Warm water splashed and swirled against my body as I hummed a bittersweet tune. My right arm hung at my chest, shielded by a plastic sleeve. Doing everything with one limb was a true trial, but I was managing in some fashion. Droplets of water danced down my back as I turned, facing the shower wall.
I ceased my melody.
Why does something feel so off? I had convinced myself that I was coping well with my accident. I had forced myself to believe the gaps in my memory did not bother me, and that I was joyful. I could keep lying like this to protect myself... or face my reality.
Instinctively, I balled up my right fist and–
My hand didn't budge. I gazed at it in heartbroken sorrow.
The truth is...
I fell against the shower door with a sharp breath of pain, allowing my body to sink downward with my heart.
✎
The sun was painfully bright in the morning.
My days at home from then on until the first of school had passed without interest. I had spent the days entwined in the reassuring arms of cadaver literature found in my old bedroom. Arianna had doted upon me, her gentle, teasing touch filling me with thoughts of my mother.
I recalled my mother and father playing with me as a child, my hazy older sister lifeless in the background. A traumatic event somewhere along the way had taught her the crippling nature of fear, and it glistened in her blue eyes as she studied the games we enjoyed from afar. Those eyes were hollow– lifeless. Arianna's eyes were light and affectionate. She and this sister were certainly strangers to each other.
The stranger in question knocked on my door with a soft rap, opening it and peeping in through the crack.
"You're up. Good. How are you feeling? Today's the day."
I shrugged.
"Well, don't be too excited about it, Nannette.", she laughed, her pet name for me rolling amusedly off her tongue like a glass marble.
I wasn't yet sure of my feelings on returning to school. I couldn't be comforted by the thought of class– after all, it was likely to be filled with pitiful glances and curious faces. The daunting mountain of destined makeup work was also a formidable task to face. However, Arianna's enthusiasm was practically viral.
As I donned my jet-black uniform pants, I glared towards the bra draped over the chair with the evil eyes of an archenemy. There were simply some things that could not be done one-handed. Swallow your pride, Annette, swallow your pride.
I called Arianna into the room with much chagrin, my embarrassment painted across my crimson cheeks. I nodded towards the chair, and Arianna helped me pull on and fasten my clothes with a wordless giggle.
The blue polo was brand new; I had apparently never heard of short sleeves before, and long buttoned sleeves were not friendly with full arm casts. It lent even more of an alien feel to the outfit. As Arianna left me to my devices, I wandered over to the bathroom mirror and analysed the reflection. This one, at least, was unblemished.
I contemplated putting on makeup but quickly came to the obvious conclusion that left-handed eyeliner just might be a disaster. Instead, I splashed bitterly cold water across my forlorn features. With a brush, I tamed my long sable-brown locks, the soft waves of my hair pouring down my back. Judging the overall look to be sufficient, I swiped a pair of glimmering studs from the stand and popped them in my earlobes. There. I don't look completely hideous now.
My alarm clock screeched its seven o'clock warning, and I flew out of the bathroom. Arianna knocked on the bedroom door before I had the chance to lay my left hand upon the handle.
"I'm coming out. I just need my shoes."
I opened the door, a naturally programmed rush in my blood. Arianna was posed beside it, grinning awkwardly at me; she was mocking my hurry with her sparkling eyes. I stared her in the face, curious as to the source of her personal humour.
"You don't need to be in such a hurry. I'm driving you to school." The words were spoken gently, as if admiring and excusing my mistake. I realised that she was holding a plate decorated with an enormous tower of lightly burnt toast slathered with altogether too much margarine. So much toast...
"Uhhh..." I had no words. I didn't possess any solid memories of Arianna the sister, much less Arianna the cook. Since my return, every night had been take-out or food I clumsily (but insistently) prepared. The usually innocuous army of bread intimidated me, and the melting yellow dripping down the sides was incredibly excessive. It came to me that she must have worked very hard to prepare a breakfast for me to eat on my first day back to school. Arianna, they're not pancakes... you don't stack them and put butter on top!
I mouthed a thank-you and carefully sat upon the side of my well-made bed (one of my more glamourous left-handed achievements). She watched, sapphire eyes wide and glowing, as I downed the half-edible toast.
"It's really good, but I need something to drink..." I choked this out between mouthfuls of greasy margarine and hard chunks.
Arianna nodded and went downstairs to scrounge up apple juice. She couldn't ruin that, surely? Note for next time: Arianna cannot cook.
When I was finished munching and crunching the skyscraper of oozing, burnt bread planks, the time read 7:22 AM. Twilight adored me from her perch next to the clock. Arianna took my glass from me after I tossed its remains down my sticky throat; she carried the dishes downstairs, beckoning me to follow her. I grabbed my matching indigo socks (another new wardrobe addition) and headed down in pursuit of my culinarily challenged sibling.
