Ara Ara’s Mind

{AN: This is the story that made me sure that I wanted to be a writer. I first wrote this for my creative writing class and was shocked when everyone seemed to like it. These characters came from a Wattpad story I wanted to write when I was 16 that I knew I would end up writing later. This has been submitted to so many places and rejected every time, so take my prized possession and tell me how you feel!}

4:30 PM — “What am I going to do?” It came out more desperate than she wanted it to. She sucked at hiding her fear, but here she stood anyway.

Aleah decided that today would be the day. She had been putting off painting for weeks. She ignored the judgment that nudged at her shoulder and the fear that threatened to cripple her. She couldn’t focus on that. She just needed to start, but where would she start. The canvas sat perfectly still on the easel, stretching far beyond the sides.

The thought of hitting the canvas with all she had come to mind. Opening the blue acrylic paint and throwing it on the canvas. Maybe seeing what taking a dry paintbrush loaded with paint might produce. Or maybe dipping her finger into the paint and just smearing it where she could. But it didn’t seem right, like this canvas was supposed to be more than experimentation. If she had bought this canvas herself, maybe. But her mother’s support paid for this canvas, built it for all Aleah knew. Before she even put it on the easel, Aleah knew something special had to go on this canvas. It had to be the perfect idea. The perfect execution. Something thoughtful. Something beautiful. Something Aleah. Whoever Aleah was.

She had never been able to figure that out. She’d never had time to. Maybe it’s because she was always moving. Maybe it’s because she was always trying to find the best thing, the best outlet. Maybe it’s because she didn’t want to slow down and reflect. It could be anything, or it could be nothing, and Aleah still wouldn’t know.

Aleah couldn’t help but notice how empty the canvas was. How was she expected to fill every corner of this canvas? Every blank area stared at her in judgment, waiting to see what she’d do. Any move she made could be wrong. Every move she would make would be wrong. This canvas wanted something Aleah didn’t know if she could give. Curiosity, wonder, excitement; honesty, truth. There was too much space, too much opportunity, too many ideas, too many ways she failed. And she had failed enough. She didn’t know if she could risk another.

What was she supposed to say? What did she have to convey? How do you paint being raised by a single parent? How do you paint that you’re a college drop out? How do you paint your desires, your wants? How do you make something real and not just something you’ve created to feel better? To feel different?

That has been what art is to Aleah. Something that calls to her, something that puts her at ease. She has just been following its every move, its every desire. She painted what it asked, moved where it asked, took on what it asked. It wants her to want it, crave it, and she does, she always would. It was all she had. There was a reason it asked for her to take on this canvas, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t ready. She thought of defying, switching to a smaller canvas, but this one would still be here waiting, nagging at her.

“You cannot get rid of me that easy,” The canvas said to her. “I will still be here waiting.” The canvas searches her mind as she searches it for an idea.

She reaches for her brush, just to get this over with, but doesn’t find it. A set of brushes sitting at the top of a trash bag burns into her head. She flips over dirty T-shirts and looks under furniture that should be glued to her apartment floor at this point. Refusing to relive the breakdown she had a few weeks ago. Trying not to remember the square canvas that was poorly painted with clouds, grass and stars, but instead where she threw her paint brushes.

She ran her fingers through her dry curly hair, almost taking out the bun that had been in for three days. Her heartbeat quickened and breath followed suit. Why was she about to freak out about paint brushes? Why was she about to cry because she couldn’t find them? That wouldn’t help at all.

The tears came anyway, no matter how hard she fought them. She took it as her sign to sit down. Her body took that as a means to stiffen.

6:00 PM — “You’re still at it?” Charlotte said as soon as she walked through the door.

Aleah stood off-center from the unmoving lifeless white void. She could feel Charlotte’s eyes taking in her appearance. She noticed how much the air had been watching her, criticizing her. Her loop-sided bun starts to loosen in the apartment air, the huge paint stain on her sweatpants hardens even more, her dry skin growing dryer, her cracked fingers growing brittle and fragile as if they don’t hold her lost brush in her hand.  

