Behind His Lens

by R.S. Grey

  “Dude, what the hell is up with you? I haven’t seen you like this since you got back from overseas.”

  I don’t answer because I don’t know what to say to that other than the raw truth, which I haven’t even been willing to admit to myself until this very moment.

  “I didn’t account for Charley.”

  Fuck, saying it out loud, putting the feelings out into the oblivion, somehow makes it even worse, but my vocal cords don’t stop. “I wasn't prepared for her to wreck my life. You know that night at the club when Natasha came to meet me again? I could’ve slept with her, but I walked away and just left her hanging.”

  “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “Because Charley and Naomi were at the club. I saw them on the dance floor,” I declare, finally sharing that snippet of information with someone.

  “What? They were there that night?” He leans forward in his chair, intrigued.

  “Yup.”

  “You never told me,” he frowns, trying to piece together the new information.

  I nod, staring into the dark ale, not willing to meet his eye.

  “Did you talk to her that night?”

  “No, but the moment I saw her on the dance floor I knew I wanted her. I had to have her. And instead of listening to logic and reason, I went for her.” I tip back the beer, drinking half the bottle in one long drag.

  “How long has it been since you guys have talked?” he asks with a frown.

  “Two weeks.”

  He nods slowly, taking a sip of his beer, and then another.

  Finally, he leans his head toward me and cocks a brow. “Well, chump, what are you going to do about it?”

  I shake my head, “Nothing. Charley has her own shit to work through. I can’t force her to want to be with me.”

  “So you knew better than to fall for her and then you did anyway?”

  “Looks like it.” I scrub a hand across my overgrown facial hair.

  He chuckles regretfully. “Damn, I’ll drink to that.”

  …

  Charley

  I decided to try to work everything out without therapy. It didn’t work for me last time and I already know they’ll want to put me on drugs. We live in the era of ever-present and ever-available uppers and downers, but I don’t want either. I know I can fix myself. I know the root of my problem; I just never thought it was possible to overcome my past until I met Jude.

  He taught me how to experience life through my senses, never holding back, never pushing feelings away. He didn’t let me hide; he told me I had to be honest with myself. Hearing him say that was the biggest wakeup call I’ve had in four years.

  For the first time since my father’s death, I lay alone in my room letting my mind wander. Will the memories even come? My head rests back on my pillow and my eyes study the white paint chipping above my head. For a little while I think of nothing at all, just white noise. Had I pushed them away for so long that they had disappeared completely?

  But, then like a faint echo, I remember my father’s deep laughter. The sound is faint and fades in and out like the reception with a bad antenna.

  He was always laughing.

  Before I realize my movements, I slip off my bed and pull a large blank canvas from the armoire beside my bed. My bucket of paints tumbles out after it, but I let them spill out onto the ground, not caring about the mess. I grab the colors I need, mixing them on my palette and letting echoed remnants of his laughter push me forward. As I let the memories overtake me, I begin to paint my father as I remembered him.

  His image is hazier now, but the important aspects are still there. His strong jaw and angled cheekbones were always so prominent. And then I think of his dark grey eyes, starkly different from mine and my mother’s.

  To the untrained eye, his facial features and expensive power suits appeared stern and unyielding. But I knew better. He showered me with love, much to the dismay of my mother. He was everything to me growing up. Every girl has a special love for her father and mine only grew with age. I never confided in my mother, but my father was an excellent listener, even about silly things like friends and drama at school.

  He worked late and often took long business trips, especially as I got older, but we talked every day. Even if he got home at midnight, he’d wake me up just to tell me he loved me, but then more often than not, we’d end up staying up late, talking and laughing.

  Which is why his suicide blindsided me.

  My hand freezes mid stroke. God, I haven’t let myself actually think that word since his death. Suicide. My father killed himself and I saw him do it.

  The thin palette slips from my fingers and then my paint brush tumbles through the air after it. Paint scatters across the hardwood floor, splashing my bare feet and my yoga pants, coating the unfinished canvas and the woven rug next to my door. My eyes lose focus as dark rings impinge on my vision. I pinch my eyes closed, trying to find a grip on reality, while simultaneously remembering why I have to let myself slip away from it.

  The memories are so hard to process; I’m afraid they’ll finally splinter my soul in two and leave me a hollow shell, even more so than I am now.

  Tears stream down my cheeks as I clamor over the art supplies to find the half empty bottle of tequila Naomi left here the night we went to the bar; the night I stripped for Jude.

  I steal it off the book shelf, twist the cap off, and step back to look at the half painted portrait of my father staring back at me. The blue and orange hues cast shadows across his features, but his grey canvassed eyes stare back at me, pulling all of my buried sadness to the surface.

  Fuck you. I take a long drag of the tequila and relish the pain as it burns down my throat, setting my mouth ablaze. Fuck you for killing yourself. Another shot slips down, coating my stomach in sweet warmth. Fuck you for leaving me. One more long gulp of the hard liquor, and then I drag my finger across the wet paint, smearing his features into a blurry mess of mismatched hues. Fuck you for not stopping, even as I begged.

