Alone Page 3

  I took the same path home as I did yesterday, a small hope inside of me that I would see the girl again. I didn't see where she hid yesterday, but I was pretty sure it had to be in the old apartment building where I now stood. I can't be sure what exactly compelled me to do it, but I was walking up the steps to the front door. I had to laugh at myself. Of course it would be locked, but there must be a way to get in. I glanced around trying to find the way in when I saw the broken window with no board on the first floor. I took a quick look just to be sure there were no police in sight and when I knew it was safe, I threw my bag in and heaved myself through the window. I landed hard on the cold floor.

  It was dark inside, the small beam of light showed me where a door was so I decided to see where it led. It was a grand hallway, which must be where the front door led. There were numbers on some other doors and a stairway with a tarnished banister. I went up two flights of stairs to the third floor where the windows were no longer boarded up. There was a door with the number 27 on it, I opened it and walked inside. It was elegant, the floors were marble, slightly faded in green and very scuffed and dirty. The walls were covered in graffiti and dirty hand prints, but it still didn't take away from the beauty I saw. There were three windows about eight feet high and around each one, it looked as though someone had taken the time to carve intricate floral scroll work. It was so beautiful and unlike anything I had seen before. There were some pieces missing from the wood, but I could imagine the whole room as it was new. I could tell there were walls that had been torn down. There were breaks in the flooring where one room ended and another should have begun. I turned around and saw a wall that created an entrance way to another room. The wall was huge, twelve feet wide by ten feet high was my guess. This wall was different. It was white, untouched, a blank canvas. I ran my fingers along the wall, trying to picture what was meant to be there.

  I could feel the rush inside of me. The intensity I felt every time a blank canvas spoke to me, showing me what was supposed to be there. I took the pencils out of my bag and began sketching on the wall. Large swooping lines that would be meaningless to anyone else, but I could picture each color and where it belonged on my wall. My hands were working fast and I was sweating, my arms were aching. I pulled a broken, wooden chair I had seen in the hallway to the wall so I could reach higher on my canvas. I’d lay on the ground for the details on the bottom.

  The room was getting darker as the sun was setting and I decided I had no choice but to go. The sketch was nearly complete and I could finish the creation over the next day or two. I got out of the building and headed home once again. There was a spring in my step, but part of me still anguished over the idea that I had wasted nearly an entire day doing what I wanted to do instead of doing what should have been done for the gallery.

  When I got home, I set up the answering machine and got myself something quick to eat. I realized I hadn't eaten since yesterday and I was actually pretty hungry. The phone rang and I ignored it letting the new machine pick it up.

  “Willow, it's Miss Morgan,” I had been in her gallery for six years but she still felt the need to introduce herself on the machine, “I need to talk to you. If you get this before we close, please come down to the gallery. If not, I expect to see you first thing in the morning.”

  I decided to just wait until the morning. There was still a lot of creativity flowing in my mind, and I didn't want to waste it. Plus, it was always fun to keep Miss Morgan waiting. She got a little edgy when you made her wait too long and it never failed to amuse me.

  I pushed the couch to the back wall, set up two of my easels in the middle of the room and put a blank canvas on each. I grabbed the phone as well. I wanted to make sure that I wouldn't be disturbed and it had been over a week since I had spoken to my mother, she'd be more determined than ever to speak with me. I hoped that I would just get the machine as I dialed the number.

  “Willow?”

  “Hi mom,” I said defeated.

  “What's been going on with you? I've been leaving messages.”

  “I know. Sorry, I've been busy.”

  “Right, I know what that means.” Did she?

  “So what was so urgent mom?”

  “I was wondering if you planned on coming down here for Thanksgiving.” Her voice sounded hopeful and I almost felt bad that I was about to ruin that.

  “No, I don't think so. I have too much going on right now. I have to have four,” I started to explain what I had going on when she interrupted me.

  “Whatever Willow. I am still your mother you know.”

  “I'll talk to you soon mom,” and I hung up on her.

  I turned on the overhead lights, turned off the ringer to the phone, and sat on the couch. The conversation had gone much better than I had expected. I couldn't believe that she still thought of herself as my mother. I called her mom out of habit more than anything else, but she has never truly been my mother. She never cared a damn thing about me. The name she gave me was proof of that much. I pushed her out of my mind and stared at the blank canvases.

  I waited for the feeling again, wondering if it would come or if I'd have to wait another day. My body was drained from the work I had done in the building. I decided to get the paints ready on a table next to the easels and I sat back down. Nothing was coming, artist's form of writer's block I guess. My mother seemed to have a way of doing that to me. I was used to this but it was always frustrating. I thought about recreating what I was doing on the wall of the building but quickly decided that it would not be as full of emotion on such a small space in comparison. I stared at the canvases, the paintbrushes and the colors of paint.

