There was once a young girl who lived in a colorful world.
Everyday she picked up her brush to imitate the very colors that brought her joy, that shined gold through her windows and painted her lips rouge with her mother's lipstick. That darkened the leaves during summer and colored them orange and brown during autumn.
But one day, the little girl lost someone very important to her, and the colors she loved so much disappeared.
The beachy blue waves ebbing upon sandy tan shores darkened to a murky, uninviting darkness that ate away at anything it approached.
The brown in her mother's eyes, that shone with golden hues during sunset, were lifeless grey ringlets.
It was a dull, monochromatic world, full of different shades of grey. Where even pure blacks and whites were luxuries she seldom had.
So unhappy with what she'd lost, she buried herself in her work, using her paintbrush to create worlds completely unlike the one she had been subjected to. Where mortality was nothing to fear; where happiness reigned over despair; where there was nothing anyone needed to be upset or worried about. They provided an escape from the lackluster reality she was living.
This ability to create was a gift, and at times, a curse.
She struggled to distinguish the difference, until one day she realized that her worlds had a positive effect on others, too - what once was dull and lifeless could be vitalized using her art.
She picked up her brush to create and inspire, never tiring in her mission to help herself and others. It brought her purpose. It brought her joy. It reminded her of everything she used to have, and which she would have once again.
- Shana Masson, 1970
**
When Eliana was younger, she didn't have many friends.
She wasn't awkward or shy or unwilling to socialize - no, quite the contrary. If Eliana wanted to speak, she spoke. If she liked someone, she told them. For this reason, she had no problem garnering the attention of neighbors or strangers or the librarian that always went cross-eyed when she looked at little Eliana through her tortoise shell glasses and answered her many random questions.
(Eliana quite liked that librarian. She was intelligent and never babied her with sugar-coated responses, though she did get a bit flippant when interrupted from a particularly good book.)
Socializing was easy. But friendships? That was a far different matter - a recipe that begged for more ingredients than she was capable of providing.
To have an acquaintanceship was easy. Small talk could develop into entire conversations if you knew which questions to ask, and young Eliana always asked the right ones. Her mother said she had a charismatic nature that drew others to her, and that it was a gift to be able to speak and carry herself easily through conversation.
That's what made fame so fun - the socializing, the attention. She always enjoyed it, spent her childhood honing these skills until she learned how to blend into any crowd - even amongst the wealthy and privileged.
(When she was younger, in her twenties and at the height of her career, she'd throw lavish parties under the guise of celebration, setting up the opportunity to have crowds of people feeding her starved ego with delightful, succulent compliments. Their attention far out-powered any wine she'd sipped away at, creating a pleasant buzz that silenced her pain and affirmed her of a purpose and place in the world.
It was easy to lose herself in their words. They represented something deeper that Eliana couldn't quite fathom back then - a despicable want to be admired and loved, to be enough for someone.
Eventually her want for praise developed into a need. She yearned for it - craved it, even - and when their voices silenced, a long, torturous clarity tore her mind to bits. The only thing capable of repairing it was the praise.)
But that's not friendship.
No, friendship is stronger, more unbreakable, strengthened from time, experience and mutual understanding. It needs love and reassurance. It can take a while for a bond to reach this point, but sometimes one meets the right person and clicks with them right away.
That's where Eliana struggled as a child. Because, for as sociable as she seemed, the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.
If a seed is to grow, it must be given water, sunlight, proper soil, nutrients and minerals. If not, how is it to flourish? To prosper beyond the depths of its tiny place in the soil?
For all of Eliana's strengths, nurturing relationships was not one of them. People were complex; each one different and with their own individual needs, created from their own nature/nurture traits and experiences. Just like the seed has a certain criteria of needs to sprout, each person has that something they need from you, for they can only give for so long before feeling like they are not being appreciated. It's a give and take - a reciprocal standard that she found herself constantly struggling with.
Eliana never had time to focus on friends, nor did she ever choose to spare any. Some called it selfish. Others related to it. Gary, Indiana was far from a fairy tale, and every kid had their own shit they were dealing with at home. Eliana wasn't special for that.
There were too many things on her mind to focus on anyone besides her mother, who lay ill in bed, writing poetry in her journals and slowly withering away.
Eliana knew it was morbid, focusing on her own mother's mortality. It was all she thought about when she was in school during class. She was just too focused on the ill-fated ordeal she would soon have to face.
Each second Eliana was away from her mother was another second she lost.
(The problem was she never recovered after mother passed. Never learned how to properly do what she'd forced herself not to: to be a good friend, a good confidante, good person.)
During class and lunch, whilst doodling in the margins of her notes, she'd observe the various cliques and friendship groups. Studied their banter, the ways they expressed their affections, whether by giving warm, long hugs or verbal exclamations. Anything that expressed the promise to be there for each other no matter what.
Eliana didn't like promises.
Promises were meant to break. They created an expectation, an impossible standard that she knew she couldn't meet. So, she refrained from deepening the relationships she knew might flourish, that might grow from a seed into a beautiful tree, with blossoms or fruits. She chose a stagnant life buried under the soil, hidden from the sun and lacking the water and nutrients she so desperately craved.
"I promise."
The words echoed through her head.
"I promise."
The words spoken from the dried, cracked lips of a woman, gaunt and frail beneath her sheets.
"I promise."
The words scrawled on papers and notes, addressed to Eliana, to her mother, to herself. Promising that one day she'll be healthy and strong again, and she'll be able to accompany her daughter to art museums, school programs and graduation. Promising that today wouldn't be the last. Promising that they were capable of doing anything. Nothing could stop them, she said, not even death.
Eliana's mother was the dreamer of the story.
She dreamt of characters, flawed and layered, with personalities and quirks too realistic to not have some sort of fact programmed into them. She dreamt of worlds beyond everyday life, with candy rain and vanilla wafer canoes that soared across chocolate rapids. She dreamt of life and never let herself falter, always believing that if she dreamed hard enough, then her dreams would come true.
Maybe, Eliana thought, that was why she'd been so happy before she...
(Her breath stuttered, eyes shutting to forget the mental image she'd conjured.)
Eliana was never a dreamer. Her mother was the one who created the worlds and the characters and the inspiration and the colors. All Eliana did was transfer that to the canvas. Sometimes, she felt she was the translator to another source, another voice and mind that begged to be heard and cried for someone to make their ideas come to light.
Her mother lived inside Eliana, dreaming. Eliana spent her career sharing her with the world.
Her mother had been her best friend. Maybe that was another reason she felt no need for friendships as a child. No one made her feel safer and made her smile like her mother did.
They spoke of everything, but more often than not, her mother's dreams were the topics of their discussions. Mother lost herself in carefully crafted tales that only she could have created. And as a child, Eliana listened eagerly, asking questions with her elbows on the bed, chin resting on her palms and legs swinging in the air behind her.
"Have I told you the story of the dreamer, Ellie?"
Little Eliana shook her head. "What's that story, Mama?"
