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Son.
I’m not her son. Not her son-in-law. Not even her son-in-law to be.
I am a Lancaster, and my place is not with them.
I take a step sideways, and then another, until I’m completely out of her grip. Without looking at Justin, or Julia, I straighten my shoulders and push my way through the gathered crowd.
Before the mindless chatter takes over my senses, the last thing I hear is Julia’s strangled cry.
NINE
JULIA
Almost a year ago, I agreed to donate several pieces of original artwork to the Youth Artists Society. Some for them to sell as a fundraiser, and one to put on display.
I got a call this morning advising me I’m still one piece short, and they need it by the following Monday. Something contemporary, they requested, and that really shows what color can do.
The color black is thought to be a shade that results from theabsenceof color, or the complete absorption of the light around it. It’s stark and bright in its absoluteness. Whites and creams, they all blend together. If a white istoobright, it will eventually blind you. When lights flash in front of your eyes, it leaves an echo. Not so with the dark. You can adjust to black, learn to see, and eventually, live in the darkness.
In other words, black is black because it welcomes everything inside itself, and with no way to share it with others, turns it inwards instead.
Black is the ultimate use of color.
An adequate analogy for depression, I think. You can’t share your pain with others, can’t process the dark to let the light filter out, so you take it all inside you until you can’t breathe from being suffocated with it.
Charcoals and pastels are my favorite medium to work with, but I love the texture you can get with paint. When you paint with acrylic colors, you can feel the emotions in an artist’s work. You can run your fingers across the canvas and be cut on the sharpness of their edge.
If an artist is good enough, you can leave the mundane existence of your world and step into theirs instead, if only for a moment.
My canvas is the darkest of blacks.
I could have used a pre-made—a canvas made with black dyed fibers instead of white—but I wanted to see the brushstrokes in the background. I used a brush with thick, wide bristles, doubled, and, in some places, tripling up on my coverage. The grain is smooth and even though, like the wood on a tree, sawed in half and sanded down to be used for our pleasure.
It’s kind of how I feel right now—cut in half and worked until I no longer resemble myself. They didn’t use a thick grain to shape me, either. That would have been too messy, too fast. One brutal swipe with a thick-grained paper, and you’ll be bleeding all over the floor. No, they used the finest sand they could find. Alone, one grain won’t do any damage at all. But continuous pressure has pushed me down until I’m a shell of what I once was.
A mighty oak, now a trinket for another’s enjoyment.
I ran my fingers through the paint to feel the steady strokes under my fingertips, and left a broken streak down the middle instead.
I didn’t fix the smear. It seemed fitting, as that’s where the girl’s heart will lie.
The rest of my piece is a work of shades of grey. That’s how we live our life, or so Justin has tried to explain it to me. Remi, he only sees things one way. Black or white. Us or them. But Justin? Justin lives in the in-between lands—he lives in the shades of grey. Justin still thinks that everyone could be happy if we just tried hard enough.
Justin is a fool.
The woman in my painting is crying. Or she would be if I could find her face. But no matter how many times I bring the brush to canvas, I can’t make her features appear. They blur and blend and bleed together, until all you can see is the outline of her person, but not of her herself.
My girl was an angel, once upon a time. She floated amongst the clouds and stars, happy and at peace with her purpose. Her job was to catch all the prayers on their way to heaven, and deliver them, to up above. But nothing lasts forever, not even utopia, and one day she got tired, no longer able to carry the burden of her wings.
They droop and drag behind her; no longer white, but dark and dingy. The weight of them bows her back until her head sags on her shoulders. She tries to hold it up. She’s an angel, after all. One of God’s chosen. But even with her hands under her chin and her fingers stretched out on a face she can no longer feel smiling, she can no longer hold her head up straight.
Her pose is not a pretty one. Her wings, they’re cumbersome, but unlike Lucifer, she cannot cut them off. So, her bones break through the surface, barbed and serrated, her weak human flesh no match for her gift-come-curse from the heavens. Her wings split her back until she bleeds, but still, she cannot be freed from her mortal toils. She is an angel, after all, and angels were made to endure.
At first I thought she was sitting in a puddle. That it had rained so hard, it had pushed her from the skies. But that wasn’t the way. She drowns in an ocean of her own making; the salt on her skin is the salt from her tears.
When it dries, if you run your cheek across it, her tears will be sharp enough to cut you. If you cry, your tears can join with hers.
My angel girl is beautiful in her breaking.
