The entire drive home, my mother nagged that the show was a waste, that the performance was awkward and bizarre. I didn’t know it then, but looking back now, I guess I’m just as awkward and bizarre as that artist was. When her face grew angry as she tossed the red tint, I felt her pain. When her tear-filled eyes grew narrow as she splashed black, I felt her emptiness. When she stood before her finished work, breathing rapidly with eyes shut, blue paint still dripping off the edge of the canvas, I felt her loneliness.
I guess my first piece was an attempt to mimic hers because I felt every little bit of her emotions. As a child, I really didn’t know what those emotions meant, but I know I felt each one acutely.
As I remember every detail of the second painting, goose bumps rise on my arms and I cross them in an attempt to hug myself. This image was inspired by the first and only love of my life. Grey covers the entire sixteen by twenty inch canvas. Red with the hint of a few white strokes creates two faces—a masculine profile staring down at a feminine face. She’s afraid and slipping away from everything and everyone, but the moment her eyes lock with his, she instantly feels safe, no longer in the dark world she’s lived in all her young life.
At the age of seventeen, I was more than just the problem child that my mother couldn’t handle. Suspension after suspension from my fair share of girl fights—at the elite private school my parents sent me to—didn’t place me anywhere near the Daughter of the Year category. After a fight with Blair Bitch, my archenemy, I was sent on one of many visits to the principal’s office. My hair disheveled and face steamed in anger, I sat and waited for my turn to receive my punishment.
As I tried to calm myself, legs shaking and fingers tapping, the hall doors opened. Dark nearly black eyes pinned mine. They met me at eye level as the owner of those eyes sat beside me. He nodded, and his unkempt hair fell over his right brow. “So what’re you in for?” he asked. I answered, giving him every detail of my encounter with Blair. He burst into laughter and I joined in. The best part? He blurted, “The bitch deserved it.” The rest is history.
But history is exactly that.
I fell hard for Eric. He gave me what every girl desired—a sense of feeling loved. I had no doubt in my mind that Eric loved me. I felt it with every thread of my being. We were young and naive. I surrendered myself to him one hundred percent—mind, body, and soul. I gave him all of me. My first experiences in many aspects of my life were with Eric. His love, his touches and caresses… It was more than just the passion he poured out to me, though, that made me love him. Eric understood me, just like Brooke. He didn’t judge me or look at me how others did.
Not until he witnessed one of my episodes. It was in the beginning stage, before I even knew what was wrong with me. I was afraid, and my mind was going crazy with racing thoughts and voices. I questioned everyone that approached and everything that surrounded me. Eric couldn’t handle it. It scared the hell out of him. Instead of helping me through it, instead of showing that his love for me was true, he left me. Alone. When I was at my worst.
That was when I vowed to never let others, especially those who don’t truly know me, see me in a weak state.
I blink the blurriness out of my eyes and allow my tears to roam free. I’m alone in this shed. There’s no one watching, I remind myself. My lip begins to quiver as I edge closer to the third painting. I swallow and stare blankly at the unfinished piece. This was the last time I connected a brush to canvas. It was a month after Brooke’s death and I needed to pour out my anger the only way I knew how. But that was the day of my first hallucination.
When you lose the only person who made sense in your life, the only person who helped you fight your battles, the one who helped you with your struggles, the only person you felt sane around, your entire world comes crashing down. And that’s not even the best description. You become vacant, hollow. You can’t breathe. The world around you is a complete haze; nothing is clear anymore. You’re constantly fighting to live because you were only truly living when they were around.
How can she be gone? One day Brooke was here, in this very room, laughing and teasing me about my eye shadow being too dark. Then the next day, she’s gone, never able to share that smile on her face with the world ever again. She didn’t deserve it. I hate what they did to her. Hate it.
The fresh memory stabs my thoughts, the way she was found, left for dead. I feel nauseated. Quickly, I grab the trash can by the desk, bend over, and dry heave into it. There isn’t much coming out of me since I’ve barely eaten anything in weeks. Once I think I’m done, I place the can aside, sniff back my tears, and stand. The easel by my bedroom window is calling me, the blank canvas begging me to pour out my heart. With shaky legs and an unsettled stomach, I manage the short walk across the room. My fingers tremble as I reach for a brush, mix the white and black pigment, and slowly raise it to the canvas.
Before I know it, the brush is gliding along, creating. A dark grey sky represents my new life, how it’ll never be sunny again. Reddish tones develop into an ocean, a storm. The red represents my pain and suffering. The storm represents my anger. Anger because she’ll never live to see graduation, to walk down the aisle and have the wedding she always dreamed of. She’ll never find love or bear children of her own. These things were taken from her.
Full-blown tears stream down my face, but even through my blurry vision I continue the strokes of the brush. In midstride, a low, familiar voice stops me in my tracks. “Jenna.” Hair on the back of my neck stands on end. A chill roars through me, and I shake my head. No. This can’t be happening. I’ve heard voices before, unknown voices. But this one is far too familiar. Slowly I turn to face it. My body shudders as all of the air from my lungs disappears. Brooke. Brooke is sitting on the edge of my bed. She looks sad, helpless.
I try to find a way to breathe as she stands. “It’s okay, Jenna. I’m here.” Brooke reaches out a hand. I stare at it in disbelief.
How can… How is this even… I can’t even blurt out a simple thought.
“Brooke?” I swipe away the tears so I can have a better look. Even if she isn’t real, I get to have this, but I have no idea for how long. “How are—” I wet my lips, soaking in this moment. “You’re alive?”
She nods gently. “I can be, if you let me.”
“What does that mean? Of course I’ll let you. I want you alive, Brooke. I’ve missed you so much. I love you. Let’s tell Mom and Dad.” I reach out to her, but she pulls back and shakes her head. “What’s wrong, Brooke? They’ll be happy you’re here and safe. We thought we lost you.”