The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

You Should Tell Her

Rachel

The murmur of hushed conversations was a sound Rachel hadn't realized she missed. Before her sister's death, she had savored art shows, standing back and watching people look at and talk about art. Not just her own, she had had only one show of her own in a small gallery that had just opened and was more open to debut artists, but others too. Even big exhibits at the National Art Gallery attracted all levels of art admirers.

Rachel appreciated those who didn't turn art appreciation into a career. She loved watching tourists or families looking for a fun activity gravitate towards bigger names, only to be pulled away by other, lesser known paintings. Some people's eyes would light up as they realized they too, could enjoy art on a deeper level; feel the things the artist had hoped to make onlookers feel. For Rachel, that was true art: art that was accessible. Rachel hoped her collection would illicit that very thing as she stood back and watched. She had been more involved in the setup than she liked, but she wanted the showing to be literal for the sake of that accessibility. The gallery owner was more than willing to receive her input as, once again, Rachel's art was being showcased in a new gallery.

Considering the collection was called, The Necessary Path to Peace, Rachel wanted the audience to be led down a literal path. The paintings were arranged in the order of creation, highlighting that the stages of grief didn't always happen in the commonly touted order. The path itself was lined with the same flowers featured in her art pieces and along the way, smaller canvases connected one main work to the next. These canvases were titled, Scattered Memories, each one identified by a number and representing the things that had been lost in grief's void. They would serve as teasers for the full collection and put on display facing the street as some were more vibrant and daring than the canvasses representing the stages of grief. They were the result of emotional resolution, and they showed it.

Rachel peered over the heads, wondering if somehow, Mr. Maxwell had heard and would show up. "Oh my! This is wonderful!" squealed Barb. Rachel stiffened as her mother pulled her into an unwanted hug.

"Thanks," said Rachel, trying to pull out of the embrace without looking like she was trying to. Her father came up to them.

"We're so proud of you, honey."

"Thanks, dad," Rachel beamed.

"Yes, it's rewarding to see the results of our efforts. What with carrying you through your troubles and not losing hope." Her mother pressed a hand to her chest and smiled with tears in her eyes.

Oh my fucking god, I can't even have this! thought Rachel.

"Let's not talk about the past," her father chastised Barb gently.

Barb laughed. "But this is about the past." She swept her arm towards the art hanging on the walls under soft spotlights that had been positioned to create shadows, adding to the haunting air of some of the pieces. "Isn't it?" she added, when neither Rachel or her father agreed. Barb was someone who was the visual version of tone deaf. She had no concept of art comprehension but was the type to pretend she knew, not understood... knew, the artist's intent and story. Barb was wealthy, so Barb needed to 'know' art.

"That's not the point, said Rachel's father. She was upset that he still kept his tone kind, but that was his job as Barb's husband, to appeal to her delicate senses.

"Oh please, she's exploited Cara's death. Look at this," she said, pointing to, Bargaining.

The only thing that held Rachel together in that moment, was a deep desperation to hold on to the evening that was supposed to be hers. If she threw a tantrum, than the night would truly be lost. But most importantly, she didn't want her mother to taint the process that had helped her finally heal and come alive with her vulgarity. This collection wasn't an exploitation of her sister's death, but of herself. She had dared to lay herself bare, hang up her mangled insides on gallery walls, and allow complete strangers to look at the most intimate parts of herself. And yes, the accolades were nice but she hoped that maybe, just maybe, her art could carry someone through the darkness she had weathered. Maybe it would resonate and make someone feel less alone than she had over the last while. Maybe, it would offer the missing comfort if they had a vapid mother like hers.

Rachel chose to walk away.

That simple response, must have been the most empowering thing she had ever done and instead of feeling deflated or bitter for not being able to tell her mother off, Rachel felt exhilarated. She had even caught a glimpse of her father's surprise and pride intermingled with a hint of satisfaction as she turned away. Thankfully, someone pulled her off to a painting to ask her something about it, making it a textbook exit. The only thing she missed, was seeing her mother's reaction. That would have made the moment perfect.

The evening ended with Rachel being called up to a small, makeshift platform.

"Thank you so much for coming out tonight to support my return to art. You have no idea how meaningful it was to see some familiar faces who haven't forgotten me during my hiatus. I had been struggling to figure out what I wanted to say, but then it came to me during the show as I had to deal with a personal matter. I don't want to spell out what I hoped for all of you to see, because I believe art, and our relationship with it, is a sacred and deeply personal thing. I am but a messenger, and whatever you interpret is what your soul needed. To that end, my job is done. But, I do want you to know, that this is the most honest thing that I have ever created and my only hope, is that it makes at least one person feel a little less alone. Thank you."

The small crowd clapped as if they were a crowd of a thousand. The applause had Rachel feeling shy and overwhelmed, so she gave a little awkward bow before stepping off the platform and headed towards the back room that was restricted to employees only. She closed the door, pressing her forehead to it in relief, and the muffled sounds of clapping could still be heard. Muted, she was able to savor the sound better. She had done it. In the past, she had dreaded this moment of undeniable accomplishment, fearing she would never be able to follow up with something as good or better. But she felt at peace. If she never produced anything again, it would be okay, because she had accomplished her life's mission; which was to leave something meaningful behind.

A twinge of guilt pricked her heart as she thought of Cara and how she never had the chance to do the same thing. Rachel let herself feel it instead of shutting down like she used to. It was why it had been important to include her sister's story in the collection. In a way, Cara would live on and offer the comfort to those in need as well.