Celestial Worlds

Chapter Eighteen

His room is messier than the last time I went in here.

    Dirty clothes pile at the corners, books thrown haphazardly around the floor, the comforter halfway down to the floor, and pillows scattered. But the smell, the smell is still there. His strong musk lingering around, the smell of soap escaping from the bathroom. His bed is a mess. His room is a mess like him. Completely chaotic and unorganized. I step back so I can hear the small talk downstairs. Jonathan’s still watching television.

    I look around for possible hiding places just in case he makes an unexpected entrance. There’s a closet, the kind of closet where there are blinds to peek at. I’m not a psycho, but I would want to know why he’s acting like this.

    I walk a small pace around the room, looking at the paintings hung on the walls. There is one just above his bed, a little painting of Eiffel Tower, but this time, instead of clear clouds and healthy trees, the sky is dark and the clouds are grey, circling the Eiffel tower like a tornado. The trees, once green and glorious, are now brown and crispy. But the Eiffel tower, glorious as ever, glowing and strong, stands out from the canvas. I look around the other paintings, usually places and parks and landmarks. I scan another painting which consists of the statue of liberty. The sea surrounding the statue is dark and murky and full of garbage, and the sky, like the Eiffel tower, has a dark circle of cloud surrounding the Lady Liberty’s torch. They must be from the same painter, I thought. I scan the corners of the painting looking for a sign or something that authenticates the creator. After a moment, I see something, a smudge of dark paint in the bottom right corner. My eyes widen at what I see.

    Carl.

    Carl.

    That’s when it hits me. Carl was the one who painted the painting of my favourite constellation. My constellation. And he’s Jonathan. Jonathan Carl Raymond Anderson. He’s the mystery painter. My mystery painter.

    The door bursts open.

    “What the hell are you doing here?” he says furiously while holding the door with a hand.

    “I—,” I start to say.

    “What the hell?” he repeats. “Are you snooping around in my room? Can’t you leave me alone? Why don’t you go around in your own room, huh? Do you want to take something here too?”

    Too?

    “Too? What do you mean too?” I shoot back. I’m beginning to become angry now.

    He runs a hand across his hair, furious. “Don’t fucking play dumb Victoria, you already got my mom’s trust and everything. You stole her from me, so don’t—”

    “I didn’t steal her from you,” I say quietly, completely guilty. I look down at my hands which are trembling and sweaty. Maybe Debby was talking to me too often. But I didn’t steal her, I never did. No one asked him to stay quiet and immobile. He was the one who was neglecting Debby, not me.

    “Leave,” he says sternly. I look at him, tears blurring my eyes because of the hurt from his words. He doesn’t look at least the least bit of guilty. He looks enraged, completely oblivious of my feelings. I march toward the door, brushing past him.

    He grabs my wrist.

    “Look, I—,” he starts to say. I put a hand up to silently to say, “Stop, you’ve said those words and there’s no way to take them back.” He gets the gesture and he dumps my hand, so hard it hurts.

    “Fine, have it in your own fucking way Victoria. Besides, everything revolves around you.”

    Then I run, up to my room and collapse on the bed.

    I cry until my eyes and jaws hurt.