Carpet that should have been vacuumed yesterday. Dishes piling in the sink, seeming to multiply in revolt of ignorance. Clothes that have dried, unwashed, after lake swimming, taking on that sour odor of heat, sweat and summer breeze. Linoleum with thin layer of fur. Bathtub streaked brown from the cleansing of dirty bodies, an ever losing battle to fight the natural conditions of filth and disease. Masked with sprays, lotions, soaps, body washes, toothpaste, lipstick, blush, tampons, and Summer’s Eve. Dog feces collecting in the yard, hatching place for newborn flies. Mind knowing the consequences, concerned with more pressing matters.
Living room filled with deceiving pieces of art. Paint by numbers. Two wolves howling at the moon. A single dolphin playing on the ocean waves, streaks of ten different shades of blue somehow made into the miracle of a mischievous porpoise. Three tigers, their dots for blue eyes seeming to follow the watcher. Accusing, unforgiving, savage eyes, unappreciative of the life bestowed.
Soon she saw the formula, the secret of these mystical time killers. Like Einstein must have felt, or else similar to an acid head who takes one hit too many, his mind finally splintering into a million pieces. One song, listened to again and again on headphones with no sound. Eyes blank, or else seeing something too profound for nine to five, two and a half kids, mortgage payment, one and a half car, bath before bed, laugh track imitating zombies to comprehend.
Saw it first in the sky at sunset. Took a mental photo. Drew imaginary light black lines surrounding each hue. Colored them in with tiny pots of paint, brush dipping and stirring. Collected the thick paint from the side of the oval container. Number thirteen. Pale purple paint splattering itself, unabashedly, in grandiose streaks across the heavens. Number two. Dark blue smears, less abundant, contrast to the purple. Then black, pale pink, dark pink, yellow, dark purple and grey. Trees black against the skyline. White highway lights on light brown, medium brown, dark brown poles.
He had never hit her. Raised his fist, saw the terror in her eyes. Lowered it. Spat on her, called her biting names, cursed her barren womb, broke dishes, ignored her, left for days without calling, cheated, sighed, shook his head, hated her, loved her, loathed her.
Saw it in the leaves of the trees. Three, sometimes four shades of green. Tiny, straight pale brown paint for stem. Beige, brown, white trunk.
Birthday today. He turned thirty-four. Received her kiss with a look of disappointment and grumbled as he shut the door. Packed his lunch of Spam, Ritz, Jell-O, and orange juice. Pulled on dirty coveralls.
Saw it in the face of her dog. Too many colors to imagine. Intricate, tiny black lines that would require a magnifying glass and a brush with bristles as small as a human hair to fill in correctly. Four colors, but dozens of shades of brown, black, beige and white to accurately capture her likeness and beauty.
Birthday today. No money for a nice present.
Mechanic hands. More complicated than most. The knotty scar across his thumb that was red, pink and yellow all at once. The veins, pale blue, seeming to rise too close to the surface. Deep pink crevices, tinged with black, that cut deep into his palm. Short, translucent fingernails, light peach skin underneath, dark white cuticles, tiny flecks of white. Always, even after scrubbing, the soft lines of brown, embedded dirt and grease, along the edge of the nail that would probably never disappear. The tiny marmalade blotches that covered his fingers. The deep gold ring, his chain to her, placed on his finger after he had showered each night.
Work day over. Gravel crunching on truck tires. Car door slamming. Boots stepping in now-dry dog feces. Front door slamming, dirty lunch dishes clanging, mouth sighing. Eyes accusing, unforgiving, savage, unappreciative. Beds unmade, floors un-swept, animals unfed, walls unwashed. Body filling the living room entrance, spotting the moderate, gift wrapped package.
Head lowered as he unwraps the piece of art. Face turning red as she feels his eyes gazing from the huge painted fist, with all its shades of hard work, sacrifice and rage, raised against a tiny stick girl with long flowing hair painted entirely in black. A shadow, a one dimensional object, not worthy of the vast array of colors which she granted to the simplest of beings or objects. Ants, houses, rivers, grass, cats, mice, churches, libraries, toothpaste tubes.
Eyes studying lowered head. Picture resting in tired hands, brain alternating rapidly among understanding, sorrow, anger, love and hatred. Body rising from chair, seeming to reach the ceiling and strain against the weight of the walls.
He had never hit her. Raised his multi-colored fist. Saw the terror in her eyes. Felt the terror in his. Lowered it.
Saw it again in his eyes. Took a mental photo. Drew imaginary light black lines surrounding each hue. Not simply white. A yellow, milk-like coating that could be achieved by mixing water and a tiny drop of paint. Thin, miniscule red lines that would take precision and skill to reproduce. The tired, grey and black subtle circles beneath that she had never noticed. Blond eyelashes. Thin white lines barely visible. Three different shades of blue. Tiny circles and squares of each hue. The black tiny of the pupil. A tiny white dot in the center of the pupil that meant…something? The light of his eyes. Perhaps a reflection of the floor lamp, or maybe something else.
Always the light. Producing different shades on leaves, making the fading night sky a canvas of color. Turning her hair from indoor black to outdoor dark brown with highlights of red and gold and grey. Reflecting off the ocean waves, dancing and sparkling and singing, masking the deadly treachery that lay underneath.
Always the light. Her world was full of it.
Krista O'Connell resides in Nova Scotia, Canada where she recently completed her Bachelor of Education in high school science and English. She is still searching for that elusive full time job. Her poem, "The Unknown Artist," was accepted by Pottersfield Portfolio but never made it to print as the magazine lost its funding. She has previously published an educational article in Learning Through History. This is her first published work of fiction.
|
|
