Year of Oblivion [On Hold]

Chapter 9: New Year

                                                                            -9-

Christmas had come and gone rather quietly. Tony, claiming he did not want to spend the holiday alone, asked if he could spend the night on Christmas Eve, though I’m fairly sure he stayed because he didn’t want me to be alone, not vice versa. He also stayed through Christmas Day, insisting on cooking a “proper dinner”. Pumpkin risotto was on the menu, and I was not one to decline the offer of a homemade meal. Our stomachs full, consequently he had stayed the night on the couch again before finally returning home the next morning.

I hadn’t seen him since.

No calls from Janelle.

No spontaneous appearances by Blake.

Mother phoned to say she would be back after New Year’s.

And once again, I’m alone.

Five days of solitude; five days trapped within my own head.

Yet strangely enough, my mind barely wandered to Oblivion. Though I was alone, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t unbearable, not deafening, nor crippling. I was merely alone, and I was ok. Well, for the most part.

There were times, brief moments when melancholia engulfed me. And I couldn’t sleep. But mostly I did the things I had always wanted to, but lacked the time for. I read all the books I had always wanted to, watched all the movies I had missed, thought about all the things one could possibly think about in the course of a lifetime but had pushed to the back of the mind in favor of a tumultuous and unpredictable thing called life. The mania did not come for a few days; New Year’s Eve to be specific.

In a matter of days I had abandoned my short-lived peace. Having grown bored of my home, my home like a prison, I gave in to the dark voice inside my head. And why did I give in? Because I refused to let my mind wander to Oblivion again, refused to let it stir up memories of pain and anguish that I tried so dearly to forget.

But I needed something.

I stalked. I paced. I took the linen curtains of my bedside window in my hands and tore, tore, ripping them apart, destroying the intricately woven strands leaving them tangled and motionless on the floor. When I walked through the hallways, the walls seemed to close in, as if a monstrous mouth were engulfing me. No matter which door I ran into to try and escape it, none of them offered any remedy—until I came to one, at the end of the hall; my father’s studio.

Slowly I had opened the tarnished brass knob and entered; it was dark, a damp smell upon the air. Canvases strewn everywhere, paint splatters on the wall, a mirror above the sink next to the window. Up high on a drawer something caught my eye, a video camera. Gingerly, I picked it up, clicking the on button. A quiet beep declared it was still in working condition; I switched it off again.

And all at once, I let it take over, control me.

I ran, wildly, to my Mother’s forbidden bedroom, ripping open her makeup drawers. When I was done, dark, smoky rimmed green eyes stared back at me, juxtaposed against pale skin. Red lips, like blood, sneered back, accompanied by red nails. Then, sadly sauntering back to my Father’s studio, I tore through his drawers in search of red paint. Upon finding it, I smeared the hue all over my hands, smothering up to my forearms and grabbed the video camera before running downstairs to the living room.

The fireplace crackled in the background; a beep told me the camera was recording this sad excuse for life.

Raising my red hands to my face, I pushed the nails of my index fingers to my thumbs, creating a circle and raised them to my eyes.