A Box of Unspoken Thoughts

The Artist

I once knew this one girl who always wore shirts with long sleeves, even in the Florida heat that enveloped our school.
The seat in the corner, right at the back of the class was covered in doodles that marked it as hers.
Day after day, she would sit there, staring out the window.
No one really knew exactly what she was looking at and it puzzled us when she would smile for no particular reason.
She was definitely strange.
Her head was forever up in the clouds, her thoughts like tiny birds soaring over the heads of us normal people.
She had ideas the rest of us couldn't even begin to understand, creativity without any limits.
Unlike everyone around her, there was nothing chaining her to the ground, she flew high above us all.

While our futures were still muddled and confused, she knew exactly where she was going and was willing to do anything to get there,
the train of her life never had any stops.
Her dreams of becoming an artist could not be changed.
Despite the negativity surrounding her, a wall of hate, she worked hard.
Every lunch break and free period was spent in the art room, painting picture after picture.
At her hands, simple objects like cups and fruits came to life.
The vibrant colours lit up the dim room she worked in, illuminating everything around her.
But, no matter how amazing her work was, it was never good enough for her.
Every painting was better than the last, but the pile of castaways still grew.

She didn't know, but each day, after school, I would sneak into the empty room and take home the drawings she threw away.
They were my sanctuary.
The painted oceans and forests rescued me from the demons inside.
Whenever I looked at her pictures, I could almost feel the salty breeze by the seaside.
They really were beautiful, a reflection of the girl who had painted them.

I loved her with all my heart.

I would often catch myself gazing in her direction, hoping that she would notice me, but she was always stealing wistful glances at someone else.

He was a typical jock. Tall with windswept blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
Bright and popular. The complete opposite of me, a dark, gloomy loner.
He already had a girlfriend, a shallow Barbie doll with no real thoughts of her own.
Sure, she was pretty with her large doe eyes and soft auburn curls, but there was nothing going on in her head.
She was like everyone else in her clique of nameless faces that looked remarkably similar.
Compared to her, the Barbie girl was flaky and ridiculous, but of course he couldn't see that.

Every time the two of them were together, I could see the sadness written on her face.
I couldn't help thinking her love was wasted on a guy like that.
I knew I would've cared for her a lot more, but I couldn't bring myself to confess.
I guess deep down, I already knew the answer.

I was walking down the hallways, like usual, when I saw her, deep in conversation with someone else.
Turning a corner, I ducked behind a trash can to listen.

"I-I like you. Will you g-go out with me?" Her cheeks were flushed a deep scarlet and her hands were trembling.
It was clear that she was nervous.

"Are you kidding me? You're insane." The other voice barked, his harsh words cutting through her heart, knives that left emotional scars.

Tears began welling in her eyes.
The strong, proud girl who never let anything get her down looked so fragile standing there.
It looked as if she would cry any second now, but she didn't.

"I understand. I'm sorry for bothering you." She sounded hollow, accustomed to the cruelty of the world already.

The guy looked at her, disgust in his eyes.

"You should be. Go kill yourself loser." He laughed, walking away.

The second he left, the tears came.
A steady stream of pain and hurt.
It was the first time I had ever seen her cry.
She was so cheerful and focused on art that I had assumed she didn't have a care in the world.
He had broke her.

I felt anger boil within me.
I wanted to go over and wrap my arms around her, protecting the girl from the world forever, but I knew she would just push me away.
Her mental walls were too high for me to ever climb over.
Plus, she hadn't known I was eavesdropping and going over there would mean I would have to reveal myself.
That would be embarrassing.

Forcing myself to walk away,
I swore to myself that I would confess the next time I saw her.
Glancing at the crying girl behind me, I kept walking.

..........

The next time I saw her was at her funeral.
She had killed herself a day after the incident, believing no one in the world cared for her.
The empty bottle of pills was found on her bedside table, along with her unfinished artwork
Her dreams of becoming an artist were never accomplished,
If she had lived a little longer, I knew that she would've became even more talented.
Holding her small painted pictures in my hands, I cried.
The person who had given me these safe places was gone and so was the magic within the paintings.

I never got the chance to confess.

Looking down at her body, I noticed something I had never seen before.
Her corpse was dressed in a flimsy white dress, an angel in sleep, but I didn't care about that.
There, on the part of her wrist that was usually covered by her sleeves
Were three thin scars.
They weren't fresh, probably from months ago, but something about the spiralling marks called out to me.

Taking out her latest artwork, I put it beside the scars.

That's when I realized how talented she really was.

She was truly an artist.

She could not only paint with a paintbrush,

But with a razor as well.