Strength
Disclaimer: Characters belong to the wonderful Francesca Lia Block. Not mine at all.
Authors Note: Hm, yes. Violet (from Violet and Claire) is briefly in this. Because, um, I like her. There's some Tarot-y stuff, but it shouldn't be too confusing, I included explanations that I got from my Tarot book. There's one more note at the bottom, but you'll get to that later.
"I know somebody who can help you."
I blink and look up at Claudia who is suddenly standing in my doorway. I haven't seen her in weeks.
She looks around my room at the paints and brushes strewn about, colorful canvasses, plates of uneaten food that my mother kept bringing up to me. She repeats, "I know somebody who can help you." Then, even softer, in a tone I've never heard her use before, "He helped me."
She wants me to leave my room, my sanctuary where I've been hiding, been painting smoking painting, endlessly, until the smoke grew thick in the air, forming new shapes for me to portray in color.
She wants me to go with her to see this robed man, the one who gives her flowers from Mexico and India to drink and bends her bones until they crack. He focuses energy. Makes things easier.
When her soft fingers close around my too-thin wrist and her eyes fill with tears, I agree to go.
I sit in the small waiting room next to Claudia, flute music drifting above our heads. She reads a magazine, I can't stop thinking about Tarot cards. They haunt my dreams, the images flicker in the faces of people I see. And I can't help thinking that I was wrong before, when I named myself the Hanged Man, the Queen of Cups. When I named myself Strength. Every time I try and paint them, my image seems distorted. I've thrown away dozens of attempts.
I fish through my purse and pull out my worn deck of cards. I shuffle and flip the top one up; the 8 of Swords, reversed. Lack of direction, disorientation, and aimlessness.
The lady at the desk doesn't look up as she calls, "Laurel." I stand and walk through the beaded curtain and down the hallway.
I am about to reach for the doorknob when it opens by itself and a girl walks out. Our eyes meet and instantly I think, The Hermit. Not for her appearance, she is dressed entirely in black, down to her fingertips. But her face, her eyes, those would be the parts of her that would show through if I painted her. There is determination in her eyes, and it overshadows the pain that's also there. We don't talk, but I feel that if we did, she'd understand me, understand why I need to bury myself in my art until nothing else can touch me.
She smiles slightly and moves past me, reaching out one hand to press into my shoulder as she goes.
Heat seeps through my thin t-shirt and into my skin where her hand touched and I feel like I have just been blessed. I sink against the wall next to the door, breathing deeply. I realize the cards are still in my hand and I automatically shuffle, flip the top one up. The 5 of Staves; Life-struggles; strife and overwhelming obstacles; a struggle prior to an improvement.
And I think, maybe that was the problem all along. I wanted it to be instant, but Strength is something I have to work towards.
I drop the cards back into my purse, knowing that I won't need them for a while, knowing that I'll have other things to focus on, and I walk into the small room, ready for someone to fix me, but most importantly, ready to fix myself.
*The Other Author's Note: Right. So, incase you were wondering: The Hermit. Prudent withdrawl from the crowd to pursue a solitary vision; silence; independence; contemplation; detachment; hidden wisdom; deliberation; secret inspiration. That's Violet, right? Well, mostly. Review, please!