Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  The entire drive home, my mother nagged that the show was a waste, that the performance was awkward and bizarre. I didn’t know it then, but looking back now, I guess I’m just as awkward and bizarre as that artist was. When her face grew angry as she tossed the red tint, I felt her pain. When her tear-filled eyes grew narrow as she splashed black, I felt her emptiness. When she stood before her finished work, breathing rapidly with eyes shut, blue paint still dripping off the edge of the canvas, I felt her loneliness.

  I guess my first piece was an attempt to mimic hers because I felt every little bit of her emotions. As a child, I really didn’t know what those emotions meant, but I know I felt each one acutely.

  As I remember every detail of the second painting, goose bumps rise on my arms and I cross them in an attempt to hug myself. This image was inspired by the first and only love of my life. Grey covers the entire sixteen by twenty inch canvas. Red with the hint of a few white strokes creates two faces—a masculine profile staring down at a feminine face. She’s afraid and slipping away from everything and everyone, but the moment her eyes lock with his, she instantly feels safe, no longer in the dark world she’s lived in all her young life.

  At the age of seventeen, I was more than just the problem child that my mother couldn’t handle. Suspension after suspension from my fair share of girl fights—at the elite private school my parents sent me to—didn’t place me anywhere near the Daughter of the Year category. After a fight with Blair Bitch, my archenemy, I was sent on one of many visits to the principal’s office. My hair disheveled and face steamed in anger, I sat and waited for my turn to receive my punishment.

  As I tried to calm myself, legs shaking and fingers tapping, the hall doors opened. Dark nearly black eyes pinned mine. They met me at eye level as the owner of those eyes sat beside me. He nodded, and his unkempt hair fell over his right brow. “So what’re you in for?” he asked. I answered, giving him every detail of my encounter with Blair. He burst into laughter and I joined in. The best part? He blurted, “The bitch deserved it.” The rest is history.

  But history is exactly that.

  I fell hard for Eric. He gave me what every girl desired—a sense of feeling loved. I had no doubt in my mind that Eric loved me. I felt it with every thread of my being. We were young and naive. I surrendered myself to him one hundred percent—mind, body, and soul. I gave him all of me. My first experiences in many aspects of my life were with Eric. His love, his touches and caresses… It was more than just the passion he poured out to me, though, that made me love him. Eric understood me, just like Brooke. He didn’t judge me or look at me how others did.

  Not until he witnessed one of my episodes. It was in the beginning stage, before I even knew what was wrong with me. I was afraid, and my mind was going crazy with racing thoughts and voices. I questioned everyone that approached and everything that surrounded me. Eric couldn’t handle it. It scared the hell out of him. Instead of helping me through it, instead of showing that his love for me was true, he left me. Alone. When I was at my worst.

  That was when I vowed to never let others, especially those who don’t truly know me, see me in a weak state.

  I blink the blurriness out of my eyes and allow my tears to roam free. I’m alone in this shed. There’s no one watching, I remind myself. My lip begins to quiver as I edge closer to the third painting. I swallow and stare blankly at the unfinished piece. This was the last time I connected a brush to canvas. It was a month after Brooke’s death and I needed to pour out my anger the only way I knew how. But that was the day of my first hallucination.

  When you lose the only person who made sense in your life, the only person who helped you fight your battles, the one who helped you with your struggles, the only person you felt sane around, your entire world comes crashing down. And that’s not even the best description. You become vacant, hollow. You can’t breathe. The world around you is a complete haze; nothing is clear anymore. You’re constantly fighting to live because you were only truly living when they were around.

  How can she be gone? One day Brooke was here, in this very room, laughing and teasing me about my eye shadow being too dark. Then the next day, she’s gone, never able to share that smile on her face with the world ever again. She didn’t deserve it. I hate what they did to her. Hate it.

