Turpentine
She sat on the high stool, staring at the blank canvas, looking at the white nakedness of it. She lifted up her hand and reached for it, and let her fingers run over the bumps and ridges, feeling the roughness. She pulled her hand away and looked blankly around her, her gaze scouring over the tubes of paints and the different sized paintbrushes.
They told her she was good at this. They told her that she had talent. But how come she didn't know what to do?
Lifting her head up, her gaze continued and looked over at the people around her, stood in front of similar canvases. The only difference was that they knew what they were doing. They seem confident with their brushstrokes, able and sure of themselves. She looked over at a young woman. She was pretty. She seemed closer to 30 than 20 years old, with a pink headscarf wrapped around her head to hide her hair loss. She was using a paintbrush, and was dipping it into the paint, mixing it together with another colour, creating a whole new colour altogether. Nellie looked on impressed, her eyes bulging out of her head with surprise. She excitedly turned back to her own paintbrushes and paints and repeated the same actions the woman had done previously, first dipping the brush into the red and then into the yellow. She looked curiously at how easily she had created something, and twirled the brush inbetween her fingers. She then eyed the canvas thoughtfully, and as if awaiting for confirmation, looked over at the women besides her, and mimicked her actions by laying the tip of the brush onto the bare canvas. She moved her arm, moving the paintbrush along with it, and watched with amazement as a trail of bright orange was left behind. Electrified, she repeated the action, dipping her brush into the dark blue, and moved it back onto the canvas, once again tracing a line with the paint dipped brush. Her face irked into a displeased frown as she watched the muddy brown colour left behind onto the canvas.
Hadn't she used blue?
But before she could think any more about it, her arm moved, as if on its own accord and she dipped the brush into the white pot, and returned to the canvas now marred with two lines. Following her instincts she traced fine lines of light brown, and without realizing what she was doing, started to paint.
The strokes were taking form on the canvas, and she felt as if she hardly had any control of her hand. She could see the paintbrush dipping into the white paint, making it lighter, or dipping into the darker colours. As if on its own accord, the paitbrush was glidind onto the canvas, every brushstroke different from the other, the varying lines making up the composition. She watched the picture in front of her unfold, watching on, her mouth shaped into a small delicate 'o'. She slowly retreated her arm, allowing her to see what she had painted.
She saw the soft line of a strong jaw. Her eyes followed it up to a pair of soft looking lips, and continued up along a straight nose, and into a pair of warm eyes. Without knowing why, she blushed as she stared into the dark irises, and felt a longing inside of her, a want to stroke this stranger's hair in the picture. She moved back a step, walking backwards, her eyes still firmly attached to the face she had painted.
The questions assailed her mind.
Who is he?
Why did I paint him?
Why is his face so familiar?
She closed her eyes, the thoughts making her head hurt. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to make some sense of this.
She must have known him before the accident. He must've been someone important to her. Scratch that. He must've been someone important to the post-accident Nellie. He isn't anyone to her. If he were, she would have known who he was. If he were, she would have been able to say his name. If he were, why wasn't he here?
She sighed, opening her eyes to look at the painting once more.
She heard the soft patter of light footsteps approaching her. She listened as they stopped by her side. She didn't bother looking around, still thinking of the man she had painted and the questions surrounding him.
"You are very talented."
She turned, only to see the same woman with the pink headscarf that she had studied earlier standing right next to her.
A light blush rose to her cheeks, "Thank you."
She watched as the woman simply nodded, and let the silence envelop them. They stood in this way for moments, both studying the delicate lines, the clean colours, the varying tones.
She turned back to the woman, and studied her headscarf once more. Quite a few people here had headscarves, and all of them seemed to have lost their hair.
Cancer.
She nearly let out a gasp. She still wasn't properly used to it. Sometimes she would be simply wondering about things, and then, suddenly, her mind would whisper the answer to her, making any doubt or questions vanish; her doctor had warned her about it and had said that it was a natural part of her recovery. And it had done just that. This woman had cancer. Cancer.
Your mum had cancer.
This time, the gasp escapes her mouth, and she lifts her hand up to her mouth, still staring at the pink headscarf.
Tears slipped from her eyes. Eyes that were usually strong with determination. Eyes that were usually filled with love and care. She had never seen her mum cry. It scared her. It made her worry. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.
She crouched, her knees pounding onto the floor. Her head ached, throbbed, exploded. She held it in her hands, tears gliding down her cheeks.
