The Colour of Broken

by Amelia Grace

  I gained some sort of control of my crying. ‘She ... she spoke the truth ... and it hurts.’

  ‘I agree with your grandmother, Yolande. What you’re doing day to day is surviving, not living. You’re leading your life within tight, constricting walls you have self-imposed, squeezing your right to happiness from you. What happened to you and your friend is not your fault. Those men had choices. And they chose wrongly. It had nothing to do with you, or your friend, what you did, or didn’t do, what you could have, or should have done. There was nothing you could have done to change the outcome of the events. The attackers were under a drug induced psychotic state. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  I closed my eyes and put my trembling hand over my mouth. I dragged my hand away and ran my fingers over my scar. ‘I know ... I know all the facts and the results of the medical testing and psychiatric assessment of the bastards. The whole tragic event should never have happened. I want to go back in time and change the outcome. But I can’t.’

  ‘Have you visited Mia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s something you need to do. There’s a goal for you, Andi. I know you can do it. You have come such a long way since we first met, two and a half years ago.’

  I sucked in a shuddering breath. ‘I know.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the incident with Gram. Which is worse? Going to a garden party with a stranger, or not wearing steel- capped boots?’

  ‘I think ... deep down ... it’s not wearing my steel-capped boots. They’re my safety net. I know they’ll inflict serious damage if I kick someone with them in self-defence, and give me time to run.’

  ‘I’m surprised. I thought going to the party with a stranger would rank higher than your steel-capped boots.’

  I looked down at my faithful brown boots. I wore them with my jeans today and they didn’t look so out of place, unlike wearing them with a dress at Flowers for Fleur. I wondered how they would look with an Audrey Hepburn type of old-fashioned dress that Gram suggested I wear. I touched the scar on my chest again. I was hit with the realisation that a fancy, feminine, Audrey Hepburn dress would cover my scar entirely, and I wouldn’t have to worry about the scar accidentally revealing itself to innocent guests, who would then stare at me after the initial shock of seeing it, then communicate a look of pity to me. Gram always thought of everything.

  ‘At first, going to the garden party with a stranger was more terrifying, but when I thought about it, behind the stranger thing was that I had no one there to help look out for me, to be my extra eyes and ears in case of an attack. If I had my boots on, I’d feel safe. But when Gram added the no steel-capped boots, I felt cornered.’

  ‘And that triggered other negative emotions and memories?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So ... we return to the garden party and the boots. Knowing you, you already have a plan. What is it?’

  ‘I have to wear a dress, with normal dress shoes. My fear is I have nothing to protect myself with. I think shoe throwing would be laughable.’

  ‘It would still give you some time. Don’t underestimate it. What else can you take that could be tucked into your bag?’

  ‘Pepper spray. Hairspray. Whistle. Laser pointer. Self-defense safety rod. Mobile phone stun gun.’

  ‘Have you considered telling your garden party partner your safety concerns?’

  ‘Never. He knows nothing about me. He is literally a stranger, albeit one who has talked to Gram for close to an hour, and she’s given him permission to borrow her bicycle for four hours as long as I go with him—something she has never done! And I still can’t believe she has sacrificed my mental health in the equation.’

  ‘Do you think he—’

  ‘Xander—’

  ‘Xander ... may feel the need to protect you if something unforeseeable happens at the garden party, considering you are going along as a guest?’

  I closed my eyes. I had lost my trust in men. ‘I honestly can’t tell you. All I know is that I must be able to protect myself, no matter what, no matter who else is around, and never to rely on anyone else when it comes to my personal safety. I can’t ever trust a man again.’

  ‘That’s a valid reaction considering your history.’

  There was a short conversation silence. I could hear Dr Jones madly scribbling notes into her file titled, “Yolande Lawrence-Harrison”. I’m sure one of my therapy sessions will be on male trust, and learning to trust again.