  Obviously I was going to be up for awhile so I decided to make some coffee. I watched it brew and grabbed my coffee cup and the creamer from the refrigerator and poured myself a cup watching the creamer mix with the coffee into a murky brown. I took the sugar out of the spice rack and the salt shaker fell onto the counter and that's when it had hit me. The inspiration I had thought would take longer to hit me was there and I grabbed the salt shaker to bring it with me over to the paints.

  It was a technique I hadn't used in years, probably elementary school. Mixing salt with chosen colors of the paint would create a sparkle effect. It was difficult in some ways because you couldn't over use it or it would overwhelm the painting, using too little would make it look like a mistake. I mixed it with a yellow color. I painted freehand this time, layer after layer of paint working on the canvas. After about two hours I had created a near replica of the inside of St. Mary's Assumption with the main focus on the organ. I used the yellow sparkle paint for the light that shined through parts of the stained glass windows and reflected itself on the brass pipes. I wouldn't know if I had achieved the desired effect until the next day when the painting had completely dried.

  The second painting came later into the night when I was just about to fall asleep and my head was resting on the side of the couch. It wasn't very comfortable but when I was about five or six, I would fall asleep like this all the time. I had to leave enough room for my mother and her boyfriend to sit next to me so I was left with a tiny space to curl up while watching some movie I probably shouldn't have been watching at that age. That was a time when things were different and I felt like my mom and I were close. Now I know we were close in proximity but nothing deeper than that. I had blond hair that were loose curls that swarmed over the side of the couch. My mother loved my hair and made sure it was clean and brushed all the time. She loved when people commented on how I looked, whether it was my hair or my eyes they commented on, it made her feel special. I don't think that's why I cut it all off, just to spite her. It was just easier to have it short. Just a little gel after my morning shower and I was ready to go. Of course she hated me for it, which did make me like the haircut a little more.

  The painting wasn't of me, but an imaginary, angelic looking child in the same position I had almost fallen asleep in. It was done in mostly dark colors except the child who was wearing a white dress and chestnut colored curls. She looked innocent while sleeping on the couch. It wasn't often I did paintings of people only because I think it's a little strange that someone would want a painting of a person that they don't even know hanging in their house.

  I fell asleep sometime after that, although it was a restless sleep. I was having nightmares again. It was always the same one, where I am painting in my apartment and I keep painting and painting and you could see me age, gray hair, wrinkled face, arthritic fingers, until finally I collapsed and died at an old age. I started having the dream a long time ago and I always woke at the end and never was able to get back to sleep afterward. It wasn't the fact that I died in the dream that bothered me. It was the feeling of loneliness which was overpowering and it lasted throughout much of the next day. The idea of having only my art and nothing else when I died was depressing. Even more so now, as I am getting older and still haven't had so much as a crush. I felt the ending of my dream was inevitable for my reality.

  CHAPTER3: CITY WOODS

  The feeling of depression and desperation caused by the nightmare still hadn't left my mind when I left the house in the morning. I had packed my bag with paints and other supplies so I could work on my wall but as I was walking to the building I realized that my heart just wasn't in it. I had to do something to get my mind on the right track so I could work on the wall and the paintings I had to do for the gallery. I decided to visit Mrs. Schneider at the church. She was usually able to help me with my feelings of despair.

  Although I had been visiting with Mrs. Schneider for years, I had never told her about my cutting. That was such a personal thing and I didn’t really want anyone’s opinion on it. I knew it would be viewed as incredibly wrong, but I couldn’t under
stand how something that made me feel so real and alive at the time could be wrong.

  I had only been inside of Mrs. Schneider's church apartment a handful of times since I had met her. It was a small place that was outfitted more like a studio instead of a full apartment. She was sitting on the love seat when I arrived and she called for me to come downstairs and join her. She was turning off the radio when I set my bag next to the love seat and sat beside her.

  “What's wrong dear?” she asked concerned.

  “I'm sorry Mrs. Schneider, sometimes it feels like I only come here when there's a problem. I don't mean to bother you with my petty problems.”

  “Don't be ridiculous Willow. I love that you trust me enough to come to me. Please, tell me what's troubling you.”

  “Well, I am kind of depressed I guess. I had that dream again last night.”

  “Usually when you have that dream, you're able to work through your feelings pretty quickly. What's happened dear?”

  “I can't help but wonder if it's a dream that's actually more like a premonition. I don't want to die alone, Mrs. Schneider. I'm afraid that I'm destined to be alone, to never feel true love. I don't know what to do to get this feeling to go away. I want to know what it's like to truly be loved by someone.”

  “Well, now that you feel that you're ready to open yourself up enough to a relationship, I'm sure it will come together.”

  “I sure hope so. I want that companionship.”

  “I think what you really need is a best friend.”

  “I've got you though,” I said honestly.

  “Well, I won't be around forever dear. Don't you have people your own age that you confide in?”

  “No. I've never taken the time to get to know anyone except you. I've always just been content with having just my art, you know? Instead of talking with someone I would just write or paint or do something creative to work through my problems.”

  “A relationship might be a bit too much to handle right now don't you think? I think you should really concentrate on truly loving yourself. You absolutely have to love yourself before you can love someone else.”