  The fresh memory stabs my thoughts, the way she was found, left for dead. I feel nauseated. Quickly, I grab the trash can by the desk, bend over, and dry heave into it. There isn’t much coming out of me since I’ve barely eaten anything in weeks. Once I think I’m done, I place the can aside, sniff back my tears, and stand. The easel by my bedroom window is calling me, the blank canvas begging me to pour out my heart. With shaky legs and an unsettled stomach, I manage the short walk across the room. My fingers tremble as I reach for a brush, mix the white and black pigment, and slowly raise it to the canvas.

  Before I know it, the brush is gliding along, creating. A dark grey sky represents my new life, how it’ll never be sunny again. Reddish tones develop into an ocean, a storm. The red represents my pain and suffering. The storm represents my anger. Anger because she’ll never live to see graduation, to walk down the aisle and have the wedding she always dreamed of. She’ll never find love or bear children of her own. These things were taken from her.

  Full-blown tears stream down my face, but even through my blurry vision I continue the strokes of the brush. In midstride, a low, familiar voice stops me in my tracks. “Jenna.” Hair on the back of my neck stands on end. A chill roars through me, and I shake my head. No. This can’t be happening. I’ve heard voices before, unknown voices. But this one is far too familiar. Slowly I turn to face it. My body shudders as all of the air from my lungs disappears. Brooke. Brooke is sitting on the edge of my bed. She looks sad, helpless.

  I try to find a way to breathe as she stands. “It’s okay, Jenna. I’m here.” Brooke reaches out a hand. I stare at it in disbelief.

  How can… How is this even… I can’t even blurt out a simple thought.

  “Brooke?” I swipe away the tears so I can have a better look. Even if she isn’t real, I get to have this, but I have no idea for how long. “How are—” I wet my lips, soaking in this moment. “You’re alive?”

  She nods gently. “I can be, if you let me.”

  “What does that mean? Of course I’ll let you. I want you alive, Brooke. I’ve missed you so much. I love you. Let’s tell Mom and Dad.” I reach out to her, but she pulls back and shakes her head. “What’s wrong, Brooke? They’ll be happy you’re here and safe. We thought we lost you.”

  “No. They can’t know. This has to be our little secret.”

  My brows furrow in confusion. “Brooke, they’re devastated. They argue all the time. Mom won’t stop crying, and Dad is barely home anymore. We need you. You’re the one that kept this family together. Please.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenna. I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then they’ll lose both daughters.”

  “What?” I blink, trying to make sense of what she said, and she’s gone. Just like that. Where did she go? I look around anxiously, searching for her in the closet, behind the curtain, under the bed. I had a small taste of having her back and now she’s gone. Again. Maybe she changed her mind? Maybe she ran off to tell Mom and Dad. Excitement rushes through me. I open the door and run down the hall, entering every open door and leaving just as quickly when I don’t see her. I jog down the staircase, rushing to my father’s office. My parents are in here, but there’s no Brooke.

  “Sweetheart, are you okay?” My father searches me with his eyes from behind his desk. He looks worried, like he can sense my anxiety.

  “Yeah,” I whisper as I glance at my mother. She’s standing beside him with a document in her hand.

  “Can we help you?” My mother asks warily.

  “Uh…” I step forward and dart my eyes around, but still no Brooke. I focus back on them, on their narrowed, curious eyes. My li
ps are dry, so I moisten them before asking, “Did you see her?”

  My mother places the document down on top of the desk. “See who?”

  “Brooke.” At the sound of Brooke’s name my mother’s eyes change and I instantly regret saying anything.

  “Jenna.” My father stands, his voice eerily calm. “What are you saying?”

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Can they handle it? What if they don’t believe me? Oh God. My eyes flash from my father to my mother and back to my father in quick succession. “Brooke was here. She’s alive.”

  “That’s enough!” Mom screams, startling both my father and me, and before we know it she’s coming after me. Dad grips her arm to stop her. With angry eyes, she turns her head and glares at him. “I’m tired of this, Gregory! Sick and tired.” Her lips tremble as she tries to pull away from him. I stand frozen, tears running down my cheeks. “Don’t you see it? It’s painful enough to go through this grief, but I will not stand by and have her…” She raises her hand in my direction, pointing at me as she locks her furious eyes on mine. “Have her lie for attention. Brooke deserves better than that.”

