Blind Lies

1

The white late afternoon light blinds me but I don't really care. I dip a thick worn brush into the lime coloured acrylic and smooth it over the canvas with joy. It forms a bumpy trail of green, overlapping swirls of red, yellow and white. I smile broadly.

Ever since my mother had given me a set of paints when I was a young four year old, I had poured my heart into abstract work, making shapes that expressed my emotions even if I didn't know what they were. I would just swipe and swirl the colours of my life onto a canvas, a blank canvas that marked the start of something amazing. Something truly me. I step back a couple steps from the gigantic human sized board.

The colours were strong, bold. Every line of colour popped out; nothing was outshone, nothing was in a shadow. The deafening colours shout and sing, clinging onto each other as if they were friends that had their own personalities but makes up one huge important thing. I wipe my paint covered fingers onto my used-to-be white apron that was smudged with inky red and yellow just as the door to the attic opens.

"Hey Elaina," says the stiff voice of my father. He has thick brown hair and blue eyes that I always wish I hadn't inherited. My long dark hair clashes terribly with my sharp irises, making me look mirthless. I always wish to shout at those people who cower, to say to them not to judge my appearance, but I don't ever try because of my shyness. My mind speaks volumes. My mouth does not.

"Hi dad," my twelve year old voice cracks and I wince. Puberty. Another reason why I don't ever speak much. "I'm just painting, see?" I turn the canvas around in the dingy attic, the top of it skimming the ceiling. My father glances at it briefly and nods.

"Cool," he murmurs, his voice sounding distracted as he watches dust fall from the ceiling. "listen Elaina, do you know where mom is?"

I shake my head, not wanting to speak. My pride starts to waver.

I spent three hours on this painting and you don't even care! I want to say bitterly. But I didn't. Not to my good father. He seems to see the anger in my face and sighs.

"Elaina, I-" he seems to have a struggle for words. I watch him, watch him struggle with content. Will you talk to me now, voluntarily? Talk to me about me, not mom? But my face falls when he finishes. "I need to find your mother, so tell me if you see her, 'kay?" I bite my tongue to keep tears from spilling onto my paint stained cheeks as he walks away. The steps hesitate for a second, but continue nonetheless. I wait until I hear his steps fall faintly onto the stairs before dropping into a spare purple couch sitting by the tall window. I stare out through the dirty glass after pressing my forehead against it.

Sometimes, I wish my parents would love me more. My dad was always working somewhere or always came up with an excuse to avoid his twelve year old girl. My mother was a stay at home mom, but always cleaned, and never wished me good morning or goodnight. Neither parents had ever touched me in my life, but constantly show affection to each other. It was something that shook me. I want to reach out and grab that affection for my own, as if it was an object. I want it so much more than they could possibly know, all the worry and hugs that other kids get at school, all the kisses goodbye and smiles as they get off the bus with a stumble. Even when I was a newborn, pictures showed me with a nanny or a mother holding a baby wrapped tightly in fluffy pink blankets.I have learned not to ask them why they wouldn't touch me from the reactions they showed when I was a curious, naive six year old which involved stony silences and no lunch for three days.

I watch as two toddlers hold hands on the neighbour's lawn across from our house. Two pairs of parents beam, snapping pictures of their cute babies becoming friends already. The toddlers swing their chubby arms happily, and one of them falls, bringing the other down with him. Both start wailing, and the parents quickly pick their kids up from the grass, each to their proper parents. The one family's baby looks up into her parents' eyes and stops crying. I have to tear my eyes away as the mother kisses her forehead in endearment.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I stand and look at my painting. Somehow, the colours seem darker and more foreboding than before. I shake my head angrily at myself. No, the colours are the same Alaina. Stop turning everything dark because you are upset. With increasing self pity that I try to stop but fail, I slump out of the attic, leaving the purple couch and painting along with the warm smudge of my forehead against the window. I walk down the creaky wood stairs into our spacious living room. Our house is seems pretty small, but if parts of the living room were torn off and placed into different areas of the house it would be way larger. Since our family was small, with just my mother, my father, my turtle and I, we actually thought the house to be perfect. I pass the kitchen island with modern low hanging lamps and walk randomly, where I don't know. The living room has a kitchen to the left, and a couch with a TV and a glass coffee table to the right. In front of me is a pale blue door that leads outside into our mini garden, which my mother plants roses that always grow so many thorns that she has to cut them off eventually. I decide to go outside.

The air is warm, but mild. Not too much wind, but enough that it cooled down the sharp August sun shining down on my dark coloured hair and curved nose. I smile, forgetting about my odd parents, forgetting about my painting. I step around a dead rose, it's perfume making me sneeze. The garden was always mysterious. Mysterious and beautiful. I close my eyes for a second, in a trance.
Crack.
I open my eyes quickly, with slight apprehension. I feel something kick my heels and turn around without jumping like I knew some of my timorous friends would do. My mother stares at me, with her brown eyes and admirably pretty blonde hair. She is short; I am the same height as her, and will likely grow taller. Her long nose wrinkles and sneezes; hers was sensitive, which I inherited unfortunately but that didn't stop her from planting her beloved flowers.
"Hey mom," I say, "dad was looking-"
Her eyes widen for a second, but when I blink her eyes are normal. I wonder if it was a trick of light.
"Oh. Thank you, darling." She smiles. "Your father is an interesting man, Elaina. Remember that."
I frown, but don't question her.
"Now come on, Elaina. It's nearly supper time."

                               §
We eat in silence, which was not normal, but I didn't have the heart to comprehend my parents' uneasy looks at each other and at me. I feel sleepier than usual and head up to my room early, my beautiful purple room with splashes of colour very inviting. I feed Darwin, my turtle. His beady black eyes blink at me gratefully and I pet his bright green shell before flopping onto my multi coloured bed tiredly at 6:05 PM. That was the worst mistake I've ever made, because in the morning I woke up blind.