"I'll tell you! Once upon a time, there was a dreamer who lived in a little bungalow, hidden beneath wet, swampy trees. His neighbors never saw him leave his home, thinking him odd and strange. 'Have you seen him? He's an odd fellow now, isn't he? Never leaves his home. Never thinks or speaks or eats. All he does is stay at home and stare at his walls, lost in his dreams.'
"The man didn't know his neighbors thought this of him, for his dreams had taken him away somewhere else where he was happy and free. And in them, he flew high into the sky, so high he could see the moon hanging over his head! He stood in creeks and felt the water splashing his ankles, as he spoke to his friends - the eager birds and the mischievous squirrels and the grouchy Mister Toad, who always grumpily croaked when asked a question. He did this day after day and never wanted to leave.
"One day, a weary artist knocked on the man's door, carrying a large painting in his arms. The dreamer was still lost in his travels, so he hadn't heard the first few knocks, but finally, the noise awoke him and he went to the door.
"The artist shoved the painting in the dreamer's arms. 'Take it,' he said, sweating and out of breath. 'I have painted this portrait, but now I have no purpose for it. I have no one to share it with but you. Take it and cherish it more than I ever will.' And before the dreamer could respond, the artist was off, leaving his gift to the dreamer.
"The dreamer took it in his house and leaned it against the wall, in front of the chair he'd sit in when he wanted to get lost in another dream. He sat down and stared at the portrait - a woman, with a head of coily hair and ebony skin that shone with cream highlights. Her eyes stared through him - such dark eyes they almost seemed black. They observed him, just as he observed her.
"Days passed, where he continuously stared at the portrait. And slowly, he found the woman with a name and a past and a voice that beckoned him all hours of the day. He fell in love with her, to the portrait the artist had made but not cherished. He fell in love with the dream she brought, of a happy life and a warm love that he'd never known before.
"Soon, he found his dreams seeping into the real world. No longer did he stay locked inside his home. No, he carried the woman's portrait outside and introduced her to his world, to his friends - the birds and the squirrels and toads - and laughed when she squealed at the slimy slugs that threatened to come near his feet. He was happier. Excited for each new day he could spend with his beloved.
"And one day, as he woke up from a quiet sleep, where he usually lay the portrait frame on his chest, was a warm head with the same coily afro he had fallen in love with. There, in his arms, lay the sleeping beauty that had transformed his dreams into a reality.
"They got married and together they spent the rest of their days in their tiny bungalow, befriending the animals and resting on tree branches, counting the stars until their eyes threatened to close from exhaustion. Not a day passed that the dreamer didn't thank the artist for giving him the portrait, for the portrait had showed him that anything that seemed impossible was attainable if one dreamt enough.
"And he and his lover lived happily ever after."
Eliana always thought her mom was the dreamer of the story. Sure, Eliana created the art, but it was sub-par, without the meaning and magic her mother had.
And when she died... For a while, Eliana's whole world collapsed, colors dulling around her. She had struggled to pick up a pen or brush for months because the grief had stricken her gift unreachable.
Then one night a boy appeared before her, whether in a dream or exhausted state, she'll never know.
He was taller than her, leaner than most, with an afro just like the woman in the story. He sang songs of hope and joy; danced to music she always struggled to hear; watched her with observant eyes as she stared at the wall and tried desperately to dream and escape, with little success.
When she dreamt, he put his gentle hand on her shoulder and embraced her while she sobbed. He whispered softly in her ears, singing and reassuring as he always did. Once she calmed, he'd grab her hand and take her to the worlds her mother told her about.
Suddenly Eliana's world was overflowing with ideas. So many that she failed to keep track, working tirelessly through the night on canvases and in sketchbooks. She had a hunger that needed to be sated, the starved dreamer in her given the inspiration it needed to function.
The boy appeared to her so many times, Eliana put a name to him.
M.
He was as real as she was. A living soul hidden somewhere in the nook of her brain, living and breathing and giving even without a body.
When Noel was born, her work was better than it had ever been! Pain never left her after her mother's death - the dreamer who created the craft Eliana built her life upon - but Noel made it possible for her to continue that dream well into her adult years. He changed her from a young workaholic, constantly aware of her own mortality, to someone who enjoyed life and appreciated what it had to offer.
Noel was like M in many ways. Incredibly bright and filled with laughter, always smiling and clapping and encouraging. He watched her work like she'd done her mother, chin on his hands, as he sat cross-legged on the ground, watching every stroke of the brush, drinking it all in and grinning and congratulating when she finished and presented it to him. Clever was he, as he thought of meanings and analysis, asking her if his interpretations were correct.
"If that's what you think it is, Noel, then that's what it is. My dream isn't the same as yours."
He was oh-so-curious, peeking out of airplane windows and pointing out landscapes. Creative and open-minded, intelligent and kind. He was self-motivated, a hard worker with his own set of goals he aspired to accomplish. The fact that he was her son boggled her at times. A child with such a level-head - he was everything she wasn't! But in a good way. A great way. And she was grateful for it every day.
Then Eliana's light died out. Abruptly. Painfully.
And the tiny voice in the back of her head - M's voice - which once sang and shouted with glee, had silenced. It was her fault. So much grief, so many mistakes. She reached a point where she grew tired of M's voice screaming for her to think and stop, and she finally did what she did best and fucked it up by shoving him in a box and locking him away.
Maybe, she thought, that was why the brush and the pen no longer excited her, because it didn't speak of dreams, but of mourning, reminding her of what she lost and will lose. Why every piece she made felt a replica of another and not a genuine reflection of her craftsmanship. She was impersonating what she used to have, but which she had destroyed long ago when she prioritized herself above her son and family and true friends.
Selfish, was what M told her now, though his voice had long since lost its masculine touch, sounding oddly similar to her own.
She put the brush down and sat in her seat, staring at M's body, which stared back on that half-built porcelain statue.
He had no eyes, she noted, but his stare was piercing and cold.
She remained seated, though. She deserved the judgment.
(If she heard a faint song ringing in the back of her head, telling her that wasn't true, well, she didn't acknowledge it.)
**
Noel awoke, wrapped in a three blanket cocoon, to a beaming sun and frost on his skin.
It was his birthday. His thirteenth, to be exact, and he was officially a teenager! Practically a grown man, honestly.
Rolling out of bed (after tripping on one of his blankets), Noel dashed to his conjoined bathroom and started his morning routine, getting distracted quickly thereafter by his own off-key singing. "I will follow him," he sang into his toothbrush, channeling his inner Whoopi, swinging his arm around like a choir conductor. "Follow him wherever he may gooo. There isn't an ocean too deep. A mountain so high it can keep, keep me awaaay."
After brushing his teeth, he took out a dry erase marker from one of the sink drawers and jumped onto the counter, drawing a stick figure of himself on the mirror. Although it donned a larger afro than him, he thought the two of them were identical. It had his little dimple and everything! Beside it, he drew his mother, and made sure to emphasize her braids in her bun, just like she preferred.
Finishing it off, he drew his legs way taller than hers, because although he barely reached five foot now, he was sure to hit his growth spurt soon. And when that happened he was going to be at least six-three. He was certain of that, and would allow no thinking otherwise.