“Yes.” Aleah said, still staring intently at her canvas, trying not to cave in on herself. “Unfortunately.” Disappointment soaked into her chest.

“Know what you’re gonna paint yet?” Charlotte dropped her work bag onto the couch and quickly moved from behind Aleah.

“No.” Aleah pushed out before Charlotte could even finish.

The question was her fault, she shouldn’t be trying to paint in the living room, but putting this huge thing up in her tiny box of a room made her feel trapped, confined.

Charlotte meant well, but she knew it wasn’t easy for Aleah, she knew that it’s been difficult for her to make something good. Charlotte used to be the only support Aleah had. They used to be two struggling artists with big dreams and not enough money. But Charlotte succeeded and Aleah ended up getting a job at a museum. She hated her for that, sometimes. For succeeding, for being perfect, for making her dreams come true. For watching Aleah sit at home and struggle, while she showcased her designs and went to parties with people who loved everything she made. She knew a day would come that Charlotte wouldn’t feel the need to come back to this dingey loft and she would be left here with nothing but paint.

The arch frame of the kitchen creaked softly as Charlotte’s eyes bore holes into Aleah’s head, she could only imagine the face she was making. “Okay…Sorry for asking. Just paint the first thing that comes to mind.”

“I would if anything came to mind.” Aleah retorted.

Charlotte moved to the kitchen. She ignored the dishes that overfilled the sink, but Aleah could see it even from where she stood. She opened the fridge, probably reaching past the moldy cream cheese and take-out boxes for the wine she’d put in there last night.

“I’m sure whatever it is it’ll be great,” she assured, reaching to get a wine glass from the cabinet.

Aleah is barely listening to her. She barely listened to anything anymore. For her it’s not about making something great, it’s just about making something. Which she hasn’t been able to do. She shifted to a different angle, but still saw the same thing. Emptiness, blankness. A canvas that doesn’t want to work with her.

She wiped at her cheeks, like the dry tears were something she could just wipe away.

8:30 PM — Aleah watched the sun go down and still found no inspiration for this canvas. Only fear she couldn’t shake and didn’t know what to do with.

She sits on the edge of the couch trying to think about anything. Something interesting. What did she find interesting? A lot of things, but what do they mean to her? What has meaning in her life? Does nothing matter to her? Does she have nothing she cares about? Why was it so hard to find meaning, care, compassion? What was she doing? Who had she become?

A pain bloomed in the middle of her forehead and her eyes dried and strained. But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was Charlotte’s. Piercing brown eyes filled with fury, judgement, and pity. Trying to push something on her. Something she never wanted to be. Something she kept trying not to be.

Aleah was quick to shake those thoughts away. To put that image in a lock box to never be opened again. She couldn’t see her friend that way. She couldn’t feel that way, think that way.  

Aleah let the darkness of her apartment consume her. The cool air in the open space tried its best to wrap around her body for comfort, but it only left her feeling small. Like she was hiding. Hiding the paint splatters covering the floor, the clothes and shoes on top of the furniture, the trash pushing out of the can. Hiding who she had become, who she had descended into being.

Even in the darkness Aleah could still see the canvas. Even when she squeezed her eyes tight, she saw its outline. It’s like the canvas was taunting her. Why couldn’t she just run away? Why couldn’t she keep hiding? Why did she have to face this canvas?

“Why do you keep trying to hide?” The canvas asked, seeing Aleah still, on the couch. “You can do better than landscapes and experimental brush strokes. Why are you so afraid of what you feel? Why is it so hard for you to be honest?”

Aleah’s groan turned into a guttural scream, trying to drown out the opinions of the canvas. She shrunk into a ball, hiding her ears from the words of the canvas. “Shut up!”

