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I glance at the arrows buried in the deer’s flank. The blood flows into her fur, letting the pain out. Proving that she exists. “Pain is evidence we’re alive.”
I expect Colleen to nod or make some bland comment before moving on, but she hesitates, and her expression grows troubled. It’s the same look she gave me after I wrote an essay last semester about the implicit violence in still lifes of fruit. How am I meant not to see bloodshed in pictures of gashed open plums and knives covered in red, sticky juice?
“One might argue that pain isn’t evidence that we’re alive. Love is,” Colleen says.
Laughter bubbles up my throat and bursts out of my mouth. That’s a good one. Love makes us feel alive? I’ve been painfully aware I’m alive my whole life, not lovingly aware. Besides, when was the last time we even mentioned love in this tutorial? Every painting we study is about tragedy, blood, violence, despair.
In other words, life.
That’s the way things are, not the way we pretend they are on birthday cards or in ads for cell phones or Christmas movies. It’s the reason I’m studying art history. All the despair. Hashtag relatable.
Colleen doesn’t laugh with me. Neither does anyone else in class.
“Oh, you’re serious.” I glance left and right and realize everyone’s giving me strange looks. Have I given too much away about myself by mistake? Is everyone realizing what a weirdo I am? I hug my ribs with both arms. It feels like all my carefully concealed scars are suddenly on display. My tutor looks more worried than ever.
“Kahlo paintedThe Wounded Deertoward the end of her life,” intones a bored-sounding student behind me. “She’d been cheated on by her husband and was in chronic pain from a bus accident when she was younger. She was witnessing the breakdown of her aging body. The arrows represent her suffering.”
Colleen hurries to praise the student for their answer, but I fail to see how it’s meaningfully different from mine. Life is suffering? That’s what I said.
The class moves on, but I’m still turning over what Colleen said about love being evidence that we’re alive. I didn’t feel very loved when my mother left me alone in a dark, empty house for hours and days on end. There’s no love in the dark.
At the end of the tutorial, Colleen asks me to stay behind. She leans against the desk while I stand awkwardly in front of her, clutching my satchel.
“Is there anything troubling you, Vivienne?”
Tyrant’s wicked smile flashes before my eyes. “Nothing different from usual.”
She folds her arms and sighs. “I’m worried about you. Your interpretations of artistic intent are growing darker and darker.”
“Are you talking aboutThe Wounded Deer? It was just one answer.”
“Every essay you’ve written for me is about pain, or how suffering is the only emotion that can be trusted.”
I frown at her. “That’s not true. I wrote an essay about the joy expressed in Millais’sOphelia.”
“Vivienne,” Colleen sighs, sounding exasperated. “Your thesis was that she was happy because she was about to die. If you wore black clothes and heavy eyeliner I’d presume that you were a tortured romantic or going through a nihilistic phase, but I’m worried this is something serious.”
I’m not a goth girl, so she’s going to interfere in my life? That seems unfair.
“Have you thought about talking to someone?”
I answer without thinking. “A therapist? But I’m fine now.”
Colleen raises her eyebrows.
Shit. I said I’m finenow. I just narced on myself by admitting that I’ve had problems in the past. Heat and energy rise through my body. Colleen is trying to stir up trouble when what I want is to be left alone. I’m not about to kill myself if that’s what she’s afraid of. I have plenty of goals and plans for the future. I never cut so deep that there’s no going back.
Outside the tutorial room, I spot Carly and Julia waving to me over Colleen’s shoulder. I forgot that we’re supposed to be having coffee together, but I’m instantly relieved that I have a reason to leave.
“Sorry, I’ve got to go.” I grasp the strap of my satchel and walk out of the room. Colleen calls out my name, but I ignore her and walk quickly down the hall with my friends.
“What’s going on there? Is your tutor giving you a hard time?” Carly asks with a concerned frown.
Visions of knives are dancing in my mind. I remember how joyous I felt in the cemetery, snatching at that boy’s knife. I wish I’d grabbed hold of it and sliced my palm open.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “It’s nothing. She just doesn’t like my interpretation of her favorite paintings.” Forcing a smile and a brighter tone, I add, “The sun’s out. Let’s sit on the grass while we drink our coffee.”
All day, I pretend to myself that Colleen’s questioning and judgmental looks don’t bother me, but they cling to my body like a fog I can’t shake off. She wanted to know if something was troubling me, and I could have told her about Tyrant. I could have said,Tyrant Mercer has been forcing me into his car and fucking me raw, and I’m never sure if I said I wanted it to happen.He doesn’t care if I want it to happen.That would have made her sanctimonious eyes widen, and she would have reported him immediately to the college and the police. But Tyrant’s not the problem.