Noel got dressed in baggy jeans and a red and green striped shirt because hello, Christmas is coming soon, and picked his hair until it was as voluminous as his enthusiasm. Giddiness he wasn't sure the origin from, kept his limbs antsy and moving. He wanted to dance! He wanted to belt lyrics until his lungs screeched in protest, so everyone was aware of his good mood! But he didn't do that because he was mature and grown (plus, he didn't want to burst anyone's ear drums).
He checked his reflection, made a few adjustments here and there before scratching his chin, momentarily imagining himself with a beard.
Shooting an okay sign, he skipped out of the room to make himself a bowl of cereal.
He passed a separate bathroom, his great-grandmother's old bedroom (that had been sealed shut since her passing) before slowing to a halt at his mother's door.
It was ajar.
Her vacant room was no surprise. By this time, she should be in the attic working. What was strange, however, was how the door was open. She never did that. On the rare occasions Noel saw inside, let alone went inside, it was usually nighttime. Mom kept her curtains closed through all hours of the day, shedding no sunlight and flooding the room in darkness. He usually had no purpose or desire to go inside, so it was no big deal most of the time.
With the light coming in from the hallway, he saw it was cluttered and dark, the curtains covering the windows, creating a stuffiness that made Noel eager to fix it.
He bit his lip, debating whether he should go on with his day or inspect the room. His mother deserved her privacy, after all, he didn't want to intrude...
Curiosity proved too tempting, though, and after looking in both directions to ensure she was nowhere near, he tiptoed inside and shut the door behind him.
His first objective: opening the curtains. As daylight filtered in, the tenseness in Noel's shoulders eased, a sigh of relief leaving his lips. Now with the light brightening the interior, he found the carpet in the middle of the room covered in wrapping paper, which was half-covering a Super Mario World cartridge for the SNES.
Immediately Noel whisper-shouted a "Yes!" before dancing in his spot. He'd been asking his mom for the game since it came out two years prior, so it was kind of a dream come true for him. He wouldn't need to go to Denis's house anymore to play it (and watch Denis hog the game for hours just so he could finally get five minutes of playtime before he'd die and have the controller snatched away again).
His grin lessened the more his gaze wandered.
Whereas the rest of the world was filtered by Noel's rose-tinted glasses, his mother's room remained the one place unaffected. There were a couple crumbled papers on her desk, the rest spilling from the full basin beside it onto the floor. Dust was on her blinds and on the counters - an evident trail left behind when he wiped it with his finger. And the smell could be summed up with one word: exhaustion. It was just not the type of environment he envisioned his mother ever being in, yet it was the place she finished and started her day in, everyday. It was no wonder she was so stressed!
Noel had to do something! There was no way he could allow his mother to stay in a place this dreary. So, aware of the risk he'd get caught, he pushed up his sweater sleeves, before gathering the dirty laundry to put in the hamper.
His chipper attitude from the morning was diminishing. He felt his lips struggle to stay smiling, as if being tugged by string, but he forced them back up. You leave behind an energy wherever you go. Best to refrain from negative thinking.
He fixed her sheets on the mattress, folded her blanket, fluffed her pillows and set them up nicely. There had been papers and miscellaneous garbage set on the bare mattress that he'd picked up with intent to throw away, but he eyeballed one of the forgotten, balled papers and wondered what was inside.
He opened it. It was a sketch of a tree stationed outside his mother's window, hidden behind a wall of harsh scribblings, a large SHIT written across.
Noel tore it to pieces. It wasn't shit. Nothing his mother made could be labelled as such.
He thought back to the days in their two story L.A. home, when he'd settle on their old ottoman in front of the fireplace and flipped through his mother's art books. Often he'd analyze the pieces, trying to interpret every nuanced detail and understand the inner workings of her mind.
"What does this one mean, Mama?" he'd ask. And she'd give a happy, curious look. "What do you think it means, Noel?" Thus, sending him to another session of thought. He'd bring a multitude of ideas and themes to her attention, asking for confirmation, to which she'd shrug and reply, "I don't know, Noel. Art doesn't always have an explanation. You have to make one for yourself."
Remembering those words made his teeth grind painfully together. He hadn't flipped through one of her books in a while. The last time he did, wanting to mirror those moments from childhood, she got a faint look of sadness that she tried desperately to conceal. It bled through like ink on thin paper, so obvious that he'd hid the books inside his closet.
He hadn't touched them for over a year.
He threw the rest of the garbage and clutter on her desk into the overflowing waste bin, forcing the pile down. Hopefully the newfound cleanliness would inspire optimism.
He dragged the hamper through the hall toward the front room, holding the trash basin with his other arm. The bin made an audible sliding noise, but he knew his mother wouldn't hear. She was in her studio, and when she was in there, she got sucked into a different world. It was as if the paper thin walls were sound proof.
Reaching the front room, he turned right to go behind the couch and use the washer and dryer pushed against the wall. The glass door stood adjacent to the machinery, allowing in beams of light, which shone less and less radiant the longer Noel simmered in the somber atmosphere.
He set the hamper down, then focused his attention on the plastic trash bin. It was painted with hot pink, white and yellow flowers. He'd decorated it for his mother in the third grade, using some art supplies his great-grandmother Cynthia had snuck in for him.
"He wanted to brighten up your room a bit," Grandma Cynthia told his mother, as he handed it over.
"Aw, thank you, baby. I love it!" Mom said before pecking his forehead and embracing him till he got antsy.
To see his gift holding remnants of his mother's self-destruction prompted a sadness that turned to anger. Why? he thought, squeezing the plastic so some of the papers threatened to fall. Why us?
He went out the house, through the front door and to the left of the building where the green garbage can was. Then he dumped everything inside, wishing nothing more than to set it all aflame, envisioning the orange-red flames spreading across the grass and enveloping their house whole.
When finished, he shut the can, letting out a shaky breath. Already he felt lighter on his feet. Just needed to get rid of that. You're okay now, Noel.
He scanned the neighborhood, making sure no one had seen his little episode. Then he basked in the crisp, winter air, and the cloudy, white fog that materialized when he breathed. Maybe me, Mom and Mr Richmond can set up a fire and make s'mores. Mom loves s'mores, plus she hasn't really enjoyed the winter yet. We can have snowball fights after, too! Maybe some hot chocolate when we're freezing cold. It'll be a good break for her. She's been working so much lately...
Slipping his hands in his pockets, he was once more taken by Mr Richmond's Christmas lights. By then, his cheeks felt as red as one of the glowing, scarlet balls on the bushes. It was a sensation that made him feel alive.
Maybe we should buy some Christmas lights. Bring some life to the house, Noel thought to himself, staring at his clothed feet while he walked to the front door, the untrimmed grass crunching beneath his soles. Gosh, I need to mow the lawn soon. It looks like a jungle out here.