“What are you so afraid of? What makes you throw your brushes? What makes you stall? I want to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

So many questions, too many questions. She had no way of answering them. She didn’t know what the answers were. Why didn’t she know what the answers were? Why were these questions so invasive?

“Just be honest.” The canvas whispered, backing off.

The words rang through her ears. But what did that mean? How was she supposed to do that? Wasn’t she already being honest, being truthful? Her chest hurt, and tears covered the pillows of her couch. She couldn’t face it, she wouldn’t face it.

10:00 PM ­— Aleah still laid curled in a ball on her couch. Her muscles ached. She found no reason to move. To breathe. To speak. Time slipped away and she couldn’t care less. The voice of the canvas taunted her even in its silence. What could she do? Where would she go from here?

Even stiff and paralyzed by thought, all she wanted to do was move to the canvas. She just wanted to paint. She wanted to pick up one of her stupid brittle paint brushes and dip it into half-dried acrylic paint and put it on that stupid big canvas. But she couldn’t. Nothing wanted her to. Everything was stopping her. Her brain, her found brushes, the paint, the air filling the space, the stupid canvas. They’re all watching, expectant, impatient. Taking her creativity in their gaze. Making creating way harder than it needed to be.

Anger spiked in her stomach, creating a ball of fire. Her creativity is all she had, the ability to turn nothing into something tangible and real. Now she had eyes on her, only taking and never giving. Never helping. She stood, searching for her creativity in between the woven fabric of the canvas.

We cannot steal what you freely give. We cannot steal what you refuse to embrace.  Aleah heard the whispers on the wind of the apartment, different from the canvas. Words from air that had been sitting and watching her for too long.Her jaw clenched. Why did everything know so much but her? Why was everything pushing her? Trying to get her to break? If she wanted to break, she would do it when she wanted to. If she wanted to think, she would do it because she wanted to. If she wanted to grow, she would do it on her own time. Not because everything was looking at her all of a sudden. Not because a canvas was waiting, impatiently, to be painted. Not because the world was moving, and she wasn’t. She didn’t want to move; she didn’t need to.

She has been drained of the only thing that made her, her. Without it she is just a little black girl weeping about control, weeping because she’s lonely, weeping because she’s scared, and she hadn’t been that girl in a long time.

She whiped her head around the room, feverously searching for the things she knew were there. A pallet knife, scissors, a bottle opener, anything. But the room gave her nothing; she came up with nothing. Heat radiated off her as she stood in front of this canvas for what she hoped was the last time.

She griped the edges of the canvas tightly, hearing the screams of her nails raking against its fabric. Aleah lifted the canvas over her head, stumbling at the added weight. She dug her nails deeper, ready to break, ready to snap. But did she really want to destroy this canvas? Did she want to try her hardest to snap the wood? To rip the woven cotton? If she destroyed it, would she ever paint again? Would this be it? Her chest panged as a scream left her body like a dragon breathing fire.

Knock, Knock, Knock.

She stilled, wondering if she made it up.  

“Aleah? It’s Nick.”

Aleah blinked back into reality and felt her stomach sink at the visit. She dropped the canvas, maybe back onto the easel maybe on to the floor, she doesn’t see. Her face felt cracked and pale. She could feel spit in the corner of her mouth and sweat collecting on her neck and her forehead. She grinded her teeth as she moved to the door.

 “What are you doing here?” Aleah flinched as the overhead lights bore holes in her appearance. Another thing judging her.

“Are you ok?” Nick’s thick brows lift, showing the lines on his forehead. Brown eyes wide and searching her face for an answer to his question.

Aleah is frozen, trying to avoid his gaze. His eyes that probably stive to judge her, change her.

“Let’s go inside.” He lightly put his hand on her shoulder to turn her. At his movement she noticed the plastic bag twisting around his hand.

Aleah walked slowly and stiffly, listening to the sound of the bag. Embarrassment flowed through her, forcing her to listen. Forcing her to hear the air running, the creak of the wood floors, the cars speeding outside, the cars honking. She can hear her own breath, how ragged and wavering it is. She could feel all of her emotions hitting her like the ocean hitting rocks. Tears threatening to come and her body still burning.

