Blind Lies

3

17.  It's been five years. I yawn and hop out of the squishy mattress. Five years since I healed from my blindness, and woke up with amnesia. I pull on some jeans and a pale blue shirt. I always wore blue, ever since the 12 year old Elaina disappeared. Blue meant sadness, but to me it meant new. Fresh. I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen.

A large platter of fruit sits on the stainless steel island, separating the kitchen from the living room. I frown, and look up at my mother. She was bustling around in the kitchen making pancakes. It didn't really smell of anything, which I found curious. I was reading a book where the main character went ballistic over the smell of blueberry pancakes. I place my attention back to the counter, which looked shiny, brand new and...metallic.

"Mom, did you get this today?" I ask, tapping my fingernails on the counter. The metal is cool and hollow. I lift my hand away and pluck off a grape from the tray.

My mother laughs her odd laugh.

"We got it yesterday night, Elaina." she says impatiently. "Your father and I are making renovations to this house." My mom dumps the last pancake onto a plate of them beside her and slides it over to me. "We are going to make most of the things in this house steel-because of the weather."

"Oh." I want to ask what the weather had to do with this, but know better not to. I place the fruit and stack of blueberry pancakes into the centre of the dining room table and sit in my spot -the spot where the young Elaina sat, according to my parents. My father comes in with a brief hello. I clear my throat. None of them had said a word about my birthday.

After the quick breakfast, I scoot back my chair and after a moment's hesitation, I duck into an old wood staircase and into the attic.

The attic smells musty and I shudder as  spindly cobwebs reach out to my toes like fingers searching for cookies in a cookie jar. I scan the room before finding what I was looking for.

A lonely white canvas is knocked down onto the floor, face down. I walk towards it slowly. The wood beneath my feet bends, and I wince as I step on a particularly creaky board. When I finally make it to the painting, I sigh in relief that I didn't go through the floor and kneel down. My fingers lift the edge of the painting and with one big swoop, I put it on the easel. My heart hammers endlessly in my throat.

Painting is a unique thing. It changes the world around people, displaying a message only you can understand. I brace myself for the painting.

I peek at it. My jaw slacks and the painting falls out of my hands. No not painting. It is a white canvas. Just before it touches the floor, my foot thrusts out and balances it against my shin. What the heck? I stare at my foot. How did I do that? I am probably the clumsiest person I will ever get to know, and pretty much have no hand -- eye coordination. What is the meaning of this?

I pluck the white board off from my foot. It is the first time I have ever felt wary of my foot. My tongue feeling like jelly, I brush my hand over the dust covering the canvas and frown. Why is it blank? I thought I had painted this not long ago. Shrugging, I drop it back onto the wooden easel and plop down into the chair across from it. I look around for a second before letting my arm hang and find the loose board in the floor that held all my supplies. I grab the first three colours that I touch, and with a wary glance at the attic door, I pour them onto the canvas.

The acrylics are thicker than I anticipated. They slowly sludge out like a slug on a hot day, and I grunt in distaste. The colours I had chosen were grey, black and yellow. I continue to wipe the colours onto the board.

I close my eyes. This is the fun part. I press my hands onto the rocky smooth surface, swirling and mixing the colours by touch and emotion. My fingers swirl in their sadness from my parents bad memory of my birthday, my happiness at the touch of the cool paints, even my regret from not being able to be the small Elaina anymore. After a few minutes, I open my eyes. Darkness blankets the entire surface. I sigh in distaste. I snap the lids on the paints back on and quietly move them back into the floor. I let the paint on my hands dry before peeling it off. I leave the attic in pity; my art was completely awful. Who wants a black canvas in their room?

Just before I enter the living room, something sounds behind me. Something creaks. I spin around, but nothing is there. Frowning, I walk backwards before bumping into something cold. Something metallic. I turn around again. Nothing. I am starting to get confused when my mother interrupts my worries. She carries a big blue present, a smile plastered across her face.

"Happy Birthday, Elaina," she sings, "hope you don't think we forgot about you!"

For some odd reason, those words ran a shiver down my back. I shake out of it and take the present.