The art block wasn’t empty but it would do. I dragged Hazel inside and we found a corner in which she could hide away in. It was the Monday morning after the fallout from the party and so far I’d gotten no solid details from her about what happened and I wasn’t planning on pushing her.
She had stalked into school at lunch time looking like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole as people stared and whispers began. The oblivious few that didn’t know of the weekend’s events were now being filled in behind shielded hands and titters rumbled across the hallway as “the little slut” walked by them.
I put down my bag and began to pull my supplies out; lying them down on the table and plotting how I was going to do this. I’d had the idea over weekend when I was considering how to best console my friend. I’d never been one for wise words, I wasn’t the wise person, but I knew what anger felt like and how anger needed to be vented otherwise it built up and erupted like lava when it wasn’t dealt with.
“I just want to go home!” Hazel whined and face planted against the high art tables which made a hollow thud that had to hurt.
“That would be letting them win and giving more people ammo to say it was your fault. You did nothing wrong – you have every right to walk around and not feel guilty! It’s that... that... thing that should be keeping his head down!” I grumbled as I recalled how earlier I’d overheard him telling the younger years how he got the black eye – somehow I don’t remember him ‘beating the crap out of Ben - to the point of unconsciousness’. The fact he would even brag about that was sick in itself.
“But it was my fault I...I...”
I stopped what I was doing and turned to her, a disparaging look crossing my face, “Hazel, I know it’s hard but... What actually happened that night?”
Hazel breathed in and then let out a shaky breath, tears stinging at her eyes and I knew whatever it was, had to of been bad. She folded her hands into her lap and she looked so innocent suddenly, a vulnerability that I didn’t even think it was possible for my shy and meek friend to show.
“When we got to the party Cassie just pointed to where the drinks were and just left me. I didn’t know anyone and I felt like a clown. The makeup I was wearing felt thick on my face and I wanted to wipe it all off and just crawl into bed there and then, but I was trying to prove myself to... to you.” She looked up shyly and I had to turn away. I couldn’t blame myself for this too.
“I went and poured myself a drink figuring if I got drunk then maybe it would be better. That’s how it always is in films right? I was struggling so some guy – one of Jason’s friends I think – offered to pour it for me. He turned away from me so I couldn’t see what he was making but - “
“Hazel,” I cut her off cautiously, “What did the guy look like? Did you catch his name?” A horrible suspicion washing over me.
She bit down on her lip, trying to remember. “No... I don’t know his name. But he was really tall... gingery hair... big build...”
I just gulped and nodded, allowing her to continue her story, figuring she might not be able to finish if she knew Antony Heyward had been the one to pour her drink. Antony Heyward, the guy with a reputation – all be it unproven – for spiking drinks at parties so someone ended up roofied. Joke or planned, I wanted to hunt him down and strangle him.
“I seemed to get drunk really quickly and it was like I wasn’t really there... Everything just got kind of blurry. My head was fuzzy and I didn’t have my glasses on so I couldn’t see anything properly either...”
She took in another breath and closed her eyes, I knew the images plagued her darkness too because she opened them just as quick with a shake of her head.
“I felt someone come and steady me. It was a male voice and he just whispered in my ear, ‘Hazel it’s ok, it’s just me’. Me didn’t tell me who has was though, but he seemed to know who I was so I just let him lead me somewhere, following blindly like a sheep to the slaughter.” She laughed pitifully at that.
“Wherever he took me and sat me down was soft. It felt like a bed and I was grateful that my mystery rescuer had brought me somewhere to lie down. I needed to sleep. Then all of a sudden it went dark, like the lights had been turned off. Then I felt something pressed on top of my body. I felt suffocated. I was scared so I screamed but he just put a hand over my mouth and whispered in my ear, ‘it’s ok’.” She shivered and I knew those words strung together would haunt her for a while to come – did the scars of something like that ever fade though?
“Suddenly he was kissing me and I let him. I don’t know why, I wasn’t thinking straight, it was weird like some out of body experience. Then... Then he started... doing things to me... taking off my clothes... touching me places that I...”
I folded my arms around her as she began to cry but she pushed against me and looked straight into my eyes confusion and terror washing her pale face.
“But I let him do everything. Don’t you see? It’s my fault! He didn’t force himself onto me because I just lay there and took it. It was like I was paralysed and couldn’t move and my head hurt and I was so, so tired... But I didn’t push him away. I brought it on myself.”