  ‘Andi, I want you to visualise this ... you’ve got your Audrey Hepburn style dress on, cleverly and safely covering up your chest scar. Your other scar is hidden, as you have perfected. On your feet are comfortable court shoes. I have chosen that style because you can run in them, or flick them off to throw, or to run faster from a possible threat.’ Dr Jones sat opposite me and handed me a sketch pad. ‘I’d like you to draw a picture of yourself in your dress and shoes. Use any of the drawing implements that you feel will reflect how you feel about the situation.’

  I took a calming breath and started to draw. Just a simple stick figure drawing of a girl in a dress with dress shoes. I used colour. I added a stick figure of Xander, in blue.

  Dr Jones leaned forward towards my art work. ‘What have you drawn on your face, Andi?’

  ‘It’s my mask. I wear it every day, without fail.’

  ‘Are you wearing it now?’

  ‘No. I feel safe to remove it here.’

  ‘Thanks. Would you now draw your handbag with all your safety tools inside it please? Visualisation is an important and powerful mind preparation tool.’

  I drew a smallish bag, with only make-up inside it.

  Dr Jones looked at me and frowned. ‘Where’s your taser, laser light, mobile phone, pepper spray and self-defence rod?’

  ‘On me. In my pockets. If I lose my handbag in an attack, I still have protection implements.’

  ‘Clever.’

  I picked up the black pen and gripped it in my hand. Hard. I let out a low scream between my gritted teeth and scribbled over the red mask on my drawing. Tears dripped from my eyes and landed on my drawing, making the ink run.

  Dr Jones did not speak. She did not react. After a while she asked, ‘What are you thinking, Andi?’

  I sobbed. ‘I don’t want to keep wearing the mask ... I don’t want to keep pretending everything is okay. I don’t want to be this person that I am after what happened. I want the carefree, happy, energetic, kind and loving me back. Everyone says it will get better with time. But it doesn’t. Why couldn’t it have been me, instead of her? It should have been me!’

  There was a long silence. And I hated it. We had been over this road a million times before, and I wondered if Dr Jones was getting tired of it.

  ‘Have you told her how you feel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then I would feel ungrateful for being almost okay, when she’s not.’

  ‘You need to tell her, Andi.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sometime in the future.’ I wasn’t ready yet. Was I being unkind? ‘And don’t ask me the magic wand question. There is no magic wand, so the question is pointless.’

  ‘You’re right. It is indeed a pointless question. So is wishing. If you want a wish to materialize, you have to act upon it and make it happen.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So, do you wish to go to the garden party with Xander in an Audrey Hepburn style dress with court shoes that you can either throw or fling off to run faster, and carry make-up in your bag while your self-defense tools are on your body and pockets to use in case your bag goes missing due to whatever reason?’

  ‘No. I do not wish to go. So it won’t be happening. Gram can accompany her beloved bicycle if she does not trust the very nice Xander to return it in one piece.’ I sighed and looked down at my hands. ‘I’m sorry for wasting your time today, Dr Jones. Patients like me must be very frustrating.’
>
  ‘On the contrary, Andi. Challenging is a word I might use. But I love challenges. My goal is to help you overcome your obstacles by giving you a mental toolbox full of effective strategies, so you will be able to live a life full of rich and rewarding experiences with happiness thrown in as the icing on the cake. I have total confidence that you will get there.’

  ‘Some days are harder than others.’

  ‘Are the hard days becoming less?’

  I thought for a bit. I didn’t like to look back into the past three years, but this question required it. ‘Yes. I think they are.’ I spoke in truth.

  ‘You do realise you’re looking a whole lot better now than when you came through that door an hour ago.’

  Was she speaking the truth, or was she using psychological mumbo-jumbo on me? Words of persuasion. Whatever it was, her words did make me feel a little happier, and more like I could cope again. Maybe I wouldn’t have to put that mask back on when I walked out her door today ...

  ‘Before we finish our session, Yolande, can I ask who the blue stick figure is in your picture?’

  ‘It’s Xander.’

  ‘Why is he blue?’

  ‘I see people in ... colours ...’

  ‘Like an aura?’

  ‘No. I see their character as a colour. The colour is usually above and behind their head.’

