Ruin Me

64. Soothe me

***

Mina stormed into art with a face like a thundercloud half ready to let out a down pour of rain and half ready to explode with lightning. I was too afraid to ask what had happened when she began aggressively collecting all the materials she needed and then began snapping paint onto a piece of card as if it was the root of all evil. I almost flinched for the paper as I watched her attack it so viciously with the decrepit school paintbrushes.

"Are you alright?" I asked tentatively when her stabbing of the paintbrush was distracting me too much and I was concerned she was going to rip a hole through her page.

"Not really no," Mina snapped, then her face softened instantly, "I'm sorry, I'm just ..," she threw her hands up unable to find the right word and sent red paint flicking across her paper on which the house she'd been brutalising now had a dotted red line across it. Mina blinked at it disbelievingly for a moment before she fell back into her chair defeated.

"What happened?" I perched on my chair next her trying to make my voice sympathetic.

"It's Connor," Mina huffed, "he's refusing to apologise and he's in the wrong and I can't handle it. I feel like we're going to break up," her voice trembled in the last line and her eyes swarmed with worried tears.

"How is he in the wrong?" I was clearly missing a big part of the story.

"I forgot you weren't there," Mina shook her head looking dazed, "a group of us went around Conor's on Saturday, we would've invited you sorry it's just that ..,"

"Mina," I cut her off quickly, "it's fine."

She smiled back weakly, "well Connor and the other boys had started drinking before we came and by the time we got there he was already pretty drunk and then he just kept going. He was being rude and ignoring me the whole night and then at one point I suggested he should stop and tried to take the can from his hands. He got so mad at me and started yelling in front of everyone. He said some really horrible shit, " Mina inhaled short sharp gasps as she attempted to keep her shaking voice from crying. I let her have a minute to breath before I spoke;

"And he hasn't apologised?"

"He didn't speak to me at all yesterday," Mina shook her head, "and when I saw him this morning he acted like we were fine, like it never even happened. Which I am not okay with, he was an asshole to me and I deserve an apology."

"Absolutely," I nodded furiously, "this doesn't sound like Connor though, he's usually so caring towards you."

"It was all the alcohol," Mina sighed heavily, "he passed out not longer after he yelled at me."

"Maybe the alcohol is the reason why hasn't apologised?" I suggested, my own experiences told me that alcohol could distort your memory, "maybe he doesn't remember?"

"How can he not, he was yelling right in front of everyone calling me horrible things," Mina spat out indignantly.

"Alcohol messes with you," I shook the memories away, "maybe he didn't realise how bad it was."

"I would've thought one of the boys would say something to him," Mina's voice was quiet now as she thought.

"You should speak to him, tell him how you feel. There's no point being angry at him if he doesn't know you are," I suggested reasonably, "it sounds so out of character for him and I guarantee once you explain he'll feel awful."

"He better," Mina hissed stabbing her paintbrush directly down onto her paper with venom. I watched her, trying not to show my bemused expression, in favour of a more empathetic one.

"Talk to him," I encouraged again, "you two care about each other a lot and that's worth something. Don't let miscommunication mess it up."

"Thanks," Mina looked at me her appreciation glowing in her eyes, a small devious smile began to turn up the corners of her lips, "what about you? Is communication working well for you?" A suggestive innuendo was heavy in her voice.

I rolled my eyes, "don't," I instructed waving my paintbrush at her threateningly, "or I'll flick red paint all over you."

"Okay, okay," Mina held her hands up with a laugh. I shook my head as I returned to the building I was painting, a tiny cottage with a thatched roof and ivy trailing up its sides, something straight out of the English countryside in a Dickens novel.

We both let the therapy of art take over us.