  Attention?

  “Laura.” Dad pulls Mom closer, cages her face with both hands, and forces her to stare back at him. “She’s sick, honey.”

  Sick?

  Mom bursts into tears, shakes off Dads grip, and runs out of the office.

  “Daddy,” I cry. Oh God, I feel sick again. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Oh, baby.” In three strides he’s in front of me, holding me in his arms and trying to protect me from all harm. I bury my face in his chest, shut my eyes, and try to picture myself as a five-year-old little girl again—when my father’s arms were the safest place to be. Where in his arms I felt free from harm, like nothing could take me away. As hard as I try, I’m not that little girl anymore, and nothing can save me from me. I break down and allow the pain of the last thirty days to pour out onto my father’s neatly pressed shirt.

  “Why is this happening to me?” My voice is muffled against his chest.

  He pulls me in tighter, rocks me in his arms, and hushes me to sleep.

  Hours have gone by. I’m lost in the past as I stare at the last incomplete canvas. I remember every detail of that day, though I’ve tried to forget it. That’s the day I stopped painting. It brought back too many memories, too much pain—pain that I don’t want to resurface. How does Dr. Rosario expect me to start again and get better if painting is the very reason it all began? The hallucinations didn’t stop because I stopped painting. They still come and go, leaving confusion and anxiety in their wake. And not all of my hallucinations are of Brooke—I have scarier ones too. I’m just afraid if I paint again, my condition will worsen. Sometimes I can’t figure out why I’m like this. Yeah, yeah, it’s a chemical imbalance, but it’s also hereditary. My grandmother is schizophrenic. It skipped my mother and jumped right to me.

  Footsteps and the clearing of a throat alert me that I’m no longer alone. I try to pull myself together by running my hands over my face and wiping away any smudged liner left behind by my tears. With a forced smile, I straighten my shoulders and turn to face…him. “Are you lost?” I ask.

  Logan’s smile fades, but I don’t think it’s due to my rudeness. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”

  “Something was caught in my eye.” I wave it off as if it’s nothing. Crossing my arms, I raise a brow. “Again, can I help you?”

  He’s hesitant at first, as if he doesn’t want to let it go, but he shakes his head and moves on. “By any chance do you have a measuring tape?”

  “Really? You’re the contractor. Shouldn’t you be a bit more prepared?”

  The corner of his lip tugs into a tiny grin, but clearly he seems to be annoyed. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s stupid, actually. We brought all the main equipment needed for today, but Santino forgot to pack the box with our measuring tapes. The one I had just broke. We just figured we’d ask before running off to the nearest—” He pauses and then waves a hand. “You know what, forget I asked. Sorry to waste your time.” Logan turns to walk out.

  Well crap. Can I be any bitchier? “Wait,” I blurt out. He turns around to face me. “I think my father may have one in one of these boxes.” I point toward the left side of the room to a shelf filled with equipment and neatly stacked boxes. To make up for being a complete bitch, I walk over and begin searching through some of the boxes. I can hear his footsteps move around behind me.

  “These are good. Did you paint them?”

  Small talk. I despise small talk. What’s the point? Why can’t he just stand here, wait for me to locate this damn object, and be on his way? “Yeah, they’re mine,” I mumble.

  “Pretty cool,” he replies. Finally, I find the measuring tape. I straighten and turn to face him. He’s directly in front of the third painting. With his head tilted, he crosses his arms and examines it. “This one isn’t finished. Are you working on it?”

  “Here it is!” I shove my arm out, jabbing at the air impatiently. Logan turns around. His eyes land on my hand, and he smiles before looking back up at me.

  He takes a few easy strides in my direction. Now before me, he reaches out and grabs the measuring tape. His hand covers mine, fingers slightly gripping my hold. I look up at him. A hint of worry clouds over his stormy eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I study him, watching him cautiously. Why does it matter to him if I’m okay or not? He doesn’t know me. I shouldn’t be any of his concern. Maybe he genuinely cares for others. Our hands are still clamped together, and he steps in closer. “Jenna, I want to apologize about earlier.”

