Page 36 of Shades of Silver City

I turn to see her beside Reed, whose feet are still firmly rooted to the floor of the tiny kitchen. She reaches up, running her claws through his hair. He shudders, his eyes flitting shut for a moment.

My gut twists, and the urge to rip Alisha’s hand away from my boyfriend rises.

But I don’t.

I’m tired of dealing with them. Tired of being disrespected and belittled. Tired of my entire life, if I’m being honest.

How can I explain to Reed that I can see soul-shades? Or that I’ve been seeing grey ones specifically, which trigger memories of the worst moment of my life? How can I tell him that I’m tired of pretending soul-shades don’t exist? That right now—with all these people, their auras, and the music—I’m incredibly overstimulated?

I can’t.

I can’t risk anyone knowing about my ability, because if the wrong person found out, it could be a death sentence. Although I’ve known Reed since we were preteens, he’s not the best person to confide in. He likes to run his mouth—especially when he’s drinking. Sometimes he doesn’t understand the potential consequences of his oversharing.

The Phantom knows, my inner voice reminds me.

I block it out.

“Are you coming or not?” I yell at Reed over the music, my sore throat protesting, and gesture toward my door.

When he hesitates, looking from me to Alisha, I scoff and shake my head.

“Aw come on, Tasia.” He steps forward, rubbing his neck. “It’s not like that. I just wanna relax and hang out, have some fun—”

“Fuck you,” I mutter as I step into my room and slam the door shut.

I flick on the light switch beside my door, and the tiny room is illuminated. Someone screeches, and two faces I don’t recognize peer up at me from my twin-size mattress resting on the floor. They scramble to use my blanket to cover their naked bodies.

The teddy bear my father gave me topples to the ground. It’s a sad, raggedy thing with matted brown fur and a missing eye.

“Give me that!” I step forward and snatch the bear before they can soil it with their disrespect. “Get out of my room!”

The curly-haired man’s glaze flicks between me and the girl in bed beside him. He shoots me a sheepish grin. “You can join us if you want.”

I exhale a deep breath. “Get. Out.”

With unhurried motions, the couple stands and re-dresses. I close my eyes and count to a hundred, snuggling the bear to my chest. When they finally leave, I slam the door behind them.

The past few days have been too much. I need a release.

Grabbing my mixed-media notebook and artist’s toolbox, I sit on the floor. The single lamp casts warm shadows over my art as I flip through the notebook. A myriad of faces and objects stare back at me as I search for the next empty page.

Once I’ve located it, I snap open the toolbox, and pull out the package of oil sticks. Some colors have been worn down to nubs, but I don’t have the funds for new ones. I snatch a black nub, the most heavily used color of all. My hand hovers above the paper, tracing air circles before landing on the page. I approach my work lightly, since I can add layers and blend later.

Soon, the emotions take over, and the art drowns out the rest of the world. Engrossed in my work, swapping out colors, I’m overcome by a surge of anger. I start applying more pressure to the pastels, making the colors more intense. The textured page absorbs the force. Each stroke in this gritty battle demands energy, force, and attention.

With the absence of blending sticks, I use a sock to vigorously blend the colors. By the time I’m done, my stained fingers ache. My wrist pulsates with pain. Chunks of oil pastels are caked beneath my fingernails. Despite being both emotionally and physically drained, I’m pleased. The final product gives the impression of being made with meticulousness rather than forcefulness.

Using oil pastels is different from painting with acrylics or watercolors. It’s not really painting at all, in my opinion. It’s tactile, requiring a certain amount of force. Pressure is necessary for creating art.

I can relate.

I choose to see life’s pressures as opportunities to be transformed into art, too.

When I finish, I study those recognizable gold eyes staring back at me. Just like the process itself, the man on the page possesses a brutal beauty.

Loud screams of excitement come from the living room, and the noise comes crashing into me, jarring me from my peaceful state.

I snap my art book shut, stuffing it and my toolbox into the closet. My head is a little clearer now, my breaths steadier, but somehow I’m no happier, despite finding artistic release.

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