Page 52 of Blank Canvas

Goodbye.

I brought this upon myself. Opened us both up to heartache. Heartache Shelly doesn’t deserve. But I do.

Goodbye.

Tipping my head back, I close my eyes and let the salty tears spill down my cheeks, my temples. “Give me her pain,” I croak out. “Give me her sorrow, her heartache, her anguish. I deserve it. Not her.”

I drop my head to the floor, grip the tattered canvas in my hands, and crowd it around my face. Again and again, my heart spasms. I accept the pain. Absorb every strike without complaint. Beg for more if it means Shelly feels none.

With each new hit, I rise to my feet. Take my pencils, my brushes, my oils and throw them across the room. I rip the drawings from the wall. Tear them down the middle twice and toss them in the air like confetti. I swipe my arm over the shelves and spill everything to the floor. Punch my fist through one painting after another until my fist meets drywall. My foot connects with the trash bin and scatters debris in a wide radius.

I stop and stare around the studio. Stare down at my fist and watch in fascination as a thick layer of crimson drips from my fingertips. Gaze at the chaos, the shredded sketches, the demolished canvases, the splattered paint. The sight should throw me off balance. Should have me in hysterics. Eager to put everything back in its rightful place.

Instead, I laugh. A delirious, maniacal sound spilling from my throat. I bend at the waist and grip my knees. The hysterical laughter transitions into an unsteady wheeze. I take in the disaster that is my studio and a fresh wave of panic hits. Punches me in the gut and knocks the air from my lungs.

“Damnit.”

I drop to my hands and knees. Grab the tattered drawings on the floor and try to match them up. Try to salvage them and make them whole again. I put all the pieces in a pile. Then create another pile of the decimated paintings. Frantic hands sift through the first pile, trying to match the images and edges like a puzzle. When none of the pieces fit, I move to the next pile. Try to right my wrong.

But I am too late. Just like with Shelly.

Goodbye.

I fucked up and now I am paying the price. “Stupid, selfish idiot. Why did you do this? Why are you ruining every good thing in your life?”

Crawling across the floor, I grab a blank canvas from the stack. Rise to my feet and pad over to my easel. Gingerly set it on the stand. My eyes dart between the debris and the blank canvas, an idea developing.

Much as I should eliminate all reminders of Shelly from my life—most of which are locked in my memories—I simply can’t. So, this is my punishment. To live with mental photographs and videos of her. To paint or sketch her likeness until my digits and limbs no longer work. To torture myself, day after day, because I deserve nothing less. I deserve pain and anguish—mine and hers.

I sift through the catastrophe on the floor, locate some brushes and a handful of paints, and then I start anew. Use bits of the drawings I shredded and add them to the new project. To twist the knife deeper in my chest, of course I recreate Shelly. If this is the only way I can have her, so be it.

Parked on my stool, I paint the canvas a blue so rich, it appears black. Using the scraps, I adhere them to the damp canvas. Create a mosaic of sorts. I rummage through the room and look for other bits I can add to the canvas, tools to add other forms of texture and dimension. Before returning to the stool, I turn on music. Play something other than the typical classical music I listen to in this room. Tonight, I need something to match my mood. Beats and lyrics filled with irritation or fury. Music with grit and rage. Songs to scream and thrash and smash objects to without concerning the neighbors. In the short time I have lived here, they have adapted to the weird guy in the neighborhood.

Loud, violent rock music spills from the speaker. The growly vocals against the fast tempo crowd the room. The hairs on my arms stand on end. The bass vibrates my bones. And the noise steals all potential space for thought.

This… this is what I need.

To not think. To get lost in something. Anything. To forget about what I lost and the pain I caused us both. This may not be the cure, but it will help the time pass easier. Help ease the pain, if only the slightest.

Goodbye.

The seven-letter word will be one I never hear or say in the same context again. I hate it had to be said in the first place. I never wanted to say goodbye to Shelly. Part of me hoped, after enough time passed, we would find our way back to each other. As friends.

Yes, I want to be more than Shelly’s friend. No sense in denying the truth now. If I felt the cosmos collide when we kissed, she felt the intensity ten times stronger. I am not emotionless. I simply feel on a different scale. A scale tipped closer toward numb. Void. But not completely.

“Goodbye.” The word singes my throat and burns my lips. Leaves a rancid taste on my tongue.

I swipe up a piece of a charcoal drawing. Home in on the thick black lines. Without question, this is Shelly’s brow. An arch I memorized weeks ago, when the sun shone on the lateral edge. I brush the tip of my finger over the line. Swallow the pooling saliva in my mouth. Blink and look away for two breaths. Bite the inside of my cheek until a metallic tang hits my tongue.

“Wish we could’ve been more. Wish I was strong enough to be who you want. Who youneed.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “You’re always in here, you know.” I tap my temple. “That’ll have to be enough, for now.” A half-hearted laugh spills from my lips. “Maybe one day, I’ll get my shit together. Maybe one day, I’ll be strong enough, good enough, for you.”

No! No, no, no, no, no.

Get your shit together, Templar. Now. And make this right. Quit wallowing in self-pity and fix this.

My eyes drift around the studio, take in the disaster once more, then land on the fresh canvas. “I fucked this up,” I say to the canvas as if it is Shelly. “Now… I need to make it right. Hopefully, you’ll forgive me. Hopefully, I’m not too late.”

Because this pain… I won’t survive it. Not for long.

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