Arianna was washing her hands when I finished my leisurely descent down the grey carpeted staircase. The house was huge– entirely unfit for two people. A sudden flashback of surfing those stairs on a mattress delighted me.
I grasped my way back into the present day with a sigh, heaving a great huff as I bent over to pick up my black Mary Jane-style shoes. Pain needled at my right side and stole my breath, admonishing me once again that broken ribs did indeed hurt. The mending process was not yet far enough along to allow me sanctuary from occasional splashes of pain. I elected to put my socks and shoes on while safely seated on the sofa.
Arianna presented me with a dove-grey rolling bag; she had been her ever-helpful self and crammed my ingloriously monumental pile of schoolbooks into it. I wheeled the bag with my left hand out the door and to the driveway, where the Mini Cooper sat in anticipation. With the grey monster imprisoned in the back, Arianna at the wheel, and my awkwardly positioned self in the passenger seat, the Mini glided onto the road and towards my loveless second home.
✎
I was set upon by my joyful and worried friends upon my arrival, but I sent them on their way with a greeting and a few utterances of my being sleepy. I didn't really feel all that friendly. The vastness and suffocation of the building had sapped the life out of my mind and body, and I was terrifically aware of my reborn hatred for school. I was antisocial and gloomy in every class; the pitiful girl assigned to take two sets of notes for me was not awarded any thanks or compassion, and no one was permitted to sign my cast.
My last period, Art III, was the only glimmering jewel in the sadistic schedule. My teacher and confidant, Mrs. Clairoux, could surely rouse my dull heart. I couldn't wait to draw–
Draw nothing.
My right arm was still in a cast.
I solemnly dragged my heartbroken body to the art room, where lively colours and welcoming patterns did nothing to ease my suffering soul.
✎
That day, my class was polishing the pieces we were preparing for the next month's auction. Alone and neglected, a canvas for my oil pastel piece lay in the corner, nothing upon its surface but a lovelorn wish to be adorned in colour. Mrs. Clairoux clucked sadly at my unusable arm, lamenting that she didn't have anything I could do for the interim. I spent the whole time reading and doodling misshapen figures onto paper with my left hand.
When the class began to tidy up the pastels and canvases, Mrs. Clairoux floated over to my chosen solitary seat once more. She pursed her full lips and asked,
"What happened, ma bichette? Your... I cannot put my finger on it... a certain je ne sais quoi is missing. The air is black over here." Her gentle term of endearment failed to lighten the weight from my shoulders.
"It's just hard... not being able to do any art, I mean."
She sighed, a forlorn look in her stormy grey eyes.
"I know; I was most looking forward to your piece." Mrs. Clairoux's frown was more disappointed in fate than in her student, but I felt awful. In my charter school, every dollar for the Fine Arts department was a cherished one, and the loss of her piece par excellence would surely make the whole gallery less appealing.
Unfortunately, there was simply nothing I could do. I had, in my foolish lack of foresight, never bothered to master my left hand to any degree. Writing my name properly or even drawing a straight line was a Herculean endeavour; I felt reduced to a child who could not colour in the lines. As I shrugged miserably, Mrs. Clairoux seemed to be struck by an idea.
"Why don't you use this time to get practice with your other hand? It should be useful, non? You would be okay with doing some work with your left hand in class until you are better, hm? I could help you." Her line of inquiry wasn't altogether unreasonable, and I longed to do any kind of artistic activity. If it means I can keep drawing, I will do anything.
"That's actually a really good idea." My reply contained within it the most spirit I had expressed all throughout the morose day. She seemed pleased, a velvet smile gracing her features.
"So, next class, bring the sketchbook and we can work. That day is break day, so everyone will be relaxing."
Bring my sketchbook...
My sketchbook...?
At the word 'sketchbook', I heard a screeching come from some long-lost place. The loud sound began pealing in my ears, and the world melted away. My eyes no longer saw the art room, but instead watched suffering, horror, and agony. A skid, a crash, and the shattering of a cellphone that flew to the ground. The snap and crack of a delicate body slamming into the pavement. A drawn sunset dipped in the crimson blood of a broken china doll.
I lost myself, suddenly drowning in horrible memories, awash in desperate tears. Then, my mind broke, and I collapsed onto the table.
My sketchbook, and its treasured memories, had been stolen away forever by a cruel fate. Where had my casket of beloved drawings been taken? Had it been lifelessly tossed into a trash bin somewhere, blemished by my pitiful blood? I couldn't bear to even imagine it.
The losses I endured kept adding up, and I felt less and less human. With every new memory I gained, a fresh pain salted itself into my open wounds. The death of my two-year old sketchpad, to me, was the death of art itself; my useless right hand its funeral.
If my classmates shuffled out of the room awkwardly, I didn't notice. It took what felt like an eternity for Mrs. Clairoux to rouse me from my sobbing state, shock and worry plain in her countenance.
