Chapter Two: Artsy Distress
I lay in my room the next morning after a restless night and noticed that my room was full of paint and paintings of poor quality. All I could see was lots of black, lots of red and lots of art that distinguished suicide. When Duncan and I were dating I went through the worst time of my life. I hated myself and everything I produced. My high school art teacher was so concerned with the projects that I'd been creating that she'd told me to go to a weekly counselling session. I would be painting a bunch of abstract pieces that consisted of lots of red and black, as well as distinctive pieces that indicated suicide.
I thought I was over it. I thought that I was a better person. It was such a long time ago! Why is it still hurting me? I began to cry.
After I'd finished my crying that lasted a good solid two hours, I got up to start my day. I slowly walked to the mirror and noticed the dark makeup that was previously placed around my eyes spread further and my skin fell even paler than before. I ran my dried black hand through my messy hair and small tears fell out of my eyes. I couldn't go out and face the world today. I couldn't bare the fact that somebody that I hadn't seen in so long still had so much control over my life. But why? Goddamit, why!? What has he done to me? And then it hit me. It wasn't the fact that I wasn't over him, it was the fact that I was into something else. Freedom. And as soon as he came, that sense of liberty diminished. I'd found a city that I could walk out into without feeling attached to a leash as well as finding somebody that I genuinely felt an attraction for. Only to finding out that the leash is still very much knotted round my throat and that girl in the coffee shop would never belong to me. I put a hand to the tears that fell down my cheek, trying to wipe them away. I needed to be free. All of those therapy sessions, the blood, the pain, the heartbreak, all of it couldn't be gone so soon.
After quickly combing my hair and fixing my makeup I went outside to go to my first class of the day: Art History. We were studying one of my favourite painters, Raphael. I found so much beauty in his work that I admired, especially when we were given the opportunity to look into his philosophies. Raphael is a painter that inspired me to actually become an artist today. I love everything about him and he's part of why I am the way I am.
However, in today's lesson I couldn't concentrate. My professor was speaking about the Red Chalk painting, one of my favourites, but I couldn't keep my mind on the lecture. Instead, Duncan kept crawling up onto the screen, and I was the only one affected by it. I would blink and he'd be gone. That gnarly smirk of his that was frustratingly iconic kept popping up so I decided to close my eyes.
"Why are you hurting me like this!?" he would yell at me. "I love you so much and you treat me like garbage!" It appeared that blocking out his face just resuscitated his voice and the times where he would manipulate me back into his arms. I hated those moments. I hated how I would be in the right but was forced to feel a wide sense of guilt and anger, towards myself! His strong hands clasped around my waist the second I caved in, and there was literally no escape each time. My eyes were closed but tears were still being shed, so much that I had to get myself out of the building. I picked up my books and exited with no questions being asked. I gasped constantly and dropped my books onto the ground as soon as I reached the streets. The memories were flooding back, even now when I'd had a bit of space. I ran to the park with my books still outside of the university and cried on the dry grass. I placed my head on the ground and pounded it with my balled fists. I was glad that there was nobody around because I couldn't face somebody, I wouldn't be able to handle myself.
Those years spent trying to remove Duncan from my memory have now been wasted, all because I was so reliant on the fact that I would never have to see him again. My biggest regret was the fact that I didn't get any closure, and the fact that he had what I wanted. I was left alone, distracted and hurt whilst he had the perfect partner, knew how to actually smile, and could live everyday without hating himself. Or at least, he was able to hide it. Something that I was never any good at.
After an hour of laying on the grass I went to the coffee shop to calm myself down further. My usual barrister greeted me with his thick French accent and his face lit up as he remembered something.
"Gwen! Hallo! How are you? I've got something for you!" his smile was slightly infectious that it made me almost replicate it. I didn't verbally respond as he turned around to get my "gift" too soon for him to hear my crackling voice. He came back with a thin box with a note on it, and then soon gave me a free smoothie with it. I went to a booth and read the note, it had a number on it, nothing else. Then I opened up the box and it was my art pad – turned to the page of the drawing I did of the girl from my last visit, with another note on it that read:
"Very nice portrait you drew of me. Would love to speak to you one day xx"
My heart sank, but not in the same way that it did when I saw Duncan's green hair, but in the way it did when I coloured the three shades of brown in the girls' hair. Was she really sending this to me?