This was killing me. I was torn between telling my friend what I believed now was more the truth than ever. Either having her feared for the rest of her life about being drugged or letting her live in this guilt. Even if I told her about Ant’s reputation it didn’t give any conclusive proof that he did actually do it... It was just circumstance and hearsay. I was morally torn between saving my friend more pain and saving her from guilt, I didn’t know what to do. I would tell her, but not right now. Instead I continued with what I was doing.
I turned to Hazel, “Fill these up for me.” I stated, handing her a packet of balloons and three tubs of paint.
She looked confused but took them from my hand and started to fill them full of the running liquids. I’d chosen neon paints in electric yellows, greens and pinks that were now being poured into silver ‘Happy 80th Birthday’ balloons. I didn’t know what subconsciously made me pick those in the store; I thought I was just attracted to the silver colour. But then it had hit me like a tonne of bricks that Gram’s would have turned eighty later this week. Instead of making me sad, I smiled at the thought. It was like she was watching over me still and I felt a sudden closeness that I had missed since she’d died.
I focused now on propping my canvases against the wall, tacking up bits of newspaper behind them. I stared begrudgingly at my work as I remembered painting the original sketch. My hands had flown so freely as I released my pent up passion at the loss I had suffered. I remembered reaching for the black paint and covering the pure white paper with the bleakness and darkness I had felt. They were good but I finally understood what was missing now.
I had been right and so had Mrs Pascal; they looked two-dimensional because they were. The depressive canvases showed pain. The tragedy and loss and hurt and death and suffering were all evident in the intricate detailing that I had stayed up till three in the morning to perfect. But that was only one side of a coin. That was only focusing on the negative. And now I understood that life wasn’t like that.
I understood now that life was built with choices and every second of everyday we can choose where we go and what we do. Even when life is bleak and everything seems dark and black and white – we can choose a different route. I realised that maybe we cannot control the shadows of reality and the harsh truth that there is misery happening every day. But what we can choose, what we can control is how we deal with it. We can choose to stay positive. We can choose to be happy.
That was why my pictures were two-dimensional. Because they may have been covered in emotion but they lacked the greatest one of all; hope.
I took half the filled balloons from Hazel’s grasp and turned to her.
“Throw one.”
Her eyes widened in alarm, “But Lucy! Your pictures! You can’t just...”
“I said, throw one. Pretend they’re your problems you’re throwing away.” I replied calmly.
She pathetically chucked one, jumping as it barely hit the canvas and exploded, leaving a tiny pink splatter on the corner.
“That the best you got?” I challenged before launching one of mine at my work. Bulls-eye. It hit the centre and burst like a green firework across it. I started to laugh then, and threw another and another, before Hazel began to join in.
The canvas was completely ruined. I loved it. It was like an inky warzone. I felt like I had just given the world the middle finger, as if to say: are you ready for me?
We were in fits of laughter as the door opened behind us and in entered Mrs Pascal, furrowing at our hysteria.
“Well Lucy, it’s nice to see you’re starting to use colour, even if the results are...questionable.” She wrinkled her nose, observing the painting.
“I know!” was my only reply.
“Well you can’t very well enter this into your portfolio! They will laugh you out of London!” She shrieked in anguish. I laughed internally at her fears; knowing...hoping... I was about to quell them.
“Well actually I wanted to enter these...”
I gingerly reached over to my portfolio bag and pulled out two large canvases, laying them on the table. I looked at them proudly. It was my best work and I knew it and looking at Mrs Pascal’s face, how her eyes seemed to mist, I knew she agreed.
The scene was simple. It was a bleak grey sky with the fainted hint of the suns glow dripping through the darkness. Two children, a small boy and a girl, were walking hand in hand away into the horizon. Their profiles looked similar; it could be guessed they were brother and sister. There was a naivety in the image. The boy was looking at the girl, a mix of love and fear in his eyes, but for the girl; her long brunette hair was the only part of her to be seen, for she was facing into the distance, moving forward. They were walking through a landscape that could have been their favourite spot to play together. It was a spring meadow, in a deserted park; an abundance of earthly tones took up the foreground, like emerald greens and rustic browns. The scene suggested it was a blustery day also, as the wind whipped up the picture causing the girl’s dark hair to flow freely in the breeze. But the wind has also spurred up the flowers two, their small silhouettes of egg shell petals and warm lemon centres provided a stark contrast to the muggy skies they fluttered in. Filling the air with failing daisies.
“Lucy... I think you have your final piece.”