A Passion for the Arts

I’ve always appreciated the fine arts, ever since I could name the colors of the rainbow. My favorite was always green, the color of nature, of an endless cycle of being. You wouldn’t believe how much effort it took just to plan all of it, much less execute it so flawlessly. I know, it wasn’t right. But it was beautiful. I was born with a brush clutched in my pudgy hand, ready to unleash my masterpieces onto the canvas before me. You asked where my endless inspiration came from, what sparked my vivid, hypnotizing images? Maybe not in those words, but, in all honesty, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I always knew what I wanted to say, but I had to wait until I found the perfect muse.

I was seven, all blonde curls and big blue eyes. I had those gorgeous natural lashes, the ones that curled without being forced to. I insisted on wearing the same cardigan to school each day, a threadbare pink knitted thing that Mama had picked up at the local Goodwill, missing a button or two. Of course we were poor- that’s what your studies say, right? I cherished that stupid sweater until it had all but fallen apart. I even wore it once the mice had gotten to it, nibbling little holes through the itchy wool. I nibbled on it myself, just to see how it tasted. It tasted like sweat. It was one of those things that you cling on to, a child’s first support when nothing really matters.

Mama beat me too, I know you want to know about that. There wasn’t much space in our tiny trailer; the other children and I were made to sleep in the living area, which became a battle zone of toys and tiny fists, thrust at each other for ownership of the only suitable sleeping space. The couch, in all its dingy, stained glory, provided minimal relaxation for aching muscles but proved much better than the kitchen tile. The cat used to piss on the couch, the carpet, everywhere but its litter box, which I don’t think was ever cleaned. We used to pretend that the spiraling florals printed on the cheap fabric of the furniture were being watered by the cats, as disgusting as that is. We just became used to the pungent, rancid smell, it became almost comforting. It’s not like any of us could have gotten rid of it anyhow. It’s quite a permanent thing, the ghost of neglect hanging in the air, gagging us until we had no choice but to submit.

Mama, the cat is gone. One of the other brats cried, her matted hair haphazardly pulled into a ponytail.

Shut up. She would growl, shutting herself into the only bedroom of the trailer, a tiny space that none of us were to enter. She was allowed privacy, and we were just her pets. None of us were actually her children, but we only knew her as Mama. I’m not sure she actually belonged to anything.

When she left the first time, we were scared. Didn’t do anything, not that we had any idea what to do anyhow. She returned two days later, hair cropped short, the ends ragged and uneven. Her eyes had sunken further into their sockets, the bruised skin beneath them accentuating her weakness. I stopped fearing her then, her frail form passed out on the piss-stained couch.

Honestly, I was glad to be interrogated, the second time she disappeared. The harsh white lights and cold metal furniture was anything but comforting, but at least here, I could escape the trailer park. The entire building was outdated and the AC didn’t work, my wool sweater sticking to my sweaty skin, those dense fibers disturbing any sense of comfort I might’ve had. My fingers scratched absentmindedly, ripping through the tiny holes in the fabric, my jagged fingernails digging into the soft flesh until I bled. The police man had to run out to get the first aid kit when he noticed my wounds, leaking through the baby pink fabric. They threw the sweater away, then.

Really, I had nothing to do with Mama leaving. She finally lost it, ran as far as she could to start a new life. I found her obituary in the next town’s newspaper less than a year later. Us children were separated and forced into various foster homes. I was placed in one that moved through children quickly, so long as they were under the age of five. At least here I had a bed.

I started at a new school where I was moved up a grade. The other children mocked me, but I knew they were simply envious of my natural abilities. I didn’t blame them. Where I truly excelled was in the arts, what I was built to do. I had a way with paints, the ability to spread and blend them on a canvas until they revealed an entire story in just a simple glance. Yet, I’d only count my first masterpiece months into the school year. She was named Marie; silky, long ginger hair, nearly always plaited with extreme care. She rivaled me in beauty, so I captured her in a work of art. People say that red doesn’t look good on gingers, but I think crimson suited her nicely.

You never forget your first. First kiss, first love, first masterpiece. All the same in my eyes. Creating a work of art is much like what I imagine falling in love to be like. Love is temporary, though. My work will last forever.

I couldn’t stop after one piece. The best artists are versatile, so I strove to be too. I like to think I succeeded. Unfortunately, it took nearly ten years for inspiration to strike again. I was almost seventeen but could pass for twenty-one with the right amount of smokey eyeshadow. I was hooking up with some wannabe rockstar, a guy with a mullet and too much charcoal eyeliner on his waterline. He was incredibly dense and it was simple getting him wrapped around my pinky. He wore me like a prize and I used him to fuel my passion. He was useless at sex, though every song he sang was about it. I don’t like liars, but he did inspire me. He was also fucking his bassist backstage before each show, two insatiable addicts, unable to keep it in their pants for a second.

There were many others after that, from all walks of life, but my favorite was my last, cliche as that sounds. It was always my plan for her to be the last. After Marie, I had my entire life mapped out, even if I didn’t have each piece in place. It’s almost like chess, just without being able to see the opposing side.

The stage was set, the costumes made and tailored to fit us perfectly. She was easy to find, her picture plastered on the local news for her immaculate dancing. I was almost envious of her, which is how I knew she would be the one. Her only flaw was her hair, but that would be fixed easily.

Am I going to be a star now? She asked, her little head cocked to the side, her auburn locks draped over her shoulders. I smiled at her innocence, big blue eyes meeting my own. She was going to be the biggest thing our bullshit New Jersey town had ever seen.

This is the only part I’ve ever kept to myself, but I’d like it to be recorded somewhere besides my own memory before I go. I wish they’d allow me my paints in here, it would be much easier to show rather than tell, but I think I can get the story across. Picture the trailer park I grew up in, I know you’ve seen the pictures. I brought her there, to a trailer I had recently purchased with the money from my recent gallery showings, the one where I premiered Marie’s portrait after nearly twenty years.

Her hair turned out an odd shade of yellow, rather unlike the one advertised on the boxed dye, with a pukish tint, but it did the job. She was bursting with energy, bouncing on the stained sofa, her pink sweater buttoned to the top, save for the missing two. Her curls framed her pink cheeks, a grin spread on her plump lips. She had the glow that only a child could wear. She played her part perfectly, a porcelain doll perched on the edge of a shelf. I enjoyed watching that sweater stain again, crimson on pink, on ginger, on charcoal. It was perfect, but it was over.

An anonymous phone call tipped them off. You know what’s funny? I called them before I did it. It took them twenty minutes. She could’ve survived.