did happen, and looking back, that was the pinnacle of it all. My happiness was at it’s zenith, and on that one alluring night, everything within me felt balanced. My equilibrium practically oozed contentment and spiritual balance, and I’ll never forget how it felt. As much as I try to recreate that feeling, I never come close enough. My fantasies are far too vast to match up with real, the present, and the damned.

We had wind blowing in our hair, a gourmet picnic beside our legs and I was in his arms as we engaged in fruitful badinage and stole moments to look up at the stars. Throughout the ten months I’d dated Dylan, that was by far the best memory.

I also paint Sean and me (my boyish dad whom I call by his name [because it apparently makes him feel young]). See, we have this ongoing fetish for Italian food, and every Friday night we order pizza, or cook some spaghetti bolognese, lasagne even. A few weeks ago, Sean and I were in an upper–class neighbourhood and we came across this cosy little Italian restaurant called Martello’s. He promised me that one day we’ll dress up like really swanky posh people for a night, go there, and just forget about everyone else. I often like to paint that.

But mostly, I paint my mom and I. We used to go to the theatre a lot. She was a well-paid stage manager in a few Broadway productions in los Angeles, meaning she was away a lot, but also meaning she got frequent free tickets or discounts. And this made up for the lost time. I’ve seen The Lion King with her about eight times, and I never get tired of it. That was our thing. We always used to sing along brazenly to the Circle of Life and not care when someone in the audience would turn around. We’d have so much fun, I’d do anything to be with her again.

My commemorating thoughts cause me to smile but I frown again once I realise that two out of three of these people who make me happy are gone. Piercing tears start anew in my eyes, running down the side of my face and towards my ears so I sit up, sniffing and wiping my tears away and I briefly remember something my mom had said to me once: pain is only temporary. I do hope she’s right. I grab the picture that I have of her and me on my nightstand and hug it tightly, trying to mentally picture her holding me.

Why’d you take her, universe?

My eyes are sore and puffy from crying, so I decide to close them. Then unanticipatedly, I’m asleep.

*****

I wake up. And for a fraction of a second I feel normal, okay. Until it crushes me and elicits from me an indescribable emotional pain. By it I mean the bane, the ongoing bane threatening to destroy me.

I relive every single detail of what happened yesterday, yes, including the feeling of my heart being crushed to oblivion. I sigh mournfully and sit up, pouting at my expense. I pick up my phone, acknowledging that it’s Tuesday. Tuesday. School. There is no way I’m going.

Then my eyes widen when I realise I have seven missed calls, crap. Evie.