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  “I would, after all, that was how I met you. When my art teacher noticed that I was becoming more withdrawn from my friends, she suggested that I visit you here at the church. I never would have come, but I became truly desperate to save my own life. That fight with my mother when she said, 'You are nothing and you will always be nothing,' that's what made me break down and come here.” Repeating the words my mother said to make me truly hate her sent a chill through my body. “I went to you Mrs. Schneider at a time in my life when I was contemplating suicide for the first time. You helped me believe that it didn't matter what anyone thought about what I was doing, even if it was my mother.”

  Mrs. Schneider must have sensed how my mood had changed talking about that time in my life. She changed the subject asking me about my day so I told her about the girl I saw. I couldn't stop thinking about how scared the girl looked. I wished that I could just talk to her. I talked about the building that took my attention away from the girl and said I thought about going inside.

  "So she ran around the corner and she was just gone? Do you think she went inside the building?" Mrs. Schneider asked.

  "I don't know. I didn't even think about that. The beauty of that old building caught me off guard and that was what my attention focused on. Why didn't I just go in? I could have helped her."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  "I don't know, but I wish I had the chance to at least try. She was all bruised and she was crying. She just looked so scared. Yet, she was so beautiful," I said trailing off into my own thoughts.

  I realized that I let the word beautiful slip from my mouth. It was quite obvious that it wasn't used in the same context as if I were to say that Mrs. Schneider was beautiful. However, even I wasn't exactly sure how I meant it. I remember when I was a teenager and all the girls were having boyfriends and crushes, I just didn't have any desire to do any of that. No guys appealed to me in the slightest way and I felt like there was something wrong with me. After I chopped my hair off, there was a rumor that I was a lesbian. When I was seventeen and I still hadn't had any interest in dating, I started thinking the rumors were true. However, I had never had a crush on a girl either. I guess I had seen my mother in and out of so many relationships, that I didn't want any part of it.

  “She's beautiful? How do you mean?” Mrs. Schneider asked interrupting my thoughts.

  “Well, she has these eyes that I could see from twenty feet away they were so blue. She just looked so innocent, and even though she was all beaten, I could somehow see the happiness hidden inside.”

  "What about the building? Do you think you're going to go in?"

  "Maybe. I mean, I think I want to. I'm curious to see what's inside. I love old architecture. I know that it's not going to be in the same condition as it was when it was first built, I just want to see the way the rooms are laid out. Do you think I should go in?"

  "I think that if you feel that drawn to it, I think you have no choice but to go in. Just be careful, you may not be ready to see what's inside."

  "I know. Street kids have probably taken it over but I think I'd be alright. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

  By the expression on Mrs. Schneider's face, it was obvious that I didn't fully grasp what she was saying. I could tell that she was considering elaborating but for some reason decided not to.

  "In those few minutes you saw a building that was falling apart and a girl that was beaten and afraid, yet both were still beautiful in your eyes. Willow, I think in those few minutes, you saw yourself."

  I thought about those words on the walk home. In a way I had seen myself, only reversed. I mean, the building was falling apart on the outside, I was falling apart from within. No one could see through the confidence wall that I displayed to others. No one that is, except for Mrs. Schneider. I had always put on a happy face in front of people. I put my best foot forward and never let anyone see the scary truth.

  As I turned down my road, I watched some children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Seeing how happy they were at that moment made me feel so content inside. They were only about five or six years old and they had yet to discover the harsh reality of life. They had not seen the injustice of humanity or the cruelty of their peers. They were the billboards of innocence. People should really look more at children as an icon of society. They were the true heroes. They are fearless, ready to take on any obstacle that stands in their way. They are curious, always asking questions trying to understand things beyond their realm. They are imaginative, always telling stories in such an exciting tone. Best of all, they don't know hate. It doesn't matter if you're black, white, gay or straight, as long as you're willing to play in their world, you are accepted.

  As I approached the door to my apartment building, I turned to look at the children one more time. Without realizing it, I was smiling, thinking about how lucky these children truly were at this moment in their life. I stepped into my building, the heavy door slamming behind me. I laid my journal on the kitchen counter and saw the red light of my answering machine flashing. Because of the gallery and food delivery places, the telephone was the one piece of technology I hadn't banned from my life. I stared at the blinking light debating whether or not to push the button. It couldn't possibly be the gallery, they called before I left for the woods. That only left one possibility. I closed my eyes and pushed.

  "Willow! Are you there Willow? Geez, you'd think you could find ten minutes to call your mother. Damn it Willow, put down that stupid paintbrush and answer your phone." Then there was a few seconds of silence and barely over a whisper, "Stupid bitch, she'll always be nothing." Then a click as my mother hung up the phone.

  I hoped that my ears were playing tricks on me. I played the message three more times before accepting the fact that my ears had not deceived me. My mother had actually called me ‘stupid, bitch and nothing’ in less than five seconds. I could feel the rage overwhelm my body. I picked up the answering machine and screamed furiously as I threw it and watched as it smashed against the wall and fell to the floor. I could feel my face become scarlet red with anger as my blood pressure rose.