  “About invading my personal space?” I ask a bit harsher than necessary, hoping it covers up my heavy breathing. I can’t help it. Something about his strong, broad build overwhelms me.

  He flashes a gorgeous crooked grin. “Well, yeah. I’d also like to talk about that kiss.”

  I swallow. My throat is really dry, and my heart rate is spiking. “Um, yeah. I’m sorry about the kiss. It was a mistake.”

  His thumb caresses the back of my hand, still locked onto the damn measuring tape. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure about what?” I’m suddenly lost in his stormy blue eyes.

  “About the kiss being a mist—”

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Logan and I quickly turn our heads toward the voice. It belongs to Charlie, who’s casually leaning against the door to the shed with her arms crossed. A mischievous grin is plastered to her face. “Please, don’t let me interrupt. I’m kind of enjoying the show.” She winks at Logan. “Hey, hot stuff.”

  I shove the measuring tape into his chest, step back, and face Charlie. “There’s nothing to interrupt. Logan was just leaving.” Although I’m staring directly at Charlie, I can feel Logan’s eyes on me. It’s quite distracting. I exhale deeply, cross my arms, square my shoulders, and try to focus on my friend, who seems to be enjoying my discomfort far too much.

  “Yeah, thanks for the tape. I’ll get back to work,” Logan says. As he moves by me, I momentarily shut my eyes and allow myself to breathe in his lingering scent. He leaves a trail, a mixture of fresh linen with a hint of spice. It’s not as strong as two days ago—when his arms were wrapped around me and his lips hovered over mine as our tongues twirled in slow circular motions—but it’s still there, slowly lulling me into a trance.

  “Oh, you have it bad, girly,” Charlie utters. I flash my eyes open, searching around. I sigh in relief, realizing Logan’s no longer in the shed. My eyes meet Charlie’s as she walks toward me with her blonde curls bouncing around her cherubic face. She’s chuckling at my dumbfounded expression. “I don’t blame you, though. He’s tall, hot as all hell, and did you see those arms?” She nods approvingly. “I bet he can lift you up in two split seconds and fuck the hell out of you in midair. Air humping. No wall to hold you up or anything. Mmmhmm.” She crosses her arms over her chest, steps in front of me, and gives me a stare down. “And w
hy are you dressed in lounge gear?”

  “Charlie,” I warn.

  “Jenna.” She mimics my tone and expression perfectly. I shake my head and turn away, heading for the open box by the first easel. I start packing up the items on the floor. “What’s up?” I ask.

  “We had plans for a girls’ lunch date. Please don’t tell me you forgot again?”

  Crap. I did. My mind was too busy focusing on these paintings and the memories that resurfaced. I lost track of time. “I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s been a rough day. We can still go out, have a late lunch?”

  I look beside me. She’s nodding, but her main focus is on my paintings, which are still sitting on the easels. “Sure. Late lunch sounds good.” She turns her head to meet my gaze. “Want to talk about this?” Charlie asks, thumbing the paintings. She knows exactly what caused my rough day.

  “Not today.” I brush off the topic. I never want to talk about it. Charlie understands me and I appreciate her for that. There are times I do need to get a few things off my chest, things that are too difficult to bear on my own. But as I said to Charlie, not today. I can handle it on my own. “I’m going to shower and dress. Will you be okay hanging around until then?”

  She waves me off. “Yeah, yeah. Go, will ya! I’m starving.”

  Once I finish a quick shower, I dress down in skinny jeans, a white fitted T, and royal blue flats. Most days I wouldn’t care if my hair were tossed up in a messy ponytail or bun and I had no makeup on, but Charlie’s attire is a bit over-the-top. What the hell? Maybe spending a little extra time on my hair and makeup will make up for my lack of fashion, next to Charlie, of course.