Page 24 of Shattered Echoes

Shaking off the melancholy, I make my way to my studio, facing the backyard that has massive windows that let in a bright wash of sunlight. The need to lose myself in something creative stirs within me as I glance around at the organized chaos of the studio. Canvases of various sizes lean against the walls, some completed, others waiting for inspiration. Brushes rest like colorful soldiers in their jar, and the air smells faintly of oil paints and turpentine.

Taking a deep breath, I gather my materials–a blank canvas, a set of charcoal pencils, and a small stool. I position myself in front of the canvas, the encounter with Antonio playing on a loop in my mind. His haunted eyes, the faint lines etched into his features, the sadness that seemed to cling to him like a shroud–these were the details I wanted to capture.

As I sketch, time seems to melt away. The world outside my studio fades into insignificance, replaced by the quiet symphony of graphite scratching against canvas with each stroke. The insistent buzzing of my phone breaks my reverie on the nearby table. Glancing at the screen, I see Henry's name and photo flashing. With a sigh, I pick up the phone.

"Hey, Henry..."

"Hey sis, how're you holding up?" His familiar voice is instantly comforting.

"I'm... managing," I reply, hoping the strain I feel doesn't show too much in my tone. "Actually, I ran into Antonio today. Up at our old hill spot."

There's a weighted pause on the other end. When Henry finally speaks, his words are cautious. "I see. How…how did that go?"

I recount the encounter, describing the tension, the unspoken questions, and Antonio's veiled confession about the alcohol. By the time I finish, a heavy silence hangs between us.

"Colette..." Henry starts, his voice thick with a mix of regret and empathy. "I want to tell you, I really do. But Antonio's situation is complicated and personal. It's not my place to divulge those details without his consent."

I’m disappointed, but I understand. I’m still curious, though. "So, you will not tell me anything?"

"I'm sorry, sis," Henry says, his tone softening with regret. "I know you're curious, but this is something Antonio needs to share himself, when he's ready. I've already betrayed his trust enough in the past."

I sense a pang of guilt in his tone at the vague reference to some prior misstep. I consider pressing further, but I know my brother well enough to recognize the resolve in his voice. When he's decided, there's no swaying him.

"Fine, I understand," I concede, unable to mask the disappointment in my words.

"He just…looks weird, and I was curious to know what has been going on with him," I finish.

Henry lets out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "You have no idea."

I chuckle. I think I do, brother. I know what it feels like to be so stuck in your own head, desperate to get out, but knowing that no one is ever going to understand. I can understand because I have my own problems, and I can’t imagine wanting to discuss them with anyone.

We chat for a few more minutes, catching up on other matters before hanging up, but my heart isn’t really in the conversation, and Henry notices.

"You’d keep an eye on him for me?" Henry asks.

“Of course. Nice talking to you again, Henry. Thanks for calling.”

"Hey, that's what brothers are for," Henry replies with a hint of a chuckle. "Take care, Col." He hangs up.

With a sigh, I pick up my brush and resume my portrait, pushing Antonio out of my thoughts.

8

Antonio

Dear Antonio,

Life after rehab isn’t exactly what I expected it to be. To be honest, I do not know what I expected. Not like I did it before. This is all new to me. I mean, I’m literally writing a letter to myself…

The scratch of pen on paper sounds like a battlefield drumbeat in the sterile silence of the living room. The grandfather clock in the corner chimes once, a solemn reminder of another minute wasted.

I stare at the almost blank page, the weight of Dr. Sharma's "therapeutic exercise" like a lead ball on my chest. “Write a letter to yourself,” she said. “Unpack the mess.” Easier said than done.

I remember my days in rehab, the white walls that mocked me with their sterility, and the mattress that felt like a punishment for crimes I didn’t remember committing.

…I thought rehab was supposed to feel like a fresh start. Instead, it felt more and more like solitary confinement. I hated every second. Especially getting clean. The worst part was getting clean, and every day there, I wan quit. Looks like I underestimated my ability to see something through. I bet you would be proud of me…

I look up from my scribbling, taking in the massive, lonely house. Seemed so long since anyone lived here. Seems so long since Leo and I ran through the corridors. How is this any different from solitary confinement? This house is as dead as a cemetery, kind of how I feel on bad days.

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