Nick flips on the light, and she cowers. No longer able to hide. She watched him look around the space, taking in every mess and every crack and trying not to let his worry show. He said nothing, moving clutter out of the way to put his plastic bag on the coffee table and took a seat beside her. She waited for him to say something, something to make her snap, make her fall apart.

“I brought you food. I’m sure you haven’t eaten.” Didn’t even cross her mind.

“Thanks.” She said her throat dry and cracked from taking in too much air; too much emotion. She sat next to him, waiting.

Nick just nodded.

There were bounds of silence between them. They were covered in it. Aleah could tell that Nick didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to help her, and she didn’t either. So, she just sat there staring at the plastic bag moving in the apartment air.

She wanted him to leave. There were things inside of her begging to come out to release. She couldn’t tell what it was, tears, screams, both, but it was on the tip of her tongue. On the edge of her fingertips. She didn’t want to hurt him or even push him away, but she had to. She knew she had to. She had to do this alone, fight this alone. Even in his silence she knew he was concerned; that he was trying to piece this all together without asking. It made her want to shed her skin.

“I would have been here earlier if I could’ve but… you know, work. Charlotte said you were – uh trying to paint again.” He said, trying to be as soft as possible.

 She nodded, refusing to fully listen, refusing to let his words soak in. They were carefully chosen, carefully plotted. As if she was something that could break at any moment, strike at any time. Her muscles tensed as she tried to convince herself to be calm, to not break, but she was finding less and less reasons not to.

 She could see Nick looking at her from the corner of her eyes. She tried to ignore it but all she had to look at was the canvas, not even, the easel. Aleah closed her eyes tight, on the verge of breaking. Of crying and screaming. Of kicking and breaking everything in her path. She wanted to rip and tear her way through the apartment, through her body. Nick cleared his throat, shifting on the couch. The plastic bag loud and startling, compared to quiet chill of the apartment.

Aleah kept her eyes closed until Nick nudged her body. He sat there with a tight expression holding a take-out container up to her. She had nothing else to do but take it.

12:30 AM — “Don’t stay up all night trying to paint this thing.”

She nodded but didn’t make any promises. She knew Nick wouldn’t force her to either.

“I know your scared and worried, but that doesn’t mean you’re incapable. You have a right to be scared.” He added, giving his pep talk from the hallway.

She wanted to listen, to accept it but she wasn’t sure she could. Nick had fallen and got back up, so he knew exactly how she was feeling when she told him. But she wasn’t Nick. Nick was smart and resilient. He was patient and unexpecting. He knew that dreams took time, that he had to be in it for the long haul to get anywhere. She didn’t know how to do that. How to be that. Did she need to be that? Maybe soon, but not now. Not when she knew what was behind her.

He left her with a hug and a wave because it was late and his world didn’t stop turning just because hers did.

When she turned around, she stared at the canvas and the canvas stared back. They waited for the other to move, to say something. What was she going to do? Was she really going to paint this? Or was this just too big of a task for her right now? Would she ever pick it back up if she put it away?

“What are you afraid of?” The canvas asks again.

“Why do you ask that?” Aleah responds. The food had made her curious, what little of it she ate.

“I want to know.”

She moved closer to the canvas, her mind shifting and moving. Why? What is there to know? She was afraid of everything. Every word she spoke, every move she made, every piece of clothing she wore. Fear ruled her life, it always had. Maybe it always would. What was she supposed to do with that? What could she do with that? For a moment, she saw an image stretched across the canvas and the lock box she kept in her mind broke open.

She could see. She could feel. And she found the canvas as a refuge.

“You really wanted to know?”

She opened her paints, trying to not cry at the relief of creation. She grabbed her brush, dipped it into the darkest paint she had, and swiped at the canvas.