didn't feel any better than the black and white.
As I made myself some coffee in the kitchen, I looked at the two paintings that were destined for storage. Interesting, I thought, definitely a first. I couldn't create what I wanted to say in a single painting of Sara, but somehow, the two together held the entire story I wanted to say. I was finally pleased with what I had created. It finally felt complete, nothing was missing here.
I still had two more paintings to do for the gallery. I wasn't going to submit the ones of Sara, I would need her permission first. I spent the rest of the afternoon creating two paintings to be submitted to the gallery. I could bring them to the gallery in the morning, and tell Miss Morgan how the meeting went. I hadn't made the decision to go until that thought crossed my mind.
Suddenly, I was distracted by the phone ringing. I thought about letting the machine get it but chose to answer it. Possibly, it was Miss Morgan letting me know that Mr. Patterson was canceling the meeting. I picked up the ringing phone and took a hopeful breath in.
“ Hello?”
“ Willow. You answered,” my mother said surprised.
“ Hi mom. I'm getting ready to leave, can I give you a call later?”
“ No, you can't. I only need a minute okay?”
“ Alright. What then?” I asked irritated.
“ Thanksgiving,” she started to say.
“ I already told you I can't come. I have too much stuff going on.”
“ I know. That's why I am coming to New Jollie. I'll be staying with you for three days, Willow. I won't disrupt your plans and we can still have Thanksgiving together.”
“ Mom, I don't think that's a good idea.”
“ No arguments. I'll see you in a few weeks.” Then the sound of the dial tone.
Total disregard for what I wanted, as usual. She wouldn't disrupt my plans? Hardly. Just her presence was enough of a disruption. What if I wanted Sara to come for Thanksgiving? Okay, so that wasn't even a thought until now, but still. Then again I would have to find Sara first, or she would have to find me. Maybe she wouldn't want to see me again.
I made my way to my room searching for the box. Frustrated by not being able to find Sara in the morning, knowing it could only be on her terms that we saw each other again. Anger that my mother so rudely invited herself to my place for three unbearable days. I sliced my arm three determined times. Not deep, just enough so I could feel it and see the bubbles of red seeping along the cut. I watched as the blood pooled itself on my arm creating parallel lines equal distance from each other. Organized chaos forming along my arm.
This was a different type of cutting than the other day. Over the past few years, I started putting my cutting into three different categories. The first I called, ‘illusion,’ which was what I had just created. Cut barely enough to break the skin and have the blood make its appearance. This was the cutting I usually did just to take the edge off of the emotions I was feeling. It wasn't in a downward spiral like that of my ‘reality’ category.
‘ Reality’ was what I had done the day my mom left that message on my machine. Cutting to the point of needing medical attention, usually invoked by a quick wave of emotions too strong for me to handle. I called it ‘Reality’ because, at the moment of cutting, that was exactly what I was searching for.
The third category was what I called, ‘insanity.’ This was a series of cuts deeper than that of ‘illusion’ but caused by happiness rather than some negative emotion. That was why I called it ‘insanity,’ even to me, it was strange that I would cut at a high point in my life, rather than allowing myself to enjoy the happiness. In some ways I didn't feel as though I deserved any good that came my way.
I looked at the clock and saw I only had about an hour before my meeting with Mr. Patterson. I took my shower, cleaned my cuts and got dressed in something comfortable, but dressy.
As I made myself some coffee in the kitchen, I looked at the two paintings that were destined for storage. Interesting, I thought, definitely a first. I couldn't create what I wanted to say in a single painting of Sara, but somehow, the two together held the entire story I wanted to say. I was finally pleased with what I had created. It finally felt complete, nothing was missing here.
I still had two more paintings to do for the gallery. I wasn't going to submit the ones of Sara, I would need her permission first. I spent the rest of the afternoon creating two paintings to be submitted to the gallery. I could bring them to the gallery in the morning, and tell Miss Morgan how the meeting went. I hadn't made the decision to go until that thought crossed my mind.
Suddenly, I was distracted by the phone ringing. I thought about letting the machine get it but chose to answer it. Possibly, it was Miss Morgan letting me know that Mr. Patterson was canceling the meeting. I picked up the ringing phone and took a hopeful breath in.
“ Hello?”
“ Willow. You answered,” my mother said surprised.
“ Hi mom. I'm getting ready to leave, can I give you a call later?”
“ No, you can't. I only need a minute okay?”
“ Alright. What then?” I asked irritated.
“ Thanksgiving,” she started to say.
“ I already told you I can't come. I have too much stuff going on.”
“ I know. That's why I am coming to New Jollie. I'll be staying with you for three days, Willow. I won't disrupt your plans and we can still have Thanksgiving together.”
“ Mom, I don't think that's a good idea.”
“ No arguments. I'll see you in a few weeks.” Then the sound of the dial tone.
Total disregard for what I wanted, as usual. She wouldn't disrupt my plans? Hardly. Just her presence was enough of a disruption. What if I wanted Sara to come for Thanksgiving? Okay, so that wasn't even a thought until now, but still. Then again I would have to find Sara first, or she would have to find me. Maybe she wouldn't want to see me again.
I made my way to my room searching for the box. Frustrated by not being able to find Sara in the morning, knowing it could only be on her terms that we saw each other again. Anger that my mother so rudely invited herself to my place for three unbearable days. I sliced my arm three determined times. Not deep, just enough so I could feel it and see the bubbles of red seeping along the cut. I watched as the blood pooled itself on my arm creating parallel lines equal distance from each other. Organized chaos forming along my arm.
This was a different type of cutting than the other day. Over the past few years, I started putting my cutting into three different categories. The first I called, ‘illusion,’ which was what I had just created. Cut barely enough to break the skin and have the blood make its appearance. This was the cutting I usually did just to take the edge off of the emotions I was feeling. It wasn't in a downward spiral like that of my ‘reality’ category.
‘ Reality’ was what I had done the day my mom left that message on my machine. Cutting to the point of needing medical attention, usually invoked by a quick wave of emotions too strong for me to handle. I called it ‘Reality’ because, at the moment of cutting, that was exactly what I was searching for.
The third category was what I called, ‘insanity.’ This was a series of cuts deeper than that of ‘illusion’ but caused by happiness rather than some negative emotion. That was why I called it ‘insanity,’ even to me, it was strange that I would cut at a high point in my life, rather than allowing myself to enjoy the happiness. In some ways I didn't feel as though I deserved any good that came my way.
I looked at the clock and saw I only had about an hour before my meeting with Mr. Patterson. I took my shower, cleaned my cuts and got dressed in something comfortable, but dressy.
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