Blank Canvas

Chapter 8 - Reopening the wounds

Chapter 8 - reopening the wounds

That night, I sat on my bed in my pyjamas, a Tatty Teddy number my dad had bought me shortly before the accident, painting quietly. I was doing a family portrait from a photo I had of my family and I sitting on the huge beanbag we had at home, in a pile and giggling our heads off.

I remember when we took that picture. I has just got a new camera, and we wanted to try out the self-timer, so my dad had pressed the button, and ran around, but when he landed on the beanbag, he fired me and my sister into the air, like you do with beanbags, and we had just landed in a heap when the camera took the picture.

I felt a tear roll down my cheek as I relived the memory, and I looked up at the now battered camera lying on one of my shelves.

I didn't stop myself from crying. No one was here to see it, and sometimes when you've been through a lot, you just have to let it out, no matter how painful.

I just let the silent tears continue to roll as I painted.

I was painting my sister's beautiful blonde, wavy hair when Louis came in, about half an hour later. He had the room opposite mine, a paradise for Manchester United fans, and often came in at night, because neither of us were particularly good at sleeping. Somehow, it's a lot easier to cope when you have a friend around at your more vulnerable moments, and the nights was when everyone in the home tended to let their real emotions out.

Closing the door softly, so as to not wake anyone, he walked over to me, and seeing my tears, took my art book and carefully put it to one side before plopping down next to me and pulling me into a comforting hug. Now I'm not exaggerating at all when I tell you that Louis has an absolutely magical hug, one that always made you feel so safe wrapped up his arms. We just say like that for a while, him holding me close while I cried on his shoulder for a good 10 minutes.

When I finally managed to somewhat pull myself together, I slowly unwrapped myself from his arms, and grabbed a tissue before wiping my eyes and smiling sadly at him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He said softly, looking deep into my eyes.

Sniffing a little, I thought carefully. My past was my deep, dark secret, and I had told no one in the home as of yet. But I couldn't keep it within me forever....

Sighing a little, I passed him the photo I had been painting from, before taking back my art book and continuing to paint. I knew that painting while I told the story would remove a small amount of the pain, and anything was better than nothing.

Louis carefully examined the photo before saying, pausing slightly, "Is this your family?"

I nodded, smiling a little. "That's Lydia, my older sister," I said between sniffs, pointing at her in the photo, "and that is my mum, Sandra, and my dad, Dave."

Then I laughed a little under my breath. "And that's me, aged 13," I murmured. "Shield your eyes," I said, grinning at him.

He grinned back, before thoughtfully saying, "Don't be silly, you look beautiful!"

I felt my face go bright red at that, and I quickly applied myself to my art again. I could tell that Louis wanted to know more, he was burning to ask me where they were now, and why I was here, but he didn't push me for it, which was why he was such a good friend. Most looked after children are like that, they all have some sort of secret or bad past, so they just get one another, and what they're going through when they're trying to tell someone else about it.

Taking a deep breath, I started to talk, while still painting, because I couldn't bear to look at Louis while telling him.

"I was 13 in that photo, nearly 14. The camera we took it with was my early birthday present."