He sighed and shook his head. Maybe I can mow the neighbors' grass so we can get some decorations. We never decorate anymore. I wanna do somethin' different for once. His hands clenched, and he nodded to himself. I can help provide. Yeah, I'm thirteen now. I'm a man. I got this.
After sorting the laundry - between darks, lights and whites, just as his mother and great-grandmother taught him - he finally poured himself some well-deserved cereal.
Whilst hearing the dry Cheerios clatter in the porcelain bowl, his gaze flitted to the stove, his shoulders sagging, as he half-expected his mother and grandmother to be making a hearty breakfast.
Like phantoms, he imagined the two ladies working side-by-side in the kitchen. Every birthday, holiday or special occasion, they'd be working early in the morning to get breakfast prepared. It was a tradition Great-Grandma kept up with. And the moment he'd exit his bedroom, sleep fresh on his face, the aroma of bacon, blueberry pancakes, spam and eggs would carry him to the table.
He'd get his plate and sit in his spot, smiling because his pancakes were always covered in a whipped cream smiley face and his food was always shaped into little animals (courtesy of his mother). He would have to fight the urge to dig in and shovel his face while waiting for them, perking in his seat when they sat down and put their hands together to say grace. The second he heard "Ame-" he'd gobble down a mouthful of food, hearing his family laugh at his childish antics.
Those were the moments Noel longed to have back - that closeness, the loving, care-free environment. And he knew his mother felt the same way. Things weren't the same, but maybe if he tried a little harder, the spark that kept her alive could be ignited once again.
Sluggishly chewing his Cheerios, which tasted oddly bland that November morning, he rested his cheek on his palm and stirred the grain rings till they were soaked in milky white. Two other chairs were tucked into the table. His mother's seat on the left, which was slightly out and turned away, and his great-grandmothers on the right, completely pushed in.
Then he focused on the bills - the bills. He grew dizzy when staring at them for too long. There wasn't a spot on the table that wasn't covered - save for the tiny spot for his bowl - and it was driving him mad.
Money. He'd always known it was powerful, but not until recently did he understand to what extent.
Before he could walk, Noel had experienced things people his age dreamed of doing. His childhood summed up by the single image of his face smashed against a plane window, drinking in every ounce of the clouds and sky beneath him.
He twirled his spoon through the milk, imagining that the white liquid gliding off was the frustrations plaguing their family, washing away like water off a duck's back. (He had his English teacher, Miss Hayworth, to thank for that expression).
But it wasn't so easy. His mother was trapped in a cage - of mistakes, regrets and criticisms - that held her captive. It was his job to keep her from staying caged for too long, to break through that shell and wake her up before she fell into a way of thinking she'd never get out of.
The clattering of his spoon snapped him awake from his daydreaming. He blinked, glancing up from his bowl, surprised to find one of his mother's coats thrown carelessly atop the counter. He looked at the door. Her shoes were on the mat.
Did Mama go outside earlier? He looked behind, to the clock hanging over the television, seeing it was about 10:30.
Odd, he thought, but didn't pay it anymore mind.
He focused back on his cereal, cutting his Cheerios in half.
Anything to pass the time.
**
"All of December's booked. What about January? You think you can get me something then?"
Eliana hunched over the kitchen counter with the house phone tucked in her shoulder, the long cord bending towards the floor and knocking against her leg. She tapped her pencil on blank paper. "I don't know, Syl. I'm hopin' by then to have something finished, but I can't guarantee anything."
Sylvia Jones. Eliana met her back in '75 and the two stayed in touch ever since. Where Eliana paraded around in vibrant palettes, Sylvia was the bookish type, who, for as long as Eliana'd known her, stuck to a chestnut wig with bangs and her monochrome sweaters and overcoats. She was modest in the way she dressed and carried herself, never raising her voice and never acting out. They were polar opposites, but their love for the arts had brought them together.
"You don't need to rush yourself," said Sylvia. "I can always squeeze in one of your pieces whenever you're ready."
Squeeze in? In no way was Sylvia saying it to mock her, but Eliana still winced like she did. "No, no," she responded. "I'd much rather get a whole collection finished. I don't wanna settle with just one piece, you know? I mean, my fans expect more o' me and I want my next exhibition to be a big hit with the public. It needs to be big - outta this world!"
Sylvia didn't respond for a while. She did that often, for she was the type of woman who thought about what she wanted to say before saying it. It drove Eliana mad sometimes; already her leg was bouncing in place, as she waited.
"You know, you don't have to come out with anything huge to have a successful comeback," Sylvia finally said. "It's been a while since you've been out in the public like this. I think your real fans would appreciate anything you give 'em."
Eliana shook her head, dropping her pencil to grip the phone. "No, you don't get it, Syl. I do have to. I've always been the type to be big with everything I do, you know? If I switch up, what does that say about me? People will think I've changed and I'm not trying hard enough. It wouldn't feel right."
"You're describing what worked for past you," Syl shot back, "but what about now you? You've been away from the public eye for years now. Maybe it would do you some good to come back slowly into the limelight instead of jumping straight into it when you're not feeling one hundred, you get what I'm saying?"
And Sylvia was speaking sense, but it didn't stop the punching feeling in Eliana's gut. She twisted the phone cord around her fingers. "This funk isn't gonna last forever, Syl," she grumbled. "I don't need to slowly get back into anything. That's what's making me procrastinate in the first place - me trying to take it slow and get back into the swing of things. But I'm sick of not being productive. I need to get something done soon or I'm gonna lose my damn mind."
A long, drawn out huff sounded on Sylvia's end; the woman taking to her cigarette whilst processing the words.
"Of course, El," she finally said. "I didn't mean to make you feel like I was talking down on you. I know how hard things have been."
"No, no." Eliana rubbed her face. "Its not - I didn't mean to imply -"
"You don't have to apologize. I get how you feel." Sylvia was without a bite in her tone. She was always so understanding - too understanding, Eliana thought. "You know, there've been times I thought about giving up the gallery."
Eliana went wide-eyed. "Really?"
"Yeah," she said after taking another puff. "When business was slowing and my dad died... it didn't make me happy anymore. I lost my passion." A thud and a crunching noise sounded; Eliana pictured the other throwing her cigarette on the winter frost, stomping it with her boot. "But then I took some time to really think about why I took on the gallery in the first place. Was it 'cause I felt obligated? 'Cause I didn't want my Dad's dream to go to waste? Or was it 'cause I actually did love what I do?"
When she came to a pause, Eliana questioned, "And then what?"
"Then I realized the gallery was what I was meant to do. Every time I put someone's art up and watched people marvel at the pieces, trying to interpret or dig into the artist's brain - it made me happy. Happy to see people who enjoyed art as much as I did. And on top of that, it made me feel closer to my dad, you know? Maybe that's what you need. Just... some time away from art in general. To think and go over what you're feeling and where you wanna go. Art was your thing in the past, but maybe it's not anymore. Maybe it's time for something new.
"Or maybe," she said, "you just need to remember why you loved it in the first place."
Eliana could hear the sincere smile as Sylvia added, "I know you can figure it out. Just know that whatever you choose, the gallery's always open." Just for you was the unspoken message.