  ‘How do you work out their character?’

  ‘Intuition, behaviour, tone of voice, dress choice ...’

  ‘Can their colour change?’

  ‘Absolutely, with incidents ...’

  ‘I’m glad you feel safe enough to disclose this ability to me. How long have you possessed this way of seeing people?’

  ‘Since I was seven.’

  ‘What colour are you?’

  I took a deep breath and twisted my fingers together. My stomach tightened. I cleared my throat. ‘The colour of broken ...’

  Dr Jones was silent.

  I stopped breathing when anxiety rose inside me like a wall of lava, about to incinerate me. It was freaking me out that she now knew this about me, and that she had not reacted to the description of my colour.

  ‘And what colour would that be?’ she finally asked.

  I breathed out through my lips, slowly, steadily, counting to five in my head. ‘Gray with an “a”.’

  ‘There’s a difference?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Grey with an “e” is very different to gray with an “a”.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Grey with an “e” is like the rain clouds. It’s melancholy, but an enjoyable melancholy that builds up until it releases, and then it’s like petrichor, the smell of the rain after warm, dry weather. Satisfying. Grey with an “e” is also when deep thought, philosophy and ponderings happen. Everyone should experience grey with an “e”, it helps to discover parts of you that you never knew existed, and it can vanish without leaving a bitter aftertaste.’

  ‘Tell me about gray with an “a”.’

  I looked down at my knotted hands. ‘Gray with an “a” is ... never enjoyable—it’s a very dark gray. It’s self-judgement, doom and gloom, forever hanging around and within. It wants to drag you into the dark abyss of the colour black, that absorbs all colours ... the colour of self-condemnation, the colour of depression, the colour of death of the physical body.’

  ‘But not the spiritual body?’

  ‘No.’ I didn’t want to add any more to this conversation. It was painful to talk about.

  ‘So, me being a supposedly normal person, could I see your gray with an “a”?’

  ‘No. Because I mask it. And my gray with an “a” is not a plain gray with an “a”. It’s a crackled dark gray, with other colours that seep out ... sometimes.’

  ‘What colours would they be?’

  ‘Drips of red for anger ... specks of black—’ for self-hate, ‘—for my secret, blushes of pink for my love for Mia and my family, and explosions of turquoise that screams at me to love myself ...’

  ‘That’s very insightful, Yolande. It’s highly intuitive. I’m curious ... when you look at me, what colour am I?’

  I hesitated before I spoke. I never told anyone the colour I had appointed to them for fear of them running from me. But Dr Jones, she was different, she would understand ...

  ‘You are ... magenta,’ I finally said. ‘It’s the colour of a person who helps to construct harmony and balance in life, hope and aspiration for a better world—mentally and emotionally,’ I said, and held my breath, waiting for her reaction.

  She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘That’s an amazing gift to have in your mind toolbox, Yolande. Does it ever lie to you?’

  I closed my eyes. The two men on that terrible day of the scars were blue—trustworthy—until a truck load of alcohol changed them to negative red—aggressive and domineering, and then the drugs made them a violent and brutal dark red. Shades of red. Every colour had shades and positive and negative attributes.

  I pressed my lips together before I answered her question. ‘Alcohol and drugs change the essence of a person’s colour. But then I have to wonder whether their sober colour is their true colour at all, and the inhibition that a little alcohol gives, reveals their real colour.’

  ‘Do you think I should be serving up glasses of wine, rather than cups of tea?’ Dr Jones smiled at me.

  ‘Clearly. If anything, it would make great research!’ I grinned, wondering whether Dr Jones would have a glass of red on the table for me next time I was here.

  ‘Thank you for everything you have shared with me today, Yolande. For Sunday, use the mind tools I have given you. I’m confident that the afternoon will go well. And try to allow yourself to enjoy the event.’

  ‘Thanks, Dr Jones.’

