Page 51 of Blank Canvas

I stare at the screen until I lose focus. Until my eyes glaze over and my thoughts swirl into a vicious hurricane. One after another, I take a deep breath. Try to settle the erratic line of my thinking. Sending a text with onlygoodbyein the message could translate a hundred ways.

Goodbye, I no longer want to speak to you.

Goodbye, I never want to see you again.

Goodbye, we were obviously never friends.

Goodbye, you’re an asshole.

Or the one I don’t want to think, but can’t ignore.

Goodbye world.

I shake my head at the last one. Shake off the dark direction my thoughts took. Shelly and I may not have shared everything, we may not have fully exposed our pasts, but I don’t picture her harming herself. Not with her sunny disposition. Not with the brilliant smile she flashes the world. Not with the long line of people who love her. She would never hurt herself. Right?

Fuck.

Why can’t I be a better person? Why can’t I step up and own what I feel? Tell this woman, this phenomenal woman, how I feel abouther.Tell her she invades every waking moment of my life. That the kiss we shared is all I think about. That I still feel her lips on mine when I close my eyes. Still see her starry eyes. Still picture her in my home, in my arms, nestled against my chest. That I still smell her in the couch fabric and haven’t slept in my own bed since that night.

Why haven’t I told her any of this? Why haven’t I acted?

Because I am a fucking coward. A chickenshit. A pathetic excuse. Rather than opening up and letting her in, I cower in the corner and shut out the world.

Any chance I had at a friendship with Shelly in the future has flown out the window. Because Shelly just cut ties with one word. In a text message, no less, because I won’t speak to her. I shut her out and she locked the door for good. Threw the key in the landfill.

A red, hot dagger pierces between my ribs. I smash the heel of my palm to my sternum and curl my fingers into a fist. I drop the phone to the floor, drop my head to my knees, and rock in place on the couch. Fist my hair and tug until the pain steals my vision. Gasp for the breaths that refuse to fill my lungs.

“Aaaah!” I scream until my vocal cords strain. Then I scream again. Louder. Not giving a damn what the neighbors hear or think. I bolt up from the couch, scoop my phone from the floor, and throw it at the wall. I grab the next thing in reach, then the next, and throw them across the room.

Pain and anger are poison in my veins. Seeping slow and steady into my bloodstream, the marrow of my bones, every atom and cell. Turning everything black. Dark. A shadow of its former self. And I let it. Allow it to consume me. Swallow me into a never-ending abyss. I deserve nothing less.

I dash up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Enter my studio and scan the room. Study the countless drawings and paintings along the walls, on the floors, on my desk and easel. Each and every one of them inspired by the same person. The woman I wouldn’t open up to because of past insecurities I refuse to face.

“Fucking idiot,” I scream into the room. “Dumb. Fucking. Idiot.”

Stepping farther into the room, I stand inches from the canvas on the easel. Stare at the stormy, dark-blue backdrop, the strategic gold splatters, the fine, faint white lines forming a half face. My Andromeda.

No, not yours. Shelly was never yours. She never will be.

I fist my hair and scream at the canvas. Scream at the pain I inflicted on Shelly and myself. Scream until my vocal cords shrivel and my lungs exhaust themselves. Then, I take the canvas in my hands. Grip the wood frame until it bites my skin. Rotate it in my hands, lift my foot from the ground, and crack the frame over my knee. The canvas doesn’t tear, which only serves to fuel the flames of my anger.

Stomping to my tools, I dump them on the floor, drop down on my knees, and dig for the spackle knife. The wooden handle grazes my fingertips and I grip it until my knuckles whiten. I lay the floppy canvas on the ground, hold the edge with one hand, raise the blade in the other, and freeze.

The room blurs. My lungs quiver. The hand harnessing the blade trembles.

I don’t want to do this.

Goodbye.

But I have to.

Goodbye.

Have to erase every piece of her.

Goodbye.

Have to let the idea of her go.

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