Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Thirty-Eight - Ezra

Parked across the street outside The Sanctuary, I make my temporary home. I never go inside, though. Days pass and I watch Elaine and Mama Gracie and Papa Wilbur and all the others come and go. But I never go in. I can't bring myself to face them. So, I camp out in my car. Partly because I'm almost out of gas and partly because I have nowhere to go. The world is a cold, cruel place. I wonder if I even belong in it anymore.

Unable to turn on my car to make use of the heater, I sit in the cold, wrapped in just my leather jacket, jeans, and the thin white sheet from my apartment. Shivering, I reach into the glove compartment and retrieve the bottle of pills. Only a few left. I swallow one and chase it down with a drink of beer, kept cold only by the weather.

I haven't had a good shower in a week. I miss The Sanctuary. I miss Mama Gracie and her wisdom. I miss Papa Wilbur and his war stories. I miss Elaine and the kindness in her eyes. I miss Liam and Mom and Dad and home and Summit and the way things used to be, back when I still had faith to believe that the good would always prevail over the bad.

Out in the cold, I yearn for the simplicity of childhood. When colors were magic and belief was easy. When I knew what was wrong and what was right and didn't constantly second guess myself. When I never had to worry about whether or not I was good enough. When my mind was full of new ideas for games that Liam and I could play and not the toxic thoughts that swirl around inside of me like they do now. When art was a natural product of simple imagination. I miss the younger days when everything was bright and big and beautiful.

The series of empty canvases, propped up on the seat beside me, mocks me. I can't even remember what I'd originally planned to paint. My mind is unable to recover the mental picture I tried to render. The image, the inspiration grows faded and fathomless.

If I could just paint one picture to save my life, what would it be? The question continues to confound me just as it has for six years. Part of me wants to burn these canvases and just forget about all of it. At the same time, from somewhere deep inside, I wish for just a drop of color brighten the deep, dark nothingness of my life.

"Maybe that's what you should paint," Elaine said. "The waking up."

But how can I paint something when I don't even know what it looks like?

The whole world slips out from under me and all that's left is me, hurtling through outer space at the speed of light. So fast that, if you blink, you'll miss me. It's not as bright up here as I thought it would be.

I'm adrift. Adrift through the blinding dark. Adrift on the edge of outer space. No light to guide me home. Adrift in the belly of the deep, dark nothingness. Adrift with nowhere to go.

I just want to go home.