"Mum," she whispered, tentatively walking towards the middle aged woman sat on the floor. Everything about her showed sadness, misery, sorrow; the slump of her shoulders, the fall of her head, her hands curled into fists. "Mum," she said, louder this time. The woman's head snapped up, looked up at her daughter. A small fleeting smile appeared on her lips for a few moments, before it was washed away under the flowing tears.
She felt a soft hand on her shoulder, snapping her back to reality. She was curled into a ball on the floor, still holding her head between her hands. She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want to see. She didn't want to feel. She wanted it all to stop.
She didn't say anything. She simply opened her arms. She knew what she had to do. She walked up to her mother, walked into her extended arms. She felt her skinny, yet strong arms, pulling her in. She clutched onto her mother, just as tightly as she was clutching her. She could feel the wetness of her mother's cheek against hers. She twined her arms around her mother's neck, trying to pull her in even closer.
"It's going to be ok," she whispered in her mum's ear, before lifting her hand to caress her mother's head, feeling the soft fabric of the headscarf under her small palm.
The darkness lifts up as she opens her eyes, the light drifting in. She recognised her bedroom.
Her bedroom was bare; no photos, no stuffed animals, no books, no object of sentimental value. Just four blank walls surrounding her, pressing her in. No memories. But that was because she had none to share.
"I see that you're awake," She turned to where the voice was coming from, and recognised her doctor.
He was tall and dark-haired. He had a gentle smile to him, a smile that reached up to his eyes. He would be what some people would call handsome. But even though she found him good-looking, she couldn't bring herself to like him. Not that she wanted to. But in the past few weeks she had stayed here, she had seen the couples. Some were sad, some were happy. Some were hopeful, some were filled with sorrow. Both they all had love. She wanted to feel love. She wanted to be loved. But she had no one.
"What happened?" She couldn't remember much, only that she had crumpled on the floor. She must have fainted. She felt the familiar throb return in her head. She lifted up one her hands up to her temple, and massaged it, trying to soothe the pain, but in vain.
"You fainted. Here, take some of these, they'll help," she looked up and saw two outstretched hands, one containing two small white pills, and the other, a plastic cup filled with water. She grabbed the pill, popped it into her mouth, and then took a big gulp of water, pushing the pill down her throat.
"Do you want to tell me what happened?"
She knew he wasn't asking her if she wanted to tell him or not. He was looking for answers. He wanted to know what had happened. She knew that about him. He was going to find out one way or another. That's what they all did. All the doctors here. They treated her like some kind of experiment.
"I remembered."
As she said it, she heard the surprised gasp. Looking over at the doctor, she saw a shining light dance in his eyes, the corners of his mouth quirked up into a smile. He didn't care if she was getting better or not. He only cared about the results. That's what they were doing. They were trying to make her remember. Every day, they made her sit through different tests, they made her try different things, just to try and make her remember. They knew what had happened to her, of course. But she was like some sort of trial test to them. The more she remembered, the more they gave back to her. She was like a hamster trapped in a cage, and the only way to get out was to tell them. Everything.
"I remembered my mother," she continued. "She had cancer."
She let the silence drift between them before asking the question that was aching inside of her, aching to be let out.
"Is she still alive?"
She watched as the doctor shook his head, and tried to hide the pity that formed in his eyes.
"She passed away right after the accident."
She turned her head to look ahead of her, away from the pity, away from the sadness. She didn't know how to feel. She found out that her mother had died. She wasn't happy, but how could she be sad for a woman she barely remembered knowing? Still, she could feel the budding ache forming in her heart, and felt a single tear roll down her cheek.
"What triggered it?"
Her head snapped back to the doctor. Of course. He wanted more. More knowledge. More evidence.
"Triggered what?"
"The memories."
"The painting, I think. And the woman in the headscarf," she added thoughtfully. He simply nodded his head, as if he knew it all along.
She felt another question inside of her, waiting to be answered. It burned in her throat, demanding to be asked. She gave in.
"Who is he?"
"Who?"
"The man in the painting."
"We can't tell you."
Of course they couldn't. They weren't allowed to tell her anything.
"Was he important to me?" She had to know. She had to know at least something about him.
"Yes," he whispered reluctantly. She looked at him in surprise, not expecting him to give her a direct answer. He smiled a gentle smile, a smile that he always smiled, "Don't tell them that I told you."
And with that, he walked out of her room.
She's back, standing in front of another blank canvas. She had been coming back for the past week, trying to make herself remember. Not really. The doctors were making her come back, trying to make her remember. But she hadn't. No memories.
But she kept painting him.