  I walked through the living room, past the bathroom, to the back closet. I grabbed the box and went out into the living room where I sat on my brown suede couch and set the box on my lap. The anger still burning inside of me, I opened the wooden box and looked inside. Sitting on top of years of tangible memories, was my knife. I removed it from its sheath and looked at the blade through blurry, tear-filled eyes.

  Without a second thought, I pressed the blade into my forearm and took a deep breath in. I cut a line about four inches long and waited to feel something. I didn't cut deep enough, I couldn't feel it. I cut along the same line, this time pressing harder as I gouged deeper into my flesh. Finally I could feel it, the pain that let me know that I was alive and I did exist. I watched as the anger, pain and the sadness released itself in the form of warm red liquid. Finally, relaxed and at ease, I let go of the knife and as it fell on the floor, I smiled. No more pain, no more anger, just numb. I fell asleep as I thought about how lucky I was that an inanimate object could bring such peace into my life, even if it was only for a moment.

  CHAPTER 2: THE WALL

  I woke up early the next morning when the light coming through the window shattered my peaceful sleep. I twisted uncomfortably not quite sure of my surroundings. When I sat up, my head rushed and I realized I never made it to my bed. I stretched with my eyes still closed and as I got up to go to the bathroom, I tripped over the box. Oh no. I felt panic building, no, no, no. I rushed to the bathroom refusing to look at my arm. If I didn't see it, it didn't happen. I most certainly did not tear apart my arm, again. All because of what? My mom, again? I turned on the shower, my eyes avoiding my arm. If I didn't look, it didn't exist, I reminded myself again. I stepped into the shower and the hot water hit my back with a shock. I quickly lathered my body with the soap and then I started to wash my hair. When I opened my eyes again, I saw a trickle of pink water going down my body and I knew I couldn't ignore the cut while it healed over the next couple days. It had to be taken care of. Damn it.

  I stepped out of the shower after turning it off and proceeded to dry off. I guess I had to look now. When I saw what I had done, it was so matter of fact. A numbness to the fact of what the blood truly meant. Merely a paper cut, not a gaping flesh wound. I reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out the alcohol and started the all too familiar procedure of cleaning out the cut. I cringed when it got to the deepest part of my injury but it was nothing I hadn't felt before. I stood there staring into the mirror until the alcohol evaporated from my arm. This one, for sure, needed stitches but there was no way I could go to the hospital. Everyone would know how messed up I was.

  After so many years of doing this, I had my tricks. I reached for the super glue in the cabinet and watched the thin stream of glue find its way inside the cut until I could help push the skin together and help seal the flesh and wait for the glue to dry. It was so strange working on myself in this manner. I was so disconnected from reality that it was like I was fixing someone else's arm.

  I knew what was coming next, the guilt, but I quickly rushed to the bedroom to get dressed. If I occupied my mind with enough other stuff, I would trick my brain and skip right over the stage of guilt. I smiled as I put my arms into my favorite hoodie and thought about today’s agenda. Gallery, paint, write to Serenity, buy a new answering machine. I laughed at that last thought. What was it? My third answering machine in the last six months? All because of her? The electronics store must wonder why I am making the same purchase every time I am there. All their eyes on me while I picked up yet another machine from the shelf and brought it to the register. All their eyes on me, because of her. If they could onl
y see what was underneath my sleeves, because of her.

  Why was my mother the only one who could send me into such a stream of self loathing and hatred? Why did I hack up my body on a regular basis because of her? What the hell was I thinking? My mother, the one person who should love me, was the cause of such disgusting behavior. It was so easy to blame her, almost too easy. However, I knew at this point I knew it was a cover, a lie I had been telling myself for far too long. I knew it was my fault. It was me who allowed her to have such power over me. It was me who put the blade to my arm. It was me who let her win. It was me who was feeling like this. Guilty. Obviously the plan of skipping this stage didn't work and I collapsed to the hardwood floor as the guilt overtook me.

  I don't know how long I stayed on the floor in a pile of nothingness. Long enough to ease the guilt so I could move without a wave of emotion pushing me down again. In a haze, I finished getting ready for my day. Hair and teeth brushed, bag packed with the necessities of the day, I was ready to go.

  When I walked out the door, the cold air took me a bit by surprise. I had expected it to be much warmer with the sun shining so brightly through my window. I still decided to walk to the gallery instead of taking my Jeep. It was only down the road a bit and the cold air might wake me up from the stupor I was in. So I walked quickly down the road past the alleyways where the transients stood around barrels with fires lit inside. It always amazed me that the tourists never took notice to just how many people were homeless in this little town. It seemed to me to be an overwhelming amount for the overall population of 3,327 in New Jollie. Maybe I noticed because I could very well be one of them someday. I mean the paintings I sold in a month was definitely enough to keep me afloat but at any moment the people who came to this place could stop buying my art, then what would I do?

  I tried picturing myself on a cold day like today huddled around a burn barrel and going to the local shelter for some hot food and a cot to sleep on. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was one that often crossed my mind. I never took my job for granted. I knew the minimal success I had here, was never warranted. The first time I had sold a painting at the five-hundred dollar base price, I was beyond shocked and that feeling never went away each time I went to pick up my check.

