Page 3 of Tethered Fates

Excited, I snatch up my industrial black face mask and spin it around my finger like a tiny propeller. My feet move to a beat that’s all heart, no rhythm. I spin too fast and knock over my spray paints. They clink together, and a crazy bright blue topples, creating circles in the dirt as it whirls.

Inspiration hits, and I jolt to a stop. “Erica, are you thinking what I am?”

Nearly buzzing out of my skin, I clumsily shove my mask on.

“Outer space! And the heads can be comets,” I snicker, the sound muffled, and snatch up my white to get a base ready. “It’ll be amazing. I bet you anything.”

I shake up my paint.

The ball rattles against metal.

And I drift into a place of wild imagination, where I can soar, and all I need is the hiss of colour being freed and something resembling a canvas.

It takes hours to create my universe of jewel tones, toxic hues, and blinding pigments. There are no neat edges. It’s torn and sucked into the swirling middle of an orange-rimmed black hole.

Planets rip, moons collide, and gases burst outward like the wings tattooed across my chest, the feathers peaking out from under my vest top.

My arms ache from stretching, my fingers from pressing down on the nozzle. I’m sweating and covered in paint and dust.

There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

Exhilarated, my thoughts running a mile a minute, I scramble to pick up more colours: silver, bronze, and gold for stars. Pink for—

I snap back, dropping my cans and clutching my arm to my chest as if I’d touched an open flame. Panting, I stare at the pink with too-wide eyes, bracing for the worst. But nothing happens, because…

I huff out a long, tired sigh.

“It’s just a colour, Erica… just light waves, y’know?” I whisper. Breathe in deep, exhale slow. “Red, green, and blue all mixed.”

With a curse, I shoot my leg back, aiming a kick at the stupid red, green, and blue light waves. “Just a damn colour,” I spit. But I hesitate before my foot meets the paint. Held back by the needle of panic that makes me weak.

I never hesitated before jumping off a cliff, or swimming with sharks without a cage, but for a fraction of a second, I teeter. No longer covered in my paint that helps me soar, but a clinging, sickly shame that keeps me grounded.

“Fuck…” I squeeze my eyes shut, keep squeezing until it hurts. “Fuck this shit. Being sad is fucking boring.”

I swing my foot down, sending the pink skidding into a pile of rubbish.

“I need…” I swallow, clenching my fists, and run my thumbs over my knuckles, smearing wet paint. Wishing I could cover my whole body in its protective layer. “The heads. I need the heads.”

Thrusting my hand into my backpack, I grab industrial-grade glue, the chemical stench harsh enough to burn my eyebrows off, and pour the tacky substance all over the mannequin heads. I stick them to my painting, the sadness fading to the background as I draw on neon-yellow X’s and O’s for faces, then when I’m done I take a step back.

I pause. Time and space pausing along with me.

My spray can slips free from my slack fingers as I drag off my mask to just… become an observer. Allow this moment to sink deep and out and above. Like the universe—filled with the biggest, craziest shit and also a nothingness so vast it’s dizzying.

“Art makes you feel, Erica,” I whisper, amazed that I’m human and real enough to create this. Not in a wanky way.

Or… well, maybe a bit wanky. I am an artist, after all.

Slipping my cracked phone from my pocket, I snap a picture and send it to my brother Thomas.

A moment later, he sends back a picture of a fish tank with a singular goldfish staring at the miniature statue of an old-school diver.

I smile. “Cute.” Then slip my phone back into my pocket.

I wish I could stay here forever and lose myself. Become something other than me—but I’ve got places to get to.

I’m quick to shove on the bomber jacket I discarded when I arrived and sweep up my supplies into my backpack, slinging it over both shoulders and waving to Erica as I head towards the exit.