Forgetting Me

[ a r t ]

Most of my belongings stay here in Burbank; hence, the boxes that await for my decisions whether to let them stay in or unpack. Why? there goes the other thing, I'm going to study at NYU and that means me moving to Manhattan itself. My dream wasn't anywhere near my hobby- Art.

My passion was Criminology.

But now seeing a dead body close up in a traumatizing way, I let my passion go and went along with my second choice: Architectural Studies. I've talked to myself about it and if I wanted to make myself some real work progress, I have to move on and learn from my past.

I know! Easier said than done! And I'm pressuring myself with all of this when I know I have the whole summer to recover.

I sigh heavily and stared at the blank canvas infront of me. My shrink told me that it'll be nicer if I had a form of release towards my devastation. What more can I do better than paint these things away?

I grabbed the jar of red paint and contemplated on my next move. I don't usually use brushes, I'm more of a hand painter- fingers and all that.

Red. Such a passionate color. It can tell you how much vibrancy life has. It's the first color we see as a infant. It's the color we forbid seeing in a funeral. It's the color of love. It's the color of wrath and madness. To me, red is the number one. To me, red is a girl drinking in a bar, heavily influenced. To me, red is a melody of a hard yet soft tune played from a piano. To me, red tastes tangy with a hint of sweetness. To me, red feels like a scalding hot liquid.

All of these synesthesiac ideas comes to me when it's about the color red.

Red is also the color of blood.

I closed my eyes as i breathed heavily. I dug my fingers in the jar of pain when I opened them and started pouncing, sloshing the color from my finger tips. I watched and constructed a mess of a picture as, not only red but other colors as well, go disarray infrot of me.

It's a screaming mess. It's shouting at me. Asking me why I failed my own blood. It's an angry mess. Accusing me of their deaths. It's a sad mess. The pain, the loss and the bitterness.

It all flashed before my eyes- my memories. Her begging me to stay away. Him holding me from going to her. His open-eyed motionless body. The faint distance of other people panicking, crying and screaming of desperation. I closed my eyes as I felt more and more of these. It was all fresh. All new.

I feel it crawling up to my spine. I felt dizzy. My vision grew blurry. I couldn't hear a thing, only the white noise of silence engulfing my ears. My throat was somehow dry and felt harsh. Was I screaming?

Suddenly, I found myself being clutched in the arms that held me tight. I didn't realize that I stopped painting. I didn't even see the complete picture. I just found my head was turned away from the canvas as the white noise of silence was replied with sad murmurs.

'I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry'

Why was she sorry? It's not her fault. It was mine. It's not her hands that were covered in their blood. It was mine. It wasn't her that held the weight of their deaths. It was me. It was me.

"June please. 'Nak, come back. You're not alone. You'll never be alone again. I'm so so sorry"

I felt a familiar ache in my chest. The one that held the nothingness from the start. Why was I feeling it now? I don't know.

My heart was tired and my soul felt heavy and I closed my eyes, letting everything go.

Please God, forgive me.

• • • • • • •

I opened my eyes, feeling the rusty texture around them. I groaned and sat up from the bed while softly removing the rusty things from my eyes. When I looked around my room, it was dark and the canvas stood it's back to me.

I took my phone and checked the time- nine fifty two. It was already night. I stood up from my bed and noticed a plate that was covered with plastic and a glass with a pitcher sitting quietly on my empty vanity table. A sticky note sat atop of the meal saying: eat when you wake up.

Instead of eating, I turned to check my work. My painting. I walked around, pushing the boxes that lay on the floor. There were only few left. They were the only things that I've been thinking whether to bring them to Manhattan or not.

When I finally saw my work, I flinched.

Had I subconsciously painted a burning tree so horrifying?

Red wasn't supposed to be colored this way, but the way I used the color was depressing- it voices out loss and pain as if it hurt to see the tree go and as if I felt the burn from the tree itself.

The tree was colored blue- the trunk and the branches. The background of the tree was a jumbled mess of colors but when you use your imagination enough, you would see screaming faces. A lone boy sat infront of the blazing tree looking up from the scenario that played in front of his very eyes. He was colored gray. As if he held no color. No right to even hold any color.

That's where I screamed.

I took the painting out and thrashed it onto the floor. Crying out the pain that was endlessly building up. I wanted to throw my things but I knew I don't hold any right to thrash anything so I pulled my hair and cried out helplessly.

I'm not allowed to harm myself.

I'm not allowed to commit to death.

I don't deserve an easy way out.

Living is now a punishment I must face.

And it hurts so much to breathe.

• • • • • •

Author | Johan

Hi! Guess what! Yeah that's right!
Early update!
Tho it's just a filler chapter...

Meh.

Sue my stupid three AM thought:
"If brunch is breakfast and lunch, then what's breakfast and dinner?! Midnight snack?! Fast dinner?! Breaner?!"

I know. I know.
Babe questions my mental state sometimes too.

Thank you for sticking by! And thirty reads! Woah! Em she heppi. *cries*
Thank you for the support, peeps! :D