  The gallery was almost like my second home. Not because I was there a lot, but because every time I brought a painting to be hung and sold, I left behind a small piece of myself. Miss Morgan, the director, gave me a spot in her gallery when no one else would. She praised me each time I brought in a painting saying how talented I was. More than once she told me that I should bring my art to a bigger gallery to have them sold. Someplace to truly make a name for myself. To be completely honest, I couldn't imagine a life outside of New Jollie. I was okay with the idea of spending the rest of my life here.

  “Hi Willow,” Aaron greeted me as I entered the gallery. He was a tall and skinny guy a few years older than me that has worked at the help desk of the gallery since before I started there.

  “Hey. Have a lot of tourists today?”

  “No more than usual. Here's your pay,” he said as he handed me an envelope. I opened it and took out the note inside. Two paintings sold this week. Good job. Next week there's four spots reserved for you. Miss Morgan.

  I smiled as I waved goodbye to Aaron and returned to the streets of New Jollie. Miss Morgan must have known that I had taken a day off. To ask any other artist featured in the gallery to produce four paintings with decent quality in one week would be absurd. However, give me a single day off and four would be an easy task. Of course, I was one of the few lucky ones who didn't have to work a full time job. Doing what I loved to do, what I was born to do, was my only job, and it was quite possibly my only reason for existing.

  I grumbled to myself as I walked into the electronics store. As quickly as possible, I grabbed the same answering machine model off the shelf and brought it to the check out with my head down.

  “You know, if they keep breaking on you, you should probably try another model,” the cashier said casually.

  “What?” I asked as my heart jumped. She had noticed. “Oh, no. I actually like this one, even if it has its flaws.” Like not blocking calls from my mother, I thought as I half smiled and handed the cashier my money.

  Now that I was out of the store, it was almost amusing to me that she had noticed my repeat purchase. The guilt I was feeling earlier was definitely fading. I tucked the store bag into my backpack and started off to the woods. Writing, and confessing, to Serenity always made the guilt subside to the lingering dull ache I always felt.

  I stopped as I saw some bright papers stapled to some of the telephone poles and trees along the roadside.

  Open Mic Night

  October 27

  Poetry, Music and Comedy

  Limited Spots

  Call for more info

  I couldn't help but roll my eyes. The annual Open Mic Night in New Jollie was, for some reason unknown to me, a big deal. Usually it was just a bunch of teens goofing on each other while on stage with an occasional second or two of actual talent. I was sixteen the last time I went to watch. Apparently there was one year where a real music producer came to watch, and ever since, open mic was seen as a chance to be discovered in this small town. Personally, I thought the owners of the club started that rumor to get people to go to Open Mic.

  When I reached the woods, I lay down underneath the trees and stared up into the multicolored leaves. Fall has always been my favorite season. I remember when I was younger, my mother told me that the leaves changed color because they were dying, and that's why they eventually fell off the trees. I refused to believe such a depressing explanation to such a miraculous thing, when one day I had an epiphany. In some ways, death can be beautiful too.

  The contentment I felt staring into the leaves was extremely pleasant, no matter how undeserved. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that this was the closest thing to actually being inside of a painting I would ever get. All the vivid colors, swirling about in the light breeze was beyond beautiful. I wondered if any of the people I saw around the burn barrels this morning were ever able to break away from their daily survival instincts to appreciate the beauty that existed all around them. Or was that too impossible? Had the girl? Weird, I hadn't even thought about her until now. Was it only yesterday that I saw her? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Why was a two second glimpse of her still invading my mind?

  I sat back up and pulled out the journal along with my pen and stared at the blank page before me. Where do I even begin?

  Dear Serenity,

  Well, last night was too much for me and I did it again. My arm hurts a bit. I already went through the guilt stage of cutting, so I'm hoping this doesn't become a letter of self-pity.

  I know I need to stop. It's just so hard and right now isn't exactly the best time to go through the withdrawals from it. Do you remember the last time I tried to stop? It was when I first started writing to you. I would sit on the couch for hours with the knife in my hand, the internal conflict was worse than I had ever experienced. The best comparison I can think of is holding your breath so long it hurts. Your head is screaming for air, your lungs aching from the deprivation. Eventually you have no choice anymore, you either breathe, or you die. It wasn't too long after that when I had no choice but to give in. Cutting is more than an addiction, it is a necessity. Just like breathing.

  I just thought of something. I can't help but wonder what I would write to you about if I stopped cutting. Boring day to day stuff? Would you want to hear my incredibly mundane story?

  Okay, I think its time for me to head off home. I have four paintings to create by next week.

  You are, and forever will be, my serenity.

  Willow

  I laid down one last time. A silent goodbye to the impossible beauty that surrounded me. Some days it was a struggle to leave this place. Part of me wanted to stay where I was until the bitter cold of nightfall pushed me out. I grumbled audibly as I packed my things into my bag and headed home. I thought about the different things that had inspired me on my day off. Attempting to pull the emotion I felt out of each moment. The autumn leaves, the building, Mrs. Schneider, the kids playing hopscotch, my mother, and finally, the girl.