  I had heard that many times before. I didn't necessarily agree but didn't want to say so. Just because I don't completely love myself doesn't mean that I don't have love to give away.

  “Willow,” Mrs. Schneider continued breaking my train of thought, “If you don't love yourself and you try loving someone else, you are only going to wind up heartbroken in the end.”

  “How?” I asked skeptically.

  “Well, if you don't love yourself to begin with, how are you supposed to work on your own self-esteem if you're putting most of your effort into a relationship? If you can't work on yourself, you are only going to get worse and that will impact your relationship no matter what.”

  “Good point,” I said defeated. She was right, no matter how much I wanted to deny it.

  “That being said, when you are satisfied with yourself, you will be able to be yourself in a relationship with absolutely no reservations. You won't feel the need to hide anything which is one main ingredient in a relationship, honesty.”

  “I don't even know where to start fixing myself though. You know some of the things that I have been through. My mother mostly, but I don't know if I can forgive her for the things she's done, Mrs. Schneider. Some things are unforgivable.”

  “Nothing is unforgivable Willow. Forgiving someone doesn't necessarily mean allowing them back into your life and pretending the past never happened. Forgiveness allows you to take control again. You release the hold the person had on you. If I were to mention your mother in a positive light, what would your internal reaction be?”

  “Anger, disappointment, disgust....do I need to continue?”

  “If you were able to forgive her, simply hearing her name wouldn't have that effect on you any longer. You would have the power, not her.”

  When I eventually left Mrs. Schneider's place, I wasn't so depressed, but I was very confused. Loving myself, forgiving my mother, leaving the past behind, they all seemed like a good concept, but how was I supposed to accomplish that? Was that the answer to finally be able to let go of the knife?

  I couldn't dwell on those thoughts. I had a lot to do today and if I was going to work on the wall, I had to get myself together and focus. When I reached the building it was just after nine in the morning. I pulled out my supplies and laid out what I needed, took out my pallet and mixed a few colors I knew I would use. As I looked at the wall, deciding the best place to start, I wondered if I was biting off more than I could chew with this project. It was too late to think about that though, I had already started.

  I started off with the earthy browns of the tree trunks and some of the leaves on the ground. I worked slowly at first, just laying the groundwork of what was to be done. Making sure I had the shapes of the trees the way I wanted them. I thought more about the story I wanted to tell, instead of the feelings I wanted to convey although they were so closely related. I wanted the breeze to be obvious but not overwhelming. I wanted the sun to shine through the lower branches, but not a midday sun. This was to take place at sunset, where the light from the sun is more of a glowing orange rather than a bright yellow. I wanted what minimal sky you could see to be a cloudless blue. After all, this was going to be my story of peace. This was a story of how things should be, a beauty that is unparalleled and impossible to ignore. A tale of finding happiness in a world so filled with darkness. I used abrasive, forceful strokes that seemed to go against the grain of the beauty of the scene. Each leaf had a series of different colors, making each one an individual entity.

  I had seen enough paintings of autumn scenes to know that I didn't want this to be comparable to any of them. Many artists liked to blend the colors of the leaves and the trees. Almost a smudging of colors that barely defined themselves. I wanted this to be so realistic you could feel the chill in the air. The space between the trees, just barely enough to walk through. The branches on the top of the trees intertwining with the neighboring branches. Uniformity where the sun did not shine through, but cast a shadow throughout them.

  When this painting was complete, I wanted to tell the story of a world where blending in wasn't where peace would be found. The sun wasn't shining through there. Being an individual leaf amongst the trees is where the light could warm you. Swirling around each other but never becoming like the one next to you. Your own colors persevering and not getting lost around each other. This was going to be a world where it was okay to be who you were.

  I worked throughout the day, not thinking about the pain of hunger I was feeling. Not thinking about the sweat dripping off of me or my aching muscles almost too weak to continue. All that mattered to me during those hours was that painting. I was drowning in what was being created in front of me. This world I was inventing was what I wanted for myself, even though it seemed impossible to have.

  Finally complete, I took a step back and looked at what I had done. In the bottom corner I signed my name and wrote its title, City Woods. This was the best piece of art that I had ever created. It was almost surprising to me that it was I who created it. It was the first time that I felt like I did have talent.

  The sun was going down and I realized that I hadn't gone to the gallery yet. I liked to annoy Miss Morgan on occasion, but pissing her off was another story. It sounded like whatever she wanted was important when she left the message on my machine last night. I looked at my watch and realized I had only twenty minutes before the gallery closed. I had been at my wall for over seven hours without even realizing it. I threw some of my things in my bag, but had to leave some of it behind to make it on time. I would come back and get them after I spoke with Miss Morgan at the gallery.

  I ran through the doors and straight to Miss Morgan's office. I knocked and entered after hearing her tell me to come in.

  “I'm sorry, Miss Morgan. I was painting and I totally lost track of time,” I said breathlessly.