Page 53 of Face Me Off

Calmness washes over me as I position myself in front of the easel. This world is different from the rigid world of dentistry my parents wanted for me. Here, there are no textbooks, no memorization, no precision tools. Just me, the paper, and the raw emotion coursing through my veins.

I dip the paintbrush in the ink and, without overthinking, make the first stroke. There is no plan. Just the freedom of letting pure emotions guide me.

Gliding the ink across the paper in bold, jagged strokes, I lay the groundwork for the left side of the canvas. I equate it to being on the ice, cutting through defenses, and dodging expectations. Each mark is a small rebellion against the life mapped out for me.

“Take that, Dad,” I mutter, pressing harder as I sketch the outline of a figure. “And this one’s for you, Mom.”

Mom doesn’t annoy me as much as my father, but she never sticks up for me. Not once has she gone to bat for me. It’s frustrating.

My mind quiets, focusing solely on the rhythm of my hand and the emerging image. Everything about the day fades away until it’s just me and my art. I pour everything into each stroke and let my emotions bleed into layering and building depth until what’s created is half an image of a sad face. The emotions pour off the page. But I don’t stop. I dive into the other side. It’s like I’m on autopilot, beginning with outlining the hard edges of the mask. My hand moves along the planes as the jester’s mask takes shape.

I sit back and stare at my creation. The drawing is raw and unfiltered. Messy and imperfect.

Just like my life right now.

The light and dark contrasts balance each other and capture the essence of the subject’s core character.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for the perfect smile business after all,” I whisper to myself, a small smile tugging at my lips.

I run a hand through my tangled curls, not caring about the smudges of ink I’m probably leaving behind. My eyes drift back to the drawing and take in the chaos and beauty of it.

The sad undertones of the female hidden behind the jester’s mask mimic my life. The jester’s mask smiles brightly, almost triumphantly, but the eyes tell a different story. They are haunted, yearning, and heartbreakingly honest.

I hadn’t set out to create a mimesis. But I poured everything I had into this creation: sadness, fear, and the facade of being happy.

The corner of my mouth lifts to a smirk. I just found my theme: The Hidden Stage.

A giddiness like none other bubbles inside. I have yet to create the side pieces to complete the collection, but ideas jump at me, all related to the centralized theme and centerpiece.

“If I had a sibling, what they would think about this?” My voice is barely audible as I speak into the void. “Would they have fallen in step as I have my entire life? Or would they have followed their heart as I desperately want to do?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered. But a sense of clarity settles over me.

I can’t keep playing by their rules. It’s slowly killing me. All the healthy drinks in the world won’t save me from a mental battle.

I push myself up from my chair and stretch my achy muscles with a deep breath. With one last look, I commit every line and shadow to memory. It’s not just art; it’s a piece of my soul laid bare on paper.

“I know what I need to do.”

Determined, I stride toward the door. It’s funny how I feel ten times lighter than when I arrived. It’s like shedding layers of paint to reveal the raw canvas underneath.

My feet pad across the floor to the living room until I find Amanda still buried in her textbook.

She quirks an eyebrow when she catches the grin across my face. “Hey, Picasso. You good?”

I flop onto the couch beside her, my smile spreading wider. “You know what? I think I am.”

Amanda sets her book aside, giving me her full attention. “Spill. What’s got you looking like you just unveiled your masterpiece?”

I laugh, the sound freer than it’s been in weeks. “Let’s just say I’m done sketching in the margins. It’s time to start painting the big picture.”

“Oh?” Amanda leans in, intrigued. “And what’s your next stroke of genius, Van Gogh?”

“Better. Not only did I create my main focal piece, but I came up with a new revelation.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” I take a deep breath and let the words tumble out before I second-guess myself. “I’m switching my major to Art.”

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