Bizirik Berriro (Alive Again)

Chapter 11

Iñaki gave me the week off. He even said he was going to pay me for it. Bless his Basque soul. He'd seen me when I was in the worst of my depression when everything had gone down the first time with Aritz, and proved yet again he could be counted on for anything. I owed him my life.
I spent the week either in bed or doing nothing. I wasn't capable of functioning in society at the moment, and thankfully people seemed to understand. It wasn't like anyone was suffering in my absence. Except Unai, who was the only person who came in to check on me every evening. We did technically share the apartment, it was in both our names, though he spent most of his time elsewhere. He reminded me with every visit that there were at least two people who still cared how I felt, who made me feel like I meant something in this world.

--
Five days into my brother-instated so-called convalescence, having barely left the house, Unai brought something in with him.

"This is for you," he said, setting a large rectangular box on the living floor.

"What is it?" I asked. He shrugged.

"Dunno."

"Is there at least a delivery notice?" I moved in closer to inspect it.

"Actually--"

"What is this about?" I demanded, looking right into his eyes.

"One of the guys told me to give it to you."

"One of the guys?" He nodded. I grabbed the box, in search of an opening. The cardboard fell away, and I was left staring at a blank canvas.

"No."

"He says he's sorry for everything."

"He's sorry? The dirty fucking--"

"Iane." He grabbed my arm. "It wasn't Aritz. He won't bother you anymore. I found him after I got off and put the love of God in him. If he so much as looks at you again he'll be out of the country before you can say agur." I sighed. I hoped he was right. I'd just managed to move past everything when he showed back up in my life and tried to ruin everything.

"Who was it?" I asked softly.

"He made me promise I wouldn't tell. But he's sorry." Fernando. It had to be. Part of me still hoped it was Gaizka, no idea why part of me still held onto him, but he had never shown any real interest. Fernando...

"I'm the one who should be sorry."

"Either way."

I stood there for a few minutes, just staring at the blank canvas. It felt like it had been an another lifetime when I would paint. Just me and the canvas and my paints. Me and my imagination. I sighed. Part of me didn't want to dig out my paint again. I'd tucked them away in my chest and hadn't thought about them in months.

"You should paint again, Iane." I picked up the canvas and turned it, looking for any kind of inspiration in the fabric. I set it down and shook my head.

"I can't."

"I know it's hard."

"It's not even that." The part of me that died with Aritz was the part of me that painted. I couldn't bear to relive that.

"Tell him I'm sorry, but I can't accept it."

"You opened it. It's yours."

"But I have no use for it." Unai sighed.

"Oh, Iane. I'm so sorry." He wrapped me in a hug. "I can't take it back. But I promise I'll leave you alone about it."

"Thank you."

"On one condition." I groaned.

"What's that?"

"You at least try." Trying was easy. Anyone could try. I nodded.

"Fine."

--
The next morning, all I could do was stare at the canvas. Unai must have set it up on the easel while I was asleep because I could see it from the balcony I'd converted into a makeshift studio a few years prior.

It was tempting. Very tempting. But that still, small voice in the back of my head kept telling me to look away. To ignore it. To ignore the literal blank canvas staring me in the face. I realized that the only way to avoid it was to get back to work and away from my thoughts.

Let me see what you've done with my gift.

Came the text. I knew it. I told him I couldn't accept it. That wasn't part of my life anymore.

Its a shame to waste talent.

I ignored it this time, and ventured out the door into the freezing streets. Bilbao in late November was starting to show signs of Christmas. The rain was turning to sleet, lights had been strung up all along the Arenal and the Zazpi Kaleak, and I knew the storefronts were beginning to display fake snow, with "Zorionak" and "Gabon" being hastily stenciled onto the windows. That time of year. I pulled my scarf up around my chin as I headed up the street towards the Estación de Abando and kept walking. Towards nowhere in particular.

I was ready to move on, I realized, and a weight fell off my shoulders.