"I..." Eliana didn't know what to say. Seldom people spoke to her with such gentleness, and though she was kicking herself for her inadequacy, she was also drinking up Sylvia's advice, wanting to be relieved of this weight on her shoulders. "Thanks, Syl."
"No problem, El. I'm always here to talk." Commotion ensued in the background, muffled as Sylvia spoke to someone before saying, "Hey, I hate to cut this conversation short, but I gotta go."
"It's no worry. I think it's about time I go too."
"Okay." Then Sylvia added, "And El? Don't let the past keep knockin' you down, okay? You still got so much more to look forward to and so much more to share. And you got so many people who support you and want to see you succeed. Never forget that. Oh! And tell that boy o' yours happy birthday for me!"
They hung up.
Eliana put the phone on its holder and slouched against the counter. A sudden dreadful feeling, seemingly spurred by nothing, overtook her.
Sylvia's advice was sound, but the implications had Eliana slapping her head. No amount of thinking and time away from art would fix her issue, nor would it rid her constant dissatisfaction with her work. It was her own damn fault she hit this slow patch in the first place. She just needed to stop being so lazy.
But Sylvia had been loyal to her through everything. For that, Eliana would try and heed her words.
Two years earlier, Eliana's whole world turned against her. Acquaintances, friends and business partners severed their ties with her to save face, but Sylvia was one of the few to stay.
They had history. Sylvia's art gallery, previously owned by her father Jimmy Frank, kick-started Eliana's career. Back then, Jimmy Frank's exhibit was a hotspot for artists in Chicago. It was booming. And despite her young age, Jimmy gave Eliana a chance to display her passions on a scale no newspaper strip could achieve.
He'd started with putting her pieces in larger exhibitions, where she could observe other contributing artists and their works. She got to meet many people like her, who were passionate and skilled at what they did and were generous enough to give her lots of professional advice. Soon after that, Eliana was given the chance to have her own solo exhibition. This was a big deal for a late middle schooler! It was one of her best childhood experiences, watching people observe her creations with earnest curiosity, excited to analyze every component of her canvases.
That was back when she was young and naive to the business side of the art world, and filled to the brim with elation over the fact that her dream had come to reality.
"You got this drive in you kid," Jimmy told her once when she asked why he chose her of all people to invest in. "I feel it in my gut that you're gonna be a real success, and my gut never lies. So don't let me down."
Sylvia took on the gallery when Jimmy Frank died a few years later. It was a tragedy. A sudden aneurysm that gave no symptoms but which had taken his life in a single night. The gallery was Sylvia's pride and joy, just as it was her father's. And though it hit a few bumps in the road, it remained a popular destination for artists.
During the controversy, Sylvia was there to help with business, often calling Eliana all hours of the night to develop more plans and ideas that would help her get back on her feet. They'd planned to set up a new exhibition, intending to reach out to different organizations or businesses who were willing to collaborate and host events at the gallery. It was going to lift both their sales, be a hit with fans - oh, Eliana had a whole theme she was developing, inspired by the betrayal and frustration the media and her own personal affairs had caused her.
Then Grandma Cynthia died.
All of Eliana's plans fell apart, never coming to fruition. Sylvia never blamed her for it, instead telling her there was always a spot open for her, should she ever want to resume what they started. But in the back of Eliana's head, she wondered if that was a good idea - she was bad business to Sylvia.
So, she distanced herself.
If not for Sylvia's persistent nature, the two surely would have been estranged.
Head in her hands, Eliana rubbed her temples and sighed. It was 8:45. But her day had long since started.
She woke up at 4 AM. Her body was drenched in sweat and her world was spinning.
What had begun as a comforting dream turned into a nightmare, as she stared down an open coffin - her grandmothers, to be exact. She was unmoving, unresponsive, with an artificial pallor that made her appear more akin to a doll than a person.
She'd reached out for her, wanting to press her cold cheek in the hopes of finding warmth, but when her fingertips pressed skin, the body was no longer her grandmothers.
Noel lay there instead; bloody and angry - a mangled mess of a corpse, that rose from his coffin to stare at her with bubbling rage. And all of her mistakes came crashing down on her like a tsunami, demanding she take responsibility. This is all your fault! he screamed.
It took a while for Eliana to shake the dream away, choosing to stare at the ceiling, numb and disconnected from her body. There was no movement, no sounds, just the shallow dips and falls from her chest. She'd have stayed there forever, if it hadn't occurred to her that it was Noel's birthday and he would be up soon.
So, she dragged herself out of bed and started wrapping his birthday present, which prompted an uncomfortable silence.
(Noel's face twisted in rage, blood spitting from his lips, as he screamed, "It's all your fault!")
Despair and fear froze her limbs, her shaking hands unable to focus on wrapping the present. Her breath was quickening, and it took everything in her not to curl up in a ball and never get up.
Distraction. Distraction. She got her sketchbook to busy herself, but that proved useless when her lack of progress prompted another round of frustration, spurring her to scribble the few sketches she'd made, the tip of the pencil cracking, the wooden end splintering from the pressure.
With the state her mind was in, perfection was unattainable. Impossible.
She went to her studio in the attic.
There, she scrutinized every newspaper clipping on the wall; the faded pictures of her winning awards or posing with famous figures, the written articles - highlighted and annotated by her own hand - all detailing her abilities and achievements. There were all sorts of papers to her collection - a 1974 local Gary paper, an article from a 1985 highly esteemed fashion magazine (she had collaborated with a designer to create the wardrobe for a popular television show back in the day), a 1990 Ebony cover detailing her life's experience as a black woman and artist in America.
Everything she'd pinned up was meant to inspire confidence, remind her what she was capable of. She'd paved the way to her own success; there were no special favors or mentors that guided her to it. The very ground she stood upon had been built with her own two hands.
She wanted to be inspired again. To be happy and proud of who she was.
Contempt. It brought a sickly taste to her mouth, made her hands clench at her sides. It infiltrated every cranny of her mind, leaving not a spot untouched. It reminded her of failure. That she wasn't the same - her talent was waning; dwindling, dwindling, dwindling - too quickly for her to catch it.
If she searched deep enough, could she pinpoint when she lost the feverous flame that ignited her soul full of passion? Had it fully extinguished? Or was it lying dormant, waiting to be rekindled? What did the fire need to come back roaring and hungry for more?
Face it, Eliana. You're a has-been.
Standing straight, she shook that thought away, focusing on M's porcelain body.
A chair was in front of him. She dropped onto it and sighed. "What am I gonna do, M?"
Hunched over, she covered her face, digging her nails into skin and resisting the urge to drag them down slowly. "I'm doin' everything I can. I honestly don't know why I try anymore." She peered up from her hands.
Sitting in M's shadow, she wondered if this was how ants felt - little bugs that crept along the grouts of tiles and hoped not to be stepped on. Eyed with disgust, seen as pests that took and dirtied whatever they touched. A pitiful existence.