  We both stood and walked to her door. She opened it for me, and I left, without one of those smiles that said, “I’ve got my shit together!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  SUNDAYS WERE MY SELF-IMPOSED “dare-to-be-bare” day. A day just for me. By myself. In my exposed emotional state. No public persona, no mask, no makeup, no steel-capped safety work boots, no judgement from others. It was a day when I could slip back to the Yolande before that terrible day of the scars. The Yolande who had no fear and saw the world as an amazing place to be journeying through life. The Yolande who was compassionate, kind, and full of laughter. The Yolande who had a positive bent on absolutely everything—there was never a problem that couldn’t be solved. There was no person who couldn’t be saved from their own self-destruction ...

  When I was in Tarrin, I spent the entire day in my parents’ studio, painting or drawing while listening to loud music and sipping on cups of tea, wearing nothing but the same oversized tank shirt and underwear each time, no bra. My right breast was often exposed to just below my nipple. I had an odd sort of belief that my “healing” art therapy would miraculously rectify my scars, and one day I would look down and find my scar gone. I know it was stupid and delusional, but it was my glimmer of hope.

  But today, my cherished Sunday wasn’t mine. It had been stolen from me by my bicycle infatuated grandmother.

  My mother held my hand, walked me to the car and drove off. I sat beside her with my eyes closed, wishing I could escape. If I opened the door I could activate my wish and fall out and run. After all, Dr Jones said I could run in court shoes. Bloody pink ones at that!

  I hung my head when she pulled up outside Flowers for Fleur. On a Sunday. When it was closed. I fingered both of my pockets for my self-defence tools, then lifted my head, pulled down the sun visor and looked into the mirror on the back of it, scrutinizing my make-up, particularly in one area on my face.

  ‘You’ve got this, Andi,’ my mother said.

  ‘I know, Ma. Logically speaking, I have it planned and sorted. Rationally, I know I’ll be okay. But anxiety causes irrational thoughts. I just have to get better at over-riding my errant mind.’ I looked at my mother and pressed my lips together. I know she was pushing me out of my comfort level
. And I know that is the only way I could improve.

  I opened the door, stepped onto the pavement and brushed down the skirt of my Audrey Hepburn style floral print dress. It was in the vintage chic style, a 1950s flared skirt and sleeveless fitted bodice. The high neck line covered my chest scar. There were pink flowers with green leaves over a white background. I narrowed my eyes at my pale pink court shoes. Steel-capped work boots would have been so much better.

  When I looked up, my gaze locked with Xander’s. He was dressed in a white cotton button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to three quarter length, skinny trousers the colour of jet mid-blue, a brown leather belt and matching brown leather shoes. He was the colour of celestial blue, like the earth from space: peaceful, powerful, sacred. He gave me a slight nod with a crooked smile.

  I looked away from him and towards Gram when that curious heat ran through me. She stood in front of her beloved bicycle, beaming me a smile that almost blinded me. She was happy. Good. As I moved closer, her expression changed a little, her face falling in just the slightest way. She wasn’t as good as she was trying to portray.

  I reached out and touched her arm. ‘I made it, Gram, without my work boots. Anyone who tries to steal your bike will be battered by the lethal court shoe,’ I whispered.

  Gram moved her head a fraction as she gave a small smile. Her eyes widened, and she froze in place. Her usual magenta colour of love was a pale apple-green of distress and worry.

  She spoke to me without looking at me, her eyes kept in place without moving. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ She moved her hand and searched for Gramps but didn’t move her head. The vertigo had returned.

  ‘Go with Gramps, Gram. I’ll let you know when I’m back. Xander will take good care of me and your bicycle,’ I said in a calm voice, masking the anxiety inside me.

  Gram held the look of terror in her eyes. I wanted to lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek and tell her everything would be okay. But I knew it wouldn’t be, and I knew not to do anything that would make her head move while she was like this. It would make her vertigo worse, much worse.

  I held back a tear that tried to betray me. Why did it always have to be on the right side of my face? I brushed my hand over Gram’s in a gentle, affectionate gesture and my heart rate picked up in urgency. I knew she had to get home quickly, or she would be stuck here outside her shop on a Sunday, unable to move.