One Bite

Three - Ivy

Fresh Paint

   I take a long drag on the cigarette, exhaling slowing before reaching down to grasp the handle of the paintbrush.

   Raising it, I pause to stare hard at the painting before me. As I do, paint runs down my forearm and drips from my elbow to the ground covered in newspaper below me.

   Already the face has become deformed, just like every other one I've ever done before it. I reach a point where I actually like my work and then feel the need to add more... and every time I do, I ruin it.

   I take the cigarette from my mouth as I swipe the brush across the forehead, changing two perfect – albeit slightly bushy – eyebrows into one thick mono-brow.

   With a sigh that's more snarl, I throw the brush to the ground, slamming my free hand into the wall, leaving a black handprint across his – or maybe her? – cheek.

   I jump in surprise at the sudden knock to the door.

   "Sorry honey; didn't mean to scare you," mum smiles apologetically. The warm, familiar scent of her channel perfume rolls off her skin and drifts across the room towards me.

   "No, it's fine. What's up?" I press my hand into my hip, discreetly hiding my cigarette behind my back. Although mom knows I smoke, I don't tend to flaunt it in front of her.

   "I was just wondering if you'd come down stairs to meet the neighbours with me." 

   There's a slight tint of 'pretty please' to her voice.

   I give her a look, my head tilting to the side before I glance down at myself. White dungarees covered in splatters of paint and totally destroyed converses. "Mum, do you honestly want to introduce your neighbours to your crazy, messy daughter?"

   "Of course I do silly," she laughs. "They'll love you either way."

   "Do I have to?" I hate the whining note to my voice but the thought of meeting people makes me a little sick.

   She nods her head. "Yes, you do. So come on."

   "Mum..." I try once more, gesturing to the painting.

   "Please?" She pulls a face, the lines around her mouth and eyes visible.

   "Fine, I'll be down in a second," I mutter.

   She beams and blows me a kiss before turning and leaving. When she does, I take a quick glance around my messy bedroom. Then I look down at I'm wearing and at the painting.

   Finally, with a flutter of my hands and a sigh of exasperation, I wipe my hands down my dungarees and follow her down. Taking the trip down I reflect on my day filled with meeting new people. Like the teachers; some of them almost too nice, some of them almost too mean. Like the students; the loud, the quiet, the strange and the confident. So many of them as well. At first there was Tom, the boy in my first class, with the dark hair and bright eyes that felt like they were watching me a little too closely. Then there was the girl with the white hair and the almost identical eyes - she too felt like she was watching me a little too closely.

   Downstairs, I enter our living room to find the leather settee occupied by a couple. I find it almost impossible to tell their age – and I'm normally very good with ages. I smile tightly at them, feeling that familiar burst of panic in my chest. Their smiles in return are easy and bright and I feel an overwhelming sense of relief when I notice they don't have any children with them.

   "Hi," I say quietly, standing beside mum who's sitting on the leather chair matching the settee.

   "Hello," the woman replies. Automatically, I take in the structure of her face, the high cheek bones, the raven black hair and the way her eyes gleam with healthiness.