(At least the ant could be squashed, stepped on, destroyed swiftly. Gone so quickly it was like its minuscule life had never existed. Humans had it far less simple - they squashed others quickly, but to be squashed was a slower, more painful experience than one could hope for.)
"I'm pathetic." She set her chin on her fingers, elbows on her thighs. "Pathetic and lazy and useless. I bet you think the same o' me, too." Her face fell. "Everyone does. They just don't say it, but I see it when they speak to me."
She got back up and snatched a random book from the many piles on her desk, sifting through it before quickly losing interest. Grabbing some darts, she threw a few at the board hanging on her wall of newspapers, playing a few rounds with little enthusiasm. The game took a turn when she started using her photos as target practice.
She aimed at one sepia colored image where she was grinning like she was on top of the world. Was there a better way to describe the high one got at the height of their fame? She was so high she reached the clouds, and she never wanted to come down. Not then. Not ever.
Fame was a drug, and she'd been unapologetically addicted. It was difficult not to be when she was well-aware of how admired she was; people praised her and indulged her greed for assurance. Strangers she'd never met, all singing praises in her ears, until her ego lived solely for the high that their affections gave. She craved it; sat in maddening silence when they weren't singing.
F-ting!
The dart struck its target - landed right on her wide, mocking grin.
Bulls-eye.
She glanced at the clock. 8:25 AM.
With nothing better to do, she went downstairs. And, as if knowing the type of funk she was in, Sylvia called, initially for Noel's birthday, before switching over to business.
The gallery always has a place for you, Eliana. Just give me a date, and I'll squeeze you in.
With the phone call heavy on her mind, Eliana needed a distraction. But the last thing she wanted to do was stare at a sketchpad for hours on end. So, she got her signature cherry coat and slipped on her winter boots before going out to get the mail.
There was a somber grey in the sky that caught her eye, sending her on another trip down memory lane. When she was ten, her ill mother became passionate about her relationship to Christ, dragging Eliana with her and Grandma Cynthia to church every week. Before that, Mother had faith but was not an avid church-goer - something Grandma Cynthia often scolded her for. The sicker she got, the more Mother found it therapeutic. It gave her another reason to be hopeful, but Eliana had never inherited her mother's optimism.
She sat in the pews, staring at that godly image of Jesus on the cross and wondered Why her? What did my Mama do to deserve this? A hatred started seeping into her little heart, cold and unrelenting with its grip. She didn't understand how a woman like her mother was to be subjected to such slow and torturous pain.
In her confusion, she turned to her brushes and painted a grey and black watercolor piece of a church sitting in the background of a dark, dreary atmosphere. The church's walls were white and washed out, so bright it would hurt your eyes if you stared too long, with a silver cross on the front.
Everything happens for a reason. God has a plan for us all, Ellie.
It was horse shit. All of it. There was no reason for suffering.
Somehow word had gotten around about the painting and she ended up selling the piece for five dollars. Back then it felt like I won the lottery. It was a lot for a little ten-year-old, ignorant of entrepreneurship and desperate for some pocket money. But she was able to get a lot with that five dollars, so it worked out in the end.
The crunch of the icy grass was loud as she approached the mailbox. She sifted through its contents, finding bills and papers and random advertisements thrown in the mix, and on the front lawn was the newest paper. She got that and went back inside, sighing in content at the rush of warmth that came once the door was shut.
Shoes off, she sat at the table in her seat, pushing the piles of papers to the middle before going through bills.
Water bill, electric bill, and - what the hell?
She squinted, the envelope wrinkling in her grip.
"Matthias Little," she grumbled, glaring. Why is his shit still being sent to my house? Ticked, she crumbled it up and threw it in the garbage. "God, that fucker just won't go away."
Whatever emptiness she held in her heart turned to white hot anger at the mention of him. He always provoked such a reaction despite her trying to stay strong and ignore him. She had to accept he was still a constant in her life, whether she liked it or not. That he'd always have a portion of her heart in his hands - just like when we were younger.
She used to love that about him. How he seized control of her - seized her heart - and never let go. Now it brought turbulence, a weighing pain in her chest that never wanted to release.
Falling in her chair, she hadn't a second to brood before the telephone was ringing. She got up and answered it.
"Hel-" she started before a deep masculine voice interrupted:"Is a Mister Matthias Little there?"
Eliana's teeth bared."He isn't fucking here. Y'all quit calling this damn number and leave me alone!" she spat before slamming it down.
Onto the counters she collapsed, face buried in her crossed arms.
Fuck. Matthias was a parasite. A little tick that burrowed his way into her skin and never left, intent on draining her spirit.
Thirteen years. Thirteen years and you're still a pain in my ass.
Standing, she rubbed at her tired eyes and swiped the morning paper from the table. She went to the attic, keeping quiet, so as to not wake the birthday boy. With the amount of work he puts into school, he deserves to sleep in.
In the attic, she lay by the foot of M's figure while staring at the ceiling.
For a long while, she said nothing; she hadn't found the right words to say. But she liked to think M knew what she was thinking without her needing to tell him. It was a childish fantasy, but still she clung to it, choosing to pretend that he was capable of judgment and understanding.
He felt real - as real as Noel when she closed her eyes. That meant something. It meant a lot.
"I'm losing my damn mind in this place," she mumbled. "The longer I stay here in Gary, the more I start dealing with old shit."
Sighing, she eyed the blank, porcelain crevices where his eyes should be. What color would they be, she wondered. Blue? Green? No, no, M was more of a brown type - a captivating brown that was so dark it appeared obsidian until up close. His smile would stretch across his entire face - a crescent that shone with perfect pearly teeth. But the aura of his presence would be enough to have the world at attention - his charisma and charm a tangible force.
"Let me catch myself 'fore I start falling for a damn figment of my imagination," she muttered and threw an arm over her face to shield it from the fluorescent lights.
At some point she got frustrated again. Her dawdling was wasting time.
"A second spent unused is a second wasted, Ellie. Every second is precious. So use them wisely, before your time is up," her mother used to say.
A pang struck her chest. She rolled onto her side, lazily pushing off the ground and dragging the chair to the table in the center of the room to pick up the morning paper. She flipped through, skimming past boring news articles and politics and -
She paused - must've read that wrong - and leaned closer, squinting.
"Son of a bitch."
There her name was - Eliana Masson - in an article written by the esteemed art critic, Robert Goldstein.
Goldstein wasn't some nobody - no, this guy knew his shit. Before Eliana had ever even thought about picking up a brush for profit, she used to read his critiques and ramblings on the arts, agreeing with his constructive criticisms and nit pickings on what and what hadn't worked for him. His critical eye was astounding; the passion evident in his words.
Eliana had never met him personally, which was a shame, really. But she was proud to be one of the few Goldstein had ever given only positive reviews to, save for a few technical gripes he'd had here and there. His articles were taped with the rest of her collage, covered in highlighter and ink where she'd proceeded to write and study every single thing he'd written about her.