She still hadn't managed to control what her hand was doing. She simply allowed it to drift over the canvas, watching it as it painted his face that she knew by heart now. She knew every crease and crevice of his handsome face. Every time she finished with one of the paintings, she would stand back, and watch it, her eyes wandering over his features just as they did the first time, and would close her eyes. She would imagine herself running her fingers through his soft silky brown hair. She would imagine the sound of his laugh, the way he would tilt back his head, and showcase his perfect white teeth, the merry laugh tumbling out of his mouth. And sometimes, she would imagine the soft feel of his full lips against hers. When she did, she always opened her eyes, and could feel the pounding of her heart and the warmth of her cheeks.
She took the paintbrush in her hand, and dipped it into the paint, and let her hand take command, let her hand do what it pleased, and watched.
She watched as the paintbrush executed softer lines, using more tame and faded colours than the usual vibrant colours, the blue coming through more than the warm colours that usually adorned the canvas.
When she regained control of her hand, she pulled back. She went away to wash the paintbrush, and came back, putting it back into the pot, joining the other paintbrushes once again. She then moved to look at the painting. A small astonished gasp escaped her lips.
It was different.
Instead of the happy, radiant smile that the face usually sported, there was a thin, sad line, the lips pressed together, as if he was trying to stifle back a sob.
Instead of seeing his warm brown eyes, she saw a pair of closed eyelids, ringed with dark circles gained from a countless number of nights.
And under his closed eyelids, she could see a faint shimmer.
A faint shimmer that was only too familiar to her.
A single tear.
She collapsed.
She could feel the alcohol coursing through her veins, making everything dimmer around her. She felt warm. She felt happy.
"Nellie!" She turned to the person calling her name, and found herself face to face with her best friend, her eyes meeting his soft brown ones. "We should head home, it's getting late."
She looked at him, and then looked at the red cup in her hand. It was filled with a mixture that she didn't recognise. But she knew that it was what was making her happy. It was what was making her forget.
It was making her forget about her mother. How she was going through chemotherapy, trying to beat the illness inside of her that even the doctors knew was impossible to beat.
It was making her forget about her father. How he had left them when he found out that she was going to go through with therapy. When the doctors said that she had barely any chance of survival.
it was making her forget about her best friend. How she had these feelings that she couldn't share with him unless she wanted to ruin their perfect friendship that they had since they were in kindergarden.
It was making her forget about school. Her grades were slipping, and soon, she could kiss any chances of getting into a top university goodbye.
But right now, with the red cup in her hand, she didn't care. She felt safe, warm, happy. And she certainly did not want to leave.
"You can go. I'll stay here."
"Nellie, please. You're drunk," he grabbed her hand, trying to pull her out of the house.
She pulled back her arm, "No. I'm staying."
He sighs and moves bacl, "Fine. Promise me you won't do anything stupid."
"Promise"
His name was Charlie. He was nice to her. He was holding the same red cup in his hand, and he had his other arm wrapped around her. They were kissing, his lips warm against hers. He pulled away, making her groan with frustration.
"Come on. Let's go for a ride."
It was stupid.
It was careless.
It was fun.
She walked behind him as he led her out of the house, and to his car. She sat in the passenger seat, watching him push the car key into the ignition. Before putting the car into reverse, he gave her quick kiss, making her feel warm all over.
They set off into the dark night.
Flashing lights. Blinding lights.
Voices.
"She's breathing! She's alive!"
Something lifting her up.
A pounding in her head.
Darkness.
A steady beep resonated in the distance.
She wanted to open her eyes, but they were stuck together. She tried to move her body. Nothing. No response.
Voices. Just like before.
"There's nothing you can do. She suffered severe internal injuries and we're lucky that she is still with us. We've done all we could. The only thing that can help her now is time."
"It's all my fault," she heard someone mutter. A man's voice. A familiar voice.
"Look son, there's nothing you could've done."
"But there was. I should've forced her to come back with me. If she had, she would be safe," She could hear from his voice that he had been crying. A lot.
"What is done is done. I'm sorry son, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I'll let you say a quick goodbye, since you won't be able to see her for a long time, maybe never. Remember the contract."
"Of course," the voice said reluctantly.
She heard the scraping of a chair, and heavy footsteps walking towards the bed. Towards her.
She feels a soft cheek touching her cold one, and feels the wetness on it, the tears still falling.
"I should have told you. I should have told you sooner," the regret was weighing down his voice, which was nothing but a soft whisper, his breath caressing her ear. "I love you Nellie. I always have. And now it's too late."
