The Mandala Girl (COMPLETED)

Chapter 8

Chester's Field is an enormous field located two miles down the street from my house, and along with a pasture that somehow stays green all year long, it's home to a baseball diamond and basketball court. It belonged to a farmer by the name of Chester who died several years ago. Before his passing, it was his desire to donate the land to the local elementary school for use of the team's little league games. Over the years, it has turned into a public park for more people to enjoy. I've even taken advantage of the field's gracious openness on sunny days to paint.

"How much farther?" a worn-out TJ says. I can hear his labored breathing from behind me. "I should've stopped at that gas stationed we passed. Must . . . drink . . . water."

I wade through the overgrown grass, feeling the weeds and thorns brush against my bare legs. Because of the field's massive size, landscapers only service the main area around the baseball diamond and playground set, leaving most of it to grow wild and free. "We're almost there, drama queen," I say over my shoulder. "Try not to die of dehydration before we get there."

There's a spot up ahead where the grass isn't as overgrown as the rest of the field. I slide my art bag off my shoulder and set up my easel, then mix a few different shades of blue onto the palette. The confidence I feel when holding the paintbrush is incredible and time seems to rush by without me noticing. A few minutes later, I finish painting a water bottle, and shortly thereafter, a ripple slithers over the canvas as it comes to life. I'm starting to get used to watching that take place. I catch the water bottle in midair as it leaps off the canvas.

"Here," I toss the bottle to TJ. "Now, stop whining."

He examines the water bottle; knocks his knuckles against the plastic casing, sniffs it, and then dips his pinking into the transparent liquid. He's obviously apprehensive about drinking it. "What if it kills me?"

"Then I'll try not to cry." A smirk.

"You're too kind." With a deep breath, he gulps down the water, not coming up for air until the bottle is empty. "Wow! That tastes incredible."

"Enjoy it while it lasts. You'll be dead in three hours."

His face turns pale. "Wh-wha—"

I can't contain my laughter. "Gotcha!"

"Don't do that to me. For all I know, those voices inside that head of yours could have ordered you to kill me."

I wave off his concerns. "They aren't nefarious. They're just annoying."

It's time to focus. I take a deep breath and let the oxygen slowly drain from my lungs. What should I paint? The mountains, the jungle, the beach? I've always had a love for the beach, so beach it is!

The sun warms my face as I paint, and at this very moment I remember what it means to be an artist. It's not about being famous or being rich. It's about creating something from nothing. Starting with a blank canvas and transforming it into your very own masterpiece. I guess I lost sight of that through my self-doubt. Though, maybe I only feel this way because I'm high on the confidence the paintbrush exudes. I still can't get over how wonderful it feels. It's like pure, unadulterated energy flowing through my veins.

TJ remains silent as he stands behind me, observing my every brushstroke. I get the feeling he's a little disappointed that the brush didn't yield any results when he used it, which elevates my already piqued curiosity. Why does it only work for me? There's still so much I don't know.

The painting comes together a brushstroke at a time. I add a golden brown color at the base of the canvas for the sand, and a turquoise color that fades to a sapphire blue as it trails to the canvas' edge for the ocean. The sky comes next, then a burst of sunlight. I even add a sailboat to accompany the otherwise lonesome waters. My hands move with such speed and precision. It's like my actions aren't even my own when I'm using the brush.

I suddenly feel fatigued. A deep sleep overtakes me, and I can feel my consciousness slipping. My hands become weighty; my arms feel as though they are boulders, and my head repeatedly drops to my chest. My eyes flutter closed. I force them back open, but their persistence wins out. Then everything goes black.

* * *

I wake to the sight of TJ looming over me. Everything is blurry. Sunlight blasts me in the face causing me to shield it with my hand.

"You alright?" TJ moves in behind me and helps me sit upright. "One minute you're going all Van Gogh on that canvas, and the next minute you're taking a nap."

I touch my forehead. "How long was I out for?"

"Longer than I would have liked; twenty minutes at least. I was about to call 9-1-1. That's when you came to."

Twenty minutes! More unexplained loss of time. At least it wasn't for several hours like it was when I was at the festival. What causes me to black out?

TJ helps me to my feet. My legs wobble for a moment as I regain my strength. It's almost as if the paintbrush fuels me with energy, then once the painting is complete, the energy drains from my body leaving me passed out like a fat guy after Thanksgiving dinner.

I turn my attention back to the canvas; a breathtaking image of a sandy beach with rolling waves and a flock of seagulls. As usual, the detail is incredible, right down to the glittering seashells that are sprinkled across the shoreline. It's the type of painting you would see in a fine arts museum or an upper-end gallery. I'm quite pleased with how it turned out, and yet guilty that it wasn't my own abilities that created this work of art.

After staring at the canvas for a long while, TJ says, "Why hasn't it come to life yet?"

He's right. It didn't take more than a minute for the other painted objects to come to life. Something should have happened by now. "I dunno."

"Maybe you have to touch it?" he says.

"Yeah, maybe." I inch my way closer to the canvas with an outstretched hand. As I draw near it, the voices return.

Mandala Girl . . . Mandala Girl . . .

There's something soothing about them now. They're no longer the creepy, annoying voices they were when I first heard them, but rather more hushed and calming. Maybe I'm simply getting used to them?

I'm standing less than a foot away from the painting now, analyzing its extraordinary detail. I can almost hear the waves crashing against the shore and the cry of seagulls. Wait—not almost. I do hear them! The image itself isn't coming to life, but the objects inside the image did? Is that right? I can't even wrap my mind around it.

I snap my head back around to TJ. He nods in agreement, grinning. "I hear it, too!"

My lips feel dry. I lick them and taste the salt of the beach air. This is too cool!

And now for the moment of truth. What will happen if I touch the painting? Will I cause the sky to open up and a beach to collapse on top of us? I hold my hand a few inches away from the canvas, dying to know what will happen, while fearing the unknown at the same time.

"Just do it!" TJ says. There's an urgency in his tone.

"Okay. Here it goes." I thrust my hand towards the painting, bracing myself for whatever may come, fully expecting my fingers to hit the canvas, but they don't. Something terrifying happens instead.

They glide right through it.

My hand disappears inside the painting.

***Enjoying this story? Please vote, comment, and tell your friends because