("I was taken aback by the level of creativity and whimsy that went into each of Masson's pieces," one of his articles said. "Art has many purposes; one of those is to evoke a feeling in the viewer, to put them in another's shoes and witness a life different from their own. Masson succeeds in that. Not only did she craft a wonderful composition, but she created a piece of art that is special to her and our country's current political climate. It's her story. It's the people's story. And Masson is here to put her foot down and say that it's a story that shouldn't be ignored any longer."
June 17th, 1980.)
Eliana chuckled nervously. "Goldstein's always loved your work," she mumbled, nodding. "Yeah. He's a fan. He's not gonna say anything terrible." The paper shook in her grasp.
Two whole pages were covered in walls of text that made Eliana dizzy. What on earth did anyone have to say that took up that many pages? All good things, she hoped, with a sprinkling of constructive criticisms here and there. She hadn't been on her A-game in a few years, but that didn't mean she was a lost cause.
Eliana Masson: The Downfall of Genius?
The walls closed in on her; Eliana's leg bouncing with such urgency it shook the table and the floor.
In her peripheral, M's stare was suffocating, scrutinizing, and she curled in on herself, succumbing to the claustrophobic feeling squeezing her body tight. A tickling grew in her stomach and she had the sense she was falling from a height that had no visible landing.
She skimmed each word and line and paragraph with the utmost scrutiny, taking each one like jabs to the heart.
"Eliana Masson," it read. "When I first laid eyes on her work in '76, I was floored. At the time, she was a fifteen-year-old, up-and-coming artist from Gary, Indiana, who was quickly getting into exhibitions at famous galleries in the Chicago area. I had to see what this young girl had to offer. After attending one of her exhibitions, it became apparent what was so special about Masson.
"Her work was rich with imagination and experience, melding the two in a way that made harder topics like racism, sexism or sexuality, easier to digest for older, more conservative crowds. Her pieces were mature, which was partially why they drew me in. The days after the exhibition, Masson's paintings were fresh on my mind, and I even returned to the gallery to study and jot down notes to figure out why it was I couldn't stop thinking about them.
"In '80, it happened again; I found myself staring at her paintings, studying every nuanced detail and stroke she laid on the canvas, and when it came time to leave the gallery, they refused to leave my mind. I eventually had to admit that, even if there were technical flaws here and there, Masson's work was strong with its tone and emotion. She had a way of creating narratives and characters on a canvas. It made it easy for viewers to empathize with these stories - to immerse themselves in a world unlike their own. I know I did. And I appreciated it each time.
"To me, there were few like Eliana Masson."
Eliana gulped.
"A year ago, Masson released an art book. I thought this odd at the time, since she usually comes out with entire collections and throws galas to celebrate them. But this was no issue for me. She has released many art books in the past - all of fantastic quality, with detailed backstories and descriptions and photographs of unfinished projects that were just as fantastic as the finished ones. After a long break, I was excited to see what she had been working on.
"I was, to say the least, underwhelmed."
Eliana felt sick.
She fell back in her seat, neck suspended over the back of the rigid chair, where the wooden back dug uncomfortably in the bottom of her skull. The fluorescent lights shot beams so bright they hurt her eyes, leaving her squinting, fighting off a building headache. A pain was in her chest she couldn't get rid of, no matter how hard she scrunched her shirt and told herself to stop being so affected by printed words on paper.
But it wasn't that easy. This was no ordinary man spitting ordinary words - this was a verdict from Goldstein himself. This was someone she'd looked up to since she was a child! Instead of studying for assessments in grade school, she'd stayed up reading his reviews and essay articles about his favorite art and fashion designs. It inspired her how art had transformed his life for the better.
You're being dramatic, El. She breathed out, sluggishly forcing herself into a slouched position to resume reading. Surely after the criticisms there would be a few compliments? She was, after all, Eliana Masson. That had to mean something. It used to mean something.
"Where I expected her usual, thought-provoking work that left much to be interpreted over, I found still lifes of trees and lakes and sketches of strangers in parks. Which, I usually appreciate, but for Eliana Masson? Not what I expected, nor particularly wanted. A sketchbook of half-finished drawings was hardly the product I wanted for a book worth sixty-five dollars. It is not the genius I sought when I plucked it from the library shelf."
He was right. There was no way she'd ever pay that much for a book of such low quality. But damn, did the sales help out with her debts.
"After finding myself so disappointed, I had to ask: is this the biased perspective of a long-term admirer? Or is it truly the downfall of Eliana Masson? We all witnessed her string of controversies in the past five years. They were on the face of every tabloid, every newspaper, every television screen. It was impossible to miss."
Eliana winced, biting the insides of her cheeks.
"But her controversy is not what matters to me.
"The quality of Masson's work has visibly paled in comparison to her last art book released in '89. If I gave both books to someone who had no prior art knowledge, they'd suspect them to be from two different artists. Fans of Masson, who have stuck by her side through her long break, are hungry for more content. They want more of what made her great.
"Quantity does not equate to quality. An art book with dozens of pieces that are nowhere near the level they should be for a terribly high price is not alright. Not to a critic, an artist or consumer.
"It is obvious that Masson is not focusing on the craft anymore than she is the paycheck. Who once was an intelligent artist with everything to share is now rendered to another creator producing nonsense for a check. But art like that doesn't last, Miss Masson, and if you were to read this, I would request that you ask yourself why? Why are you creating art if not to challenge ideas or express an emotional narrative? To share something meaningful in a world where mediocrity is easily accessible and genius is a rarity?
"Why do you create, Miss Masson?"
The back of Eliana's hands covered her face; she was vaguely aware of how blurred her vision was getting.
Who once was an intelligent artist, he'd said. The quality of Masson's work has visibly paled in comparison...
She thought back to the day prior when she met her fan - the girl's name was lost on her, but her grin left a permanent impression. It was wide and condescending, reminding her of the school teachers and naysayers who'd tutted at her doodles and scolded her dreams, wordlessly reminding her that girls like you don't make it in the world we live in.
"They want thought-provoking art, Eliana," she mumbled to herself, a laugh tearing from her throat, scratching her vocal cords. "Not the -" Her body jolted from another laugh, tears streaming down her cheeks. "- not the shit you been milking out for a paycheck."
She sniffled, wiping harshly at her eyes with her knuckles.
"Fuck," she whispered.
The room was spinning. A hollowness ate away at her chest whilst she sat defeatedly in her chair, fighting the pull at the edges of her lips. All of her mistakes poured over her, like heavy rainfall, drenching her in reminders and regrets. She couldn't escape it. It followed her like her own personal storm.
Standing up, she walked to her wall of achievements, hoping it would spur a sense of calm.
Her youthful face grinned back, so bright with content and pride over what she'd achieved. That girl had no reason to doubt her abilities. No reason to question her place in this world. She hadn't spiraled. Hadn't lost herself in a never ending chain of bad decisions.
She touched one of the photos, wishing she could jump through to possess the younger body and start over again. Her head hit the wall. "You were too greedy. Too greedy for fame and fortune, you fucked it all up."
(Unbeknownst to Eliana, the wooden board M's porcelain figure stood upon began to tremble. It was a gentle tremor - too small for her to be knocked from her thoughts, but enough to shake the fragile body.)