And suddenly, the feel of his cheek on hers is gone.
The footsteps were walking away from the bed. Away from her.
She wanted to say something, lift her arm up. Something. Anything to tell him that she was there. That she had heard him. But nothing.
She heard the soft thud of the door closing behind him.
She gasped, her eyes opening. She was back in her room, the white walls surrounding her. She must have fainted again.
Her headache was back, pounding inside her skull. But she didn't care. Because the memories were flooding in.
Her first day at school. How her mum had taken pictures of her, cooing excitedly, and repeatedly checking her daughter's lunchbox to make sure that everything was there.
Her first friend. How she had been shy, hiding in her corner, when a happy bubbly blonde walked up to her. "Hi, I'm Shanna." Before she could say anything back, Shanna had already dragged her towards her group of friends.
Her first kiss. How if was tentative and hesitant, stolen behind the school sheds, just like in those stories.
Her first date. How he had taken her to dinner and had been a gentleman the whole way through. His name had been Michael and had also been he first boyfriend.
Her first lead role in the school play. How she had gotten a standing ovation from the audience and received a bouquet from her drama teacher.
Everything. All the memories.
She could remember.
And most of all, she could remember him.
She could remember the man that she had painted.
Blake.
He was on washing up duty today. Grumbling, he took the towel and started cleaning up the pans and plates, lathering soap all over them to make them shone.
As always, his mind wandered back to her. Everyday, he would wake up, thinking that today, she would remember. That today, the recovery institute would call him and tell him that it was ok for him to come and visit. But then, as the days would pass by, he would realize that today would not be the day. He remembered the doctors words, the sentence playing around in his head.
"You won't be able to see her again for a long time, maybe never."
He shook his head, grabbing a frying pan and pouring washing liquid over it. He couldn't think like that. She was going to remember him. There was still hope. There is always hope.
She was running, running down the streets that were now familiar to her. She could remember everything now. Her home adress. Blake's adress. The recovery institute's adress.
Blake's house was closer to the institute than hers. Besides, even if her house had been closer, she still would have run to Blake's first.
Her feet were pounding against the hard cold pavement, her breath steady as she ran and ran.
He had just finished drying up the last of the plates, and was putting it back into the cupboard, when he heard the doorbell ring. His heart skipped slightly, but he ignored it. He had grown used to it; at first whenever the phone or the doorbell would ring, or if he got a later, his hopes would raise, thinking about the possibilities, and his heart would start beating wildly. But as time went by, he had started to blank it out. Still, deep down, everytime, it was there.
That tiny flutter of hope.
She watched the door open, not sure of what to expect.
She held her breath as she saw the figure fill the doorway, and instantly looked at his face. As she did so, she recognised his angular jaw, his straight nose. His hair was shorter. It suited him. And then, her eyes met his.
His dark eyes were not like she had remembered. In her paintings, they were always full of life, radiant, happy.
But here, now, looking in them, she saw sadness, despair and gloom pieced together in the brown. She searched, hoping for more, and that was when she saw it. A light- a light of hope, of happiness, of relief.
She flung herself into his arms, gripping tightly onto him as he laced his arms even tighter around her. She rested her head against his chest, hearing his heart beat. She breathed in, taking in his reassuring and familiar scent of peppermint and his aftershave.
"It's you. It's really you," she heard him whisper. She pulled back slightly to look up into his eyes. They were brimmed with tears; tears that were threatning to spill.
She smiled. She hadn't smiled since she had woken up at the institute twelve weeks ago, and it felt like a breath of fresh air. It made her feel free. It made her do what she did next.
Gripping onto his shirt, she crashed her lips against his. She felt his initial shock and surprise, but he quickly responded, kissing her back softly. She could taste the toothpaste on his teeth, the peppermint on his tongue. She laced her arms around his neck, tilting her head closer. He was running his fingers through her smooth hair. After a few moments, they detached their lips.
"I love you too," she whispered, looking into his warm brown eyes that she had missed so much. She didn't miss the tiny flash of surprise that passed in his eyes.
He pressed his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes.
"I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you too."
She watched him as he opened his eyes slightly.
"Really?"
"Yes. I might not have remembered you. I might not have known who you were. But I still missed you every single day."
He moved in, catching her lips in his, capturing them in a sweet, tantalising kiss.
They separated once more, and just looked at each other, staring into each others souls, trying to catch up with all of the time lost.
They stood like this for God knows how long, savouring each other's presence, enjoying the feel of the other against them, feeding off the warmth on their skin.
Taking advantage of what was theirs.