Page 10 of Under the Lies

I close my eyes, counting to ten. I wasn’t prepared.

I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay.

Of course I’m okay. I want to shake myself to calm down. It’s not like I’ve seen a ghost.

Except, in a way…I kind of have.

With unsteady steps and shaking hands I move back toward the box, reaching for the contents inside. Fingers closing around the first object they brush against, I pull it out.

The well-loved paintbrush feels heavy in my hand.

Twirling it in the light I stare at it, trying to remember the last time I held it.

Too long, my mind whispers.

What was once an extension of my body feels foreign, intimidating. Forgotten.

I’ve forgotten how to hold it. I stare at the brush. It feels wrong and uncomfortable when it used to feel comfortable and grounding.

My parents might’ve made me into a portrait of shallow perfection, but it was through painting that I found my depth.

What would my granddad say if he knew it’s been over a year since I picked up a brush, mixed together paints? That I hadn’t touched a canvas since he died a year ago?

He’d be disappointed. He showed me painting could be an escape.

For years, it saved me. Rooted me to the Earth.

But the desire to create left me when he took his last breath.

His death left me numb. My best friend, here one day and gone the next. I wasn’t ready to lose him and now I don’t know how to move on. I still wait for his phone calls, I still wait for the letters he used to write me.

Each day is supposed to get easier, right? Then how come every day I find myself missing him more and more?

I moved back for a person long since gone. To be closer to the memories, to him.

I’m rolling the paintbrush between my palms when a sharp knock breaks the silence in the apartment. Startled, I drop it back in the box.

The knock comes again. More urgent than the last.

A pair of icy blue eyes and a tailored suit flash in my mind.

Noah.

He’s come to collect.

Walking to the door, I curse my sister.

Ba-bump, Ba-bump, the beating of my heart fills my ears as my hand tightens around the knob.

Resting my head against the cool metal, I count to three.

And count to three two more times before I’m able to open the door.

When I do, the face staring back at me almost makes my knees buckle.

“Oh, Brin, thank God!” I collapse against the door.

Her wide grin shrinks with concern. “Are you okay? You’re pale. Paler than usual.”

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