Because Of Joan

Chapter 4.

     Upon awakening, I probe with my senses to see if there are any unexpected visitors. There aren't any, and I bring myself up by my elbows to further inspect the room. Empty. I won't let that stop me though. She's certain to come later in the day to annoy me, and when she does I'll be fully prepared. There will be no more catching me unawares in the morning.

My thoughts jump to my journal, which I have somehow forgotten to update since this girl's arrival. I speculate over how something as routine as writing in it could have left my senses, but all the same, I refuse to dwell on it, and pull out my journal from beneath the pillow I sleep on. It's a simple Composition Notebook, with pages frayed as soft as cloth because of all the use it's been through. Opening it, I commence writing, but don't get very far when I'm disturbed. I look up, expecting blue hair and coffee-eyes, but instead I'm met with Maria's green eyes and blonde hair.

"Hey, Atticus!" She chirps obnoxiously, popping her gum and entering the room uninvited.

"Hello, Maria," I return, unenthusiastically sticking my notebook back under my pillow.

"Where's your girlfriend?" She asks.

"I don't have a girlfriend," I counter.

"Sure ya do," Maria mocks. She prances to my bedside, where she leans back on the mattress, poised on her knuckles. "Sort of ratty lookin', freaky hair, pale? Don't that ring a bell?" Maria is the type to limit her vocabulary as much as possible, until the person listening can hardly understand what it is that she is saying. She isn't at all like me, who maintains a steady composure of elite and sophisticated words.

I'm not sure why I find myself defending the "ratty lookin', freaky haired, pale" Joan, but it seems as if it stumbles from my tongue as easily as any other factoid.

"Joan's style is not quite as 'ratty' as you propose, and her hair isn't freaky either. She doesn't look altogether horrible with her hair dyed that color."

"Ooooh," Maria teases, and immediately I know that I've made a mistake. "-Looks like youuuu, got a cruuush," she giggles. I cross my arms over my chest to make it obvious that I am quite disappointed by her choice of words.

"I have become acquainted with her, yes. But I do not feel any sort of feelings for her. She's obnoxious and rude and frankly I don't even know her that well, thankyou."

"Whatever ya say." Maria rolls her eyes and sits down in the chair beside my bed. She props up her legs the same way Joan did, and I know immediately that they are quite alike in many ways. Perhaps I was wrong for acquainting Joan. Unfortunately, it is quite hard to revoke the familiarity we've now established. Sighing, I pull out my stamp collection, hoping to soothe my frayed nerves.

"So...." Maria continues, waggling her eyebrows at me. "-Have ya guys kissed yet?" The album, once opened in my lap, now slams closed with a sound that makes even Maria jump.

"I would never exchange saliva with a female I barely know..." I retort. This only makes Maria's eyes brighter, and I think for a moment that her green eyes much resemble vomit.

"I don't know...." she sighs, mocking worry. "-If you're as close to dying as you make it out to be...."

"I'm hardly that close to dying."

She rolls her eyes and kicks her feet off the table. "Whatever," she says. "I was hoping to get a juicy confession outta my demented cousin, but I guess not...peace!" To my relief, she leaves. Most people, when they exit the room, simply exit, but Maria, with a theatrical flourish, slams the door behind her. When she does, I am surprised to hear a gentle clinking sound accompanying the slamming of the door's latch.

I do not wish to get up from my bed, but my curiosity gets the better of my common sense and I soon find myself dragging my feet as I attempt to find the source of the noise. The source is, contrary to my beliefs of a fallen screw, a key. Upon further inspection, I see that it is made of a roughly hewn, tacky metal that severely lacks in sanding. For some reason or another, I know that it is Joan's counterfeit key.

I conclude that it must've been at the top of the open door. The reason why alludes me, and I dislike not-knowing. I eventually suppose, however, that Joan being the spiteful person she is, noticed my disinterest in the events of the day before and spitefully planted it there intentionally, so as to further her claim that I am bedridden and therefore unadventurous.

I decide that I will not let her intentions follow through. So, clenching the sharp edged key in my hand, I extract myself from the monitor and walk as pridefully as I can to the elevator, where I fit the counterfeit key in it's keyhole and wait.

When the elevator delivers me to the basement, the gravity of my boldness reaches me and I am consumed with apprehension, but I will not succumb to her manipulation, nor will I retreat after having come all this way.

I find the door to her malodorous room easily, as I have a sharp memory, and enter. Once again, I am overwhelmed with the stench of the incense, and I yearn for nothing more than a window to breathe through. My wish, however, is not granted, and instead I am left in an empty, kaleidoscopical room with a stench so vividly printed within my nose that I can taste it all the way down my esophagus .

I find within this stuffy prison of incense, a dose of clarity, and ask myself what I'm doing here before it's gone. Next thing I know, I'm routing under Joan's chairs for the scrapbook she was trying to show me yesterday. I find it, and it's a lot heavier than I had imagined.

Usually, I am not one to give second chances. If something makes a bad or even mediocre impression, it is forever encased within my memory and I can never undo the downright disappointment. This time, however, I feel a moment of grace and decide to give the scrapbook another try.

I recognize the first couple of pages, but find that I cannot recall any others after that. You must imagine my surprise when I turn to a page that actually captivates my senses. What my eyes behold, is a brochure, positioned horizontally to fully enable the snapshot's effect. The snapshot is of what I can only assume is one of the artist's pieces.

What I see is a white canvas, marred only by a queue of five vertical footprints printed in black. The size of the footprints vary, but on the left they begin with what appears to be a newborn child sized foot, progressively growing to a size 8. It looks tasteful, with the definitive lines of a real child's foot, but what enamours me the most is the fact that each foot is missing the fourth toe. On the brochure, written in italics below the painting is the painting's name: Umlaut.

I skim through the rest of the scrap book and nothing else seems worth a glance. I'm not sure whether this is because I cannot stop thinking of Umlaut, or simply because the abstract artist lacks talent. Besides Umlaut, the book is filled with pictures of complete rubbish paintings: a canvas painted completely black with a white dot in the middle, a circular-shaped, gray canvas with a cross-hatching of tan lines and army green colored blobs, a yellow triangle unevenly placed on top of a black line, and etc. I turn back to Umlaut so as to alleviate the pain these atrocious paintings have caused me. Surely, my judgement of character is not tainted? I believed Joan to be intelligent to some degree, and anyone with Joan's level of intelligence could not possibly enjoy such inconsiderate, effortless, paintings. Whatever the case, I find myself growing weary, and I cannot stand the pain of seeing such abominations any longer. I close the scrap-book and replace it back in it's rightful place.

There is a moment of panic in which I think I've misplaced the key, but I find it and exhale a sigh of relief before heading back up to my hospital room. When I close my eyes to sleep, I am appalled to find that the image of Umlaut is still burned behind my retinas.