St. Văduva's School for Prestigious Girls

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕺𝖓𝖊

Albuquerque skies were a sight never to be beat. Oranges joined pinks and baby blues and blacks from the east seamlessly. Streaks of clouds broke through the cotton candy colors, creating interesting shapes. It was home. It was comfort. It was soon to become her coffin.

The sun was setting; rays of dying light beamed over the horizon and illuminated the high school below. Temperance stood outside the art room, a plastic cup of punch in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other. She squinted against the light as she exhaled a plume of bitter smoke from her lips, feeling the heat from her breath against her skin. The roughness of the wall was still warm from the day's prior pre-summer heat, and she welcomed its cozy embrace.

The turnout for the art show had been massive, not what she had anticipated when she was invited to it by her former teacher a week ago. When she was a student here, the only ones who showed up were guardians and parents, siblings, and a few select resolute friends. Now, the entire warehouse art studio was packed with friends of friends of friends. And from what Temperance saw, the students were massively talented. One student had a self-portrait done on recycled bottle caps; another did a realistic landscape picture using living plants to function as foliage; one did a hyper-realistic wood-burning picture of human lungs. They were wildly more creative than she had been at their age, and she could not have been prouder of the new generation at her alma mater. But she would stick to ink and paper, thank you very much.

Temperance sipped her punch, clearing the taste of nicotine from her gums. The door opened suddenly, crashing through her memories. A couple with their high-school-aged child exited the art room. The student had a giant beam on her face and arms full of her art portfolio folder as she babbled about one of the art pieces inside that belonged to her that apparently was beheld with a high level of compliments. Something about a watercolor picture or other.

Temperance vaguely remembered when that had been her. Excited about her work, excited to show it off to anyone and everyone, and excited about what the future held. And now? Her ambition was as dead as the squished roach beside her foot.

She downed the rest of her drink and closed her eyes, taking in the last rays of light. Her head was throbbing in time with her heartbeat, banging away at the inside of her eyeballs like bowling balls knocking over pins. Going home to take a bath and lay on the couch sounded like bliss, but Constance was socializing. Ever the social butterfly, way before Temperance snuck her way out of the warehouse, Constance was making the rounds, talking up the artists and praising their work as if these were world-renowned artists and not high schoolers. She was nothing if not supportive. Going into the medical field would certainly bode well for her.

Temperance was not a complete introvert, however. She had complimented a fair few of the artists — the ones that were overlooked, mostly — but Constance was on a whole other level. Temperance wanted to be alone. She just so happened to be lost in the caverns of her mind.

The heavy ball of anxiety in the pit of her stomach remained. If she lost herself to the train of thought, she could still smell the scent of bleach and antiseptic and the pleasant, yet indiscernible aroma of the bathroom hand soap. Still hear the beeping of heart monitors, the loud, pulsating noise of the MRI machine, combined with the softness of headphones clinging to her ears while Mozart flowed through the speakers. Feel the squeezing of the blood pressure cuff against her bicep squeezing and squeezing and squeezing like an anaconda wrapping around its victim before releasing the blood flow back into her tingling appendage.

Everything was just as fresh in her mind as it had been when she lived it, and yet she watched it all behind her eyelids through a haze-like smoke in front of a movie screen.

☽☼☾

The clock in their office was loud, ticking, ticking, ticking away at Temperance's nerves. It was warm — cozy in here. Meant as being a place to soothe, to comfort. That much was evident with the soft, neutral colors and soft chairs, with a pastel yellow couch against the wall. The walls and floor were not blinding white like in the exam rooms, but instead soft, warm, off-white tones that felt more like a sun-warmed café than a doctor's personal office. But none of that reassured her. She sat in the chair across the desk feeling as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been poured on her.