"Annette, what is wrong? Do you feel sick? Should I call the nurse?" She tenderly touched the top of my head, and I brought my weary eyes up to gaze into hers.
"I'm sorry. I just... My sketchbook... I lost it in the accident. I hadn't remembered until now..." I heaved in a deep breath to calm my shaky voice as I uttered these sad words. I stood up, not caring that my knees shivered and threatened to buckle. Her eyes quivered with emotion as she gave me a very cautious hug.
"I'm so sorry, ma bichette."
I nodded silently, waving my head to clear my thoughts. Standing back from the embrace, I whispered,
"Let's do the lessons tomorrow, okay?"
She simply patted my shoulder and gazed after me as I packed up my things and stumbled out the door.
✎
If Arianna was intrigued or worried by my silence, it did not show in her softly glowing face. She wordlessly took my cloudy grey bag, unceremoniously dumping it in the back of the Mini Cooper. I climbed into the passenger side with equal quietness, shrugging the seat belt over my chest with a tiny exhaled huff of dead air. As we started moving, she remarked only,
"Good afternoon, Nannette."
After this, the whole ride home was choked in an eerie silence as I pondered the state of my broken self.
Would I ever be whole again? I barely noticed as I drifted away on a sombre black cloud.
The mirror inside my mind now shone a self painted in grey, the edges of missing shards cutting into my pathetic flesh. Blood the colour of sorrow glistened where the holes had sliced my reflection. A cup of paintbrushes was strewn across the onyx floor of my inner world, as if thrown and left to die. Pitying them, I bent down to grasp one by the handle with my right hand. Ignoring the sear of fire that coursed through my arm, I extended my broken limb towards the tool of my salvation.
Finally, I reached the ground, and my right hand touched the brush. However, the hand failed to move or even twitch. The paintbrushes rolled away, laughing at my uselessness. Colouring pencils rained through the sky like needles, one lonely rose pencil stabbing my right hand through and pinning it to the ground. I felt no pain as I ripped it out with my left hand, instead awestruck by the river of black blood that mingled with the pink to form a dull red stream on the stone ground.
The car halted, and my eyes opened. Tears of the regular, nightmare-free variety dripped off of my tired eyes. A dream...
"We're here, Nannette. You all right?" Arianna's voice centred me back on reality. Suddenly, a question struck me.
"Arianna... if only my arm is broken, why can I move my shoulder, but not my hand?" I feared the answer that seemed to linger upon her lips as she turned her forlorn eyes my way. They flashed in harmony with the sibling of my memories, blindsiding me with the truth: Arianna really was my sister. Her face clicked into each of my memories, stunning me momentarily.
"I'm so sorry, Annette. I wasn't sure how to tell you this, and I was hoping you would recover more before I had to..." Arianna hesitated, her words escaping furtively rather than being released.
"The nerves in your right hand were damaged. The doctors aren't sure if it will recover properly, if at all."
Art's unmarked coffin was hurled into the ground.
I staggered into the house and up the stairs, numb. Clutching Twilight close with my left arm, I let tears rain into her plush midnight face.
Many thoughts ran tracks around my dazed conscious, chattering disheartening mockeries.
"You'll never use your right hand again!"
"So long, artistic genius!"
"You should just kill yourself."
I did my best to ward these thoughts off, but optimism had failed me. Of all the possible outcomes of the accident, this was the worst. The crippling thought of having only one functioning hand for the rest of my life was horrifying. I could, to a point, learn to use my left hand, but any activities that required two hands would elude me eternally.
No, with a life like this, I would be better off dead. My art had been my sole gift– my gem amongst plain rocks. Beauty, intelligence, and strength had not been my lot in life. I found my passion in painting, drawing, sculpting, folding. And these had been spirited away. The melancholy that had lurked in my chest since the accident took this opportunity to seize power, turning my world to monochrome.
I dragged my bleak vision across the room until it paused at a white bottle seated atop my bedside table. Hydrocodone. These painkillers had been prescribed to help me cope with the agony of my damaged ribs and arm. I had used them as a lifeline the first few days, taking them religiously, but the blurred world they locked me in quickly became as terrifying as the sharp, painful realm. This bottle was a stranded, unwanted symbol of the tragedy.
I reached for the relic, popped the top off, and upended it onto my sheets. Even the words within my thoughts were morose and dead as I counted. Eighteen pills. The normal dose is one.
For a brief forever, the capsules and I stared each other down. I lifted one up to my mouth, and a feeling of nausea washed over me. I dropped it back down just when Arianna knocked on the door.
"Not now." My voice was a jagged icicle, and I listened to her footsteps as she backed away.
I poured the pills back in the bottle, sealed the top, pulled open a drawer, and pelted the hydrocodone into the depths of darkness. Sleep lured me in, beckoning my aching body towards an equally traumatising nightmare. Dark shapes of torment danced around in my sleeping brain: animated drawings come to life and begging for mercy.
✎