By that point, her hands were balled. And the more she stared, the more her own printed face mirrored those of the people who'd turned their backs on her. The printed Eliana - that naive bitch - was free from public humiliation. Her reputation was intact, flourishing, even! What did she have to worry about?
Tears jetted harder down her face, and sadness turned to anger. Anger she hadn't felt so raw since her grandmother's death. It had been building for years, festering into a powerful rage, worsening after her mistakes, after so many supposed friends, sponsorships, collaborators and plans fell through the cracks because of her.
She reached up and grabbed however many darts she could grasp, and plunged it over and over and over again into that smiling face until all it was was an empty hole.
Why did you do that, Eliana? M asked somewhere far away, yet her actions betrayed him, fueled by the frustration of her own inadequacy, forcing her to grab the paper and the surrounding ones near it so she could rip them apart.
She continued until the wall was clear of any printed achievements and the table and floor were covered in torn paper. Surrounded in her own self-destruction, she wanted more. Because she'd already hit rock bottom, and that anger had not yet met its boiling point - it was just starting!
Robotic, she turned to the table in the middle of the room, which held all of her sketches, clays, paints and the very newspaper reminding her of her failure. What would her mother think if she saw her like this? Her grandmother? They'd always been quick to correct her when she gave into the devilish rage, but now she was all alone to deal with the erupting madness.
She grabbed random items from the clutter - the clays and tools strewn around - and grabbed her sketches, ripping them by the handfuls. Anything she could get her hands on was destroyed.
(With her attention zeroed in on that, she missed M's wooden podium jolting off the ground, for the clattering sounded like the tools striking the floor.)
Stepping back, huffing and puffing, she stared down the mess of a table, the littered papers at her feet. She felt she could breathe again, like she wasn't submerged under scorching heat. Her mind was cleared.
She stared at her hands, disbelieving, denying it was true. That she wasn't losing it. But it was all her and she knew it.
She slowly stepped backwards away from the mess. "What's wrong with me?" she cried, the anger sending shudders through her hands, despite her trying to keep it down.
(Her back hit M's chest. The wooden podium, which was now levitating centimeters from the ground and abandoning stability, sent M teetering backwards.)
Eliana spun quickly, eyes bulging whilst she reached out for M, desperate to save the last trace of normalcy that remained. But her fingers just barely grazed the cold porcelain torso, and she watched in horror as the sculpture slammed into the ground, head first.
It made an ear-shattering noise, one which came eons later after the shock wore off. Eliana looked at the white powder and shards trapped beneath his body like it was gushing blood.
M...
She looked at her hands again, at those trembling hands that were the cause of her undoing. The cause of so much pride and agony to her life that it ignited the final flicker of madness she needed to finish the job.
Thump!
Her head whipped around. A hammer had fallen off the table, sliding beside her foot. She swept it up and stalked towards M. But before she struck, she touched his chest, hoping for comfort.
But all there was was an empty chest of porcelain, void of where a heart should be. A terribly crafted, half-assed attempt at building a replica of humanity - but realism was never her forte, was it? No, no, her strong suits always lied in the fantasy, in the dreams her mother would tell her before bed. This sculpture was her own sorry attempt at creating a companion that would have a hand to hold but never a mouth to speak.
Pathetic, wasn't she?
She peered into those empty, unfeeling eyes.
She was alone. Well, she'd always been alone. But now, no one was watching, no one cared. They'd turned away. They'd blinded themselves to her nonsense. Through scandal and heartbreak, her reputation was tarnished and the talent that had carried her for so many years was gone.
The faulty replica of M gave her no solace. Where it was comfort she sought, apathy she received. She didn't know why she even bothered sculpting him. She would never be able to do his presence justice. He was not an idea. He was a full-bodied personality that had followed her since she was thirteen. Nobody could replicate him. Not even her.
She raised the hammer above her head. "You're not real. You're not anything. Just a thing I can't use anymore." And she swore she saw fear in that expressionless mold. Breathtaking fear that might have made her pause if it had not belonged to a creation so imperfect.
She swung. The collision of the hammer on the porcelain was the catharsis she'd needed. The crashes each strike made further and further relinquished the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
"You're selfish." Another to the shoulder, sending cracks down the arm.
"A waste-" One to the torso, which crumbled from the impact. "-of talent."
"No good-" Hit. "Useless- "Hit. "Has-been!"
The final blow was to his face, rendering whatever features had been there unrecognizable.
Exhaustion slowed her attacks. She panted, dropping the hammer with a resounding clang, staring down the pile of rubble that was left from the failed creation. A powdery mess of shards dirtied the floor, right beneath her.
Met with her final act of impulsivity, Eliana stumbled back, tripping over her feet and collapsing on the ground.
She gathered her bearings, scurrying on her knees to her creation's side, staring at M with her shaking hands hovering him. "Oh god, what'd I do?" she whispered, taking a look at her messy, destroyed room, then the figure.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She palmed where his cheek would be, getting rubble and porcelain residue on her fingers. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mumbled, hands covering her face. "I messed up. I didn't mean to - I swear, I didn't mean to." But that wouldn't repair what she'd done.
"Mom?"
Heat struck the whole of her body, shudders running along her spine. Never had there been a moment she so badly wanted to take back.
Turning around, she forced a grin and faced her son, whose head was peeking out from the attic door. "Sorry, baby." Warm tears rolled down her cheeks, to which she looked away to conceal them. "Did I wake you? There was a damn spider in here. You know how I get with those damned things."
But Noel saw through her lies, through her forced sanguine.
Surrounded in her destruction, by littered, torn paper and junk spilling from her desks, his Mother stood, beside the statue of M - the very spirit that provided his mother comfort whenever she lacked it.
His heart cracked.
He climbed into the room, not minding the mess whilst he stalked towards her. Upon his ascent, she went into a ramble, wiping her palms anxiously on her jeans while trying to explain herself.
"You should've seen it, Noel." A nervous splutter of a laugh. "That damn spider was movin' fast - faster than any spider I've ever seen - reminded me of an - an - an ostrich! You love ostriches. Right?" Another laugh while she rubbed the back of her neck, her lips quivering. "Those damn birds. Do you - do you remember that one time we saw 'em at the zoo? I can - I can take you there for - for your birth..."
Noel dropped to his knees and wrapped his smaller arms around her waist, and almost instantly she slumped against him, breaking down. Her chin settled on his head, hands gripping to his shirt. She sobbed and sobbed and squeezed him for assurance.
In silence he held her, gazing blankly at M, at the rubble that was left of him. Another mark of change, as his mother struggled to pick up the pieces.
If M wasn't enough to help her, then what would be?
**
I split this chapter in half, so expect another update really soon. Thank for you reading. <3
(Also, if you're hoping for geographical accuracy, you shall be incredibly disappointed. I can't even accurately describe my own city and I've lived here all my life. :,O This is very much a fictional interpretation of Gary, Indiana, lol. I'm also bullshitting the art talk. Please bear with me, I'm trying here. 😭)