Page 5 of Pieces of Me

I wish you’d never listened to those people.

They’re nothing but hopeless believers,

reckless dreamers,

and willing liars.

They’ll convince you you’re special—gifted in ways you never even thought. They’ll motivate you, inspire this so-called “passion” inside you. And you’ll trust in them enough to pour your heart, your hurt, onto a canvas.

A canvas that will later be entered into an art contest.

He’ll show up that night, completely unexpected. He should’ve been at physical therapy for his busted knee, but he’ll be there—for you—even though you told him not to.

It’s the only time you’ll see him in a suit, and even though he’ll be on crutches, he’ll still walk in with that same cocky swagger you used to find annoying.

His face will light up when he sees you, the remnants of his cuts and bruises from the attack still there but far less prominent.

The way he looks at you...

The way he watches you...

The way he smiles at you…

But it’s nothing more than a fleeting moment shared in silence because when he sees your work, the brightness in his eyes will dull, and the light inside you will diminish.

He’ll never have seen that piece before, never have been an eyewitness to the pain of your past.

After a long moment of staring at the work, the boy who captures your breath by his mere presence will turn to you, his heartbreak filling his eyes with liquid sorrow he’ll never release. But then he’ll smile when he turns to you, tells you, “You’re going to win.”

“You haven’t even seen the others.”

“I don’t need to.”

Want to know something crazy?

You do win.

And the pride and elation that will ooze from him makes you feel like you’re six years old again, dancing on a stage, forcing your feet to move in ways you’ve rehearsed dozens of times before.

That night, you’ll celebrate with the people who mean everything to you—him and Esme and Zeke—in the same diner, the same booth where you spend almost every Wednesday losing yourself in pointless emotions. Afterward, he’ll ask Esme to drop by the hardware store on the way home. He’ll buy hooks and nails, and then you’ll go home together—to the pool house in Esme’s yard. A pool house that Zeke and Esme had turned into yours while you were at the hospital, unwilling to leave his side. He’ll place the canvas in the middle of the bed and force you to look at it with him.

It’ll be the first time you’ve worked with mixed media—paint and ink and torn paper along with whatever else you could find. It’s three separate panels, each panel seen through a window. The first one is your mother asleep on the couch, her arm hanging off the edge, fingers curled around a bottle of alcohol. Next to the empty bottle is a tiny pair of ballet shoes.

The next is of her in front of the stove; flames set ablaze behind her as she smiles down at you, blood pouring from her nose, her mouth.

The last one is her on her deathbed, sunken eyes, ashen skin, and black wings made of actual feathers.

In front of each window, a girl watches the scene from the outside looking in.

In each panel, your mother ages.

You do not.

It’s dark and depressing, but it’s you.

And it’s me.

“It’s phenomenal, Jamie,” he’ll say. And you’ll nod because it’s all you can do not to fall apart. “So…” He’ll crack the tiniest of smiles. “Did you wear a tutu with those ballet shoes, you adorable little shit?”

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