  Jude

  My phone’s buzzing reverberates through the silent room and I reach over to grab it from the nightstand without looking at the caller ID.

  “Hello,” my pulse rises as I wait for her voice to filter through. Charley hasn’t called since she walked out of my apartment three weeks ago and my heart leaps at the chance that it could be her on the other end of the line.

  “Jude! Thank God you answered,” a female voice sighs into the phone, but it’s not Charley.

  Naomi?

  “Naomi? What’s up?” I glance down at the screen to see it’s only half past nine at night. I’ve been working, hitting the gym, and passing out early every day this week.

  “It’s about Charley.”

  What? I have to fight to keep my calm.

  “What about her?”

  “Listen, I know you don’t owe her anything…but I think something is wrong and I felt like you should know.”

  My teeth grind together as I stare up at the ceiling. What am I meant to do here? She left; of course there’s something wrong.

  “Tell me,” I demand with a gruff tone.

  “She hasn’t even told me everything, but, Jude, she’s worth fighting for. She keeps everything so private. But I’ve never seen her like this. I can usually get through to her on the low days, but the past two weeks have been complete torture. She’s been ignoring my calls and won’t let me in when I go to her apartment.”

  Naomi pauses and I hear her soft sniffles in the background. The next time she speaks, her words are muffled through quiet sobs.

  “She has the most beautiful soul, but Jude, it’s tormented. She’s had such a hard life. The kind of life that looks perfect on paper, the kind of life no one ever questions. But you have to keep pushing, Jude. I don’t know what to do.”

  “She walked away from me, Naomi,” I point out, trying to remind myself of that fact as well.

  “I know,” she says the words, but her voice doesn’t sound so
convinced.

  “I begged her to open up and she left. Why would she want to see me now?”

  “You get to her more than anyone else I’ve seen. Hell, I had to pry my way in over the years, but in a few weeks you seemed to peel away every layer.”

  “I don’t want her to suffer anymore,” I admit, feeling my steely resolve melting away.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she cries into the phone.

  “I’ll go by in the morning. I’ve only been keeping my distance because I thought it would help her.”

  “Thank you, Jude.”

  …

  It’s Saturday morning, which means that Charley should be running her route in Central Park. I could hardly sleep last night because I wanted to call her, but I didn’t think she would have answered. So instead, I decided to wake up early, throw on my running gear, and find her on the trail to talk to her in person.

  The temperatures dropped a few degrees in the past week so everyone is running in thick jackets and hats. I peel over each person that jogs by, but there’s no real way to tell anyone apart. Every time a blonde woman runs by, I convince myself it’s her, and every time my heart falls once I realize the features don’t match up.

  I stand in the center of the park, where most of the trails intersect, turning in a circle and waiting for her. Cold wind whips by, making my eyes water as runners swerve around me. Some of them curse at me for blocking their path, while others clearly see the desperation playing across my features and offer me sympathetic nods.

  I’m not sure what will happen when I see her. I wish I had a poetic apology, or a simple way to make everything better between us, but right now I just need to see her. I want to find her on the trail and sweep her away, back into our own little world. Maybe once the sun is shining on my angel, the words will come naturally.

  But after hours pass, my confidence dwindles. I must have jogged the entire park three times before I finally decide I’m not meant to find her. Either I missed her running by, or she didn’t come out to the trail at all. It’s possible that our paths didn’t cross, but it doesn’t feel right. My gut tells me she’s not here.

  Why isn’t she? It’s Saturday morning.

  Various reasons start fleeting through my head, sending a panic racing through me. Without another thought, I jog toward the perimeter of the park and hail a cab.

  “Greenwich Village,” I shout at the driver as I jump into the back seat and toss forward a hundred dollar bill so he’ll take the quickest route. My eyes score the streets as my thumb taps against my thigh incessantly. I’m trying to calm my nerves, but nothing helps. I keep picturing scenarios that send a shock of sadness through me. Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

  Charley, please let me in. I plead to the universe as the cab driver rounds the city streets.

  Was I a fool to push her away? Was she beginning to open up to me? I couldn’t tell. I felt like I’d given her everything but, she wasn’t ready. I can’t save her and she can’t save me. We can’t be bandages for one another…But I never thought of her as band-aid. If anything, being around her felt like ripping a band-aid off: fast, sharp, exhilarating, painful, and alive.

  She’s so sad, but I made her smile. I forced her to live. And now what? Did I push her too far?

  Fuck.

  The moment the cab pulls up to her apartment, I throw open the door and jump out. By the grace of God, or whatever other deity I’d prayed to on the way over, one of her house mates happens to be walking out right as I pull up. I yell at him to hold the door and jog down the hall to her room.

  One piece of solid red oak stands between Charley and me. I bang on that barrier until the entire house, or maybe the entire street, can hear me.

  “Charley! Let me in,” I yell through the crack in the door hinge, but there’s no movement from within.

  “You don’t have to deal with everything on your own. I want to be with you— whatever part of you that you’ll give me!” My voice echoes through the old house, hopefully reaching the one person who needs to hear it the most.

  I bang louder, hearing the wood splinter in the door frame. Am I insane enough to break it down? God, what if she’s just not fucking home?

  No. Naomi said she’s been worse than usual. She’s in there.

  “Charley!” I yell once more before deciding I have to go to Mrs. Jenkins. If she truly cares about Charley, then she’ll come check on her.

  I bolt up the stairs, but I guess my pounding didn’t go completely unnoticed because the old woman is already coming out of her second floor apartment.

  “What is it, young man?” she huffs indignantly.

  “I need to get into Charley’s apartment. I think there might be something wrong.”

  She tisks, shaking her head. “I don’t make it a regular habit of breaking into my tenants apartments when they aren’t expecting me.”

  Damnit, woman!

  “You know Charley. You know how she gets. If she doesn’t want to see me then you can lock the door behind me and I’ll never come back, but I think there’s something wrong.”

  It takes some convincing, and I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m Charley’s estranged boyfriend, but who am I kidding? I’m actually not far from it.

  “Young man. You seem respectable enough, so I’ll do this because I really like Charley. But I pray that poor girl isn’t just taking a shower or napping. Or God forbid, you’re some kind of stalker.”

  I open my mouth to assure her, but she’s already heading down the stairs and I don’t care at this point. I don’t care if standing in Central Park for four hours waiting for her to run by makes me crazy. I just can’t let another person in my life slip through my fingers and become one more regret.

  My mouth goes dry as Mrs. Jenkins slides her key into the lock. I can’t swallow or breathe; I can’t process anything as that door slides open. My eyes cast down to the doormat that looks like an abstract painting threw up on it, then up toward the empty bottle of tequila that had wedged itself behind the door. It clinks across the floor as Mrs. Jenkins pushes the door completely open and my heart breaks.

  She’s lying there, in a heap on the ground. Her face is ghostly pale and tears glisten across her cheeks as they stream down in a constant wave. She’s alive, but completely immobile. Her blue eyes are cloudy and focused out toward the wall above the door. I rush in, pulling off my jacket and leaning down to feel her pulse. It’s there, she’s breathing, but her expression is dead and she doesn’t seem to realize we’ve broken into her apartment.

  Paint is spilled everywhere. Canvases spread out across the room. There must be half a dozen lying around her. But they’re all covered in the same dark image painted from different angles. A man hanging himself, depicted with such agonizing clarity that a cry breaks through me. He’s mirrored over and over again across her apartment floor with dark black brushstrokes. His cheekbones and light blonde hair are perfect replicas of Charley’s, and in a moment, I’m lying next to her on the ground, caressing her cheek and trying to coax her out of her darkened days.

  “Charley.”

  Nothing. Not even a blink in my direction.

  “Should I call an ambulance?” Mrs. Jenkins asks with a shaky voice.

  “I don’t know,” I answer before turning my attention back to the fragile creature in front of me. “Charley. You have to talk, baby. Are you hurt?” I try to ask gently, but I need to know if she’s injured herself.

  I reach down to grab her wrists and then search the rest of her, there’s nothing that looks injured. My eyes flit around the room; there aren’t any pills or drugs. It doesn’t seem like she’s done anything but paint like crazy and drink the rest of the tequila.

  I crawl closer to her, cupping her cold cheek in my hand. Her skin feels like ice beneath my fingers. Has she not had the heater on? How long has she been like this?

  “I’m going to take you to the ER unless you start talking, Charley. I don’t know if you’re okay or not. You don’t ha
ve to be scared. Tell me, baby.”

  Her head shakes a fraction to the left and she blinks her eyes, but when she speaks her tone is flat and empty. “I’m fine… not even drunk… Anymore.”

  It’s hardly anything, but I sigh and feel the initial shock begin to wane ever so slightly.

  “Do you want him here, Charley?” Mrs. Jenkins asks, still standing in the doorframe.

  Charley doesn’t move or speak for several long seconds, and I start to panic that she wants me gone.

  “Yes,” she finally clips out, barely louder than a whisper, but the old woman nods in acceptance.

  “I’m going to go make some tea and get you something to eat,” Mrs. Jenkins calls as she starts to close to door. I glance up to watch her leave, and I notice that finally her eyes hold a morsel of kindness for me. She seems to realize that I want the best for Charley. I know she’s letting us have some privacy now that she trusts my reasons for being here.

  Once she’s gone, I lie down on the ground and face Charley. The cold hard wood greets my body with its unyielding mass. My clothes dip into the paint scattered across the room, but I’m so close to her now. Mere inches. We don’t touch and I don’t try to speak again. I just want to be here with her. We could lie here all day if that’s what she needs.

  My eyes roam across her features. Her cheekbones look more prominent than they were two weeks ago and I know she’s lost weight. My poor Charley. Her long lashes flutter closed every now and then, pushing more tears to fall from her pale blue eyes. Her lips are a dark red, such a contrast to the rest of her pale features. Has she been chewing on them while she cries?

  “I’ve never been to his grave,” she says out of the blue. Her eyes don’t meet mine, but her words hang in the air between us. Is she talking about her father?

  I nod slowly once. She doesn’t need my questions or input right now, she just needs me to listen. She’s been trying to fight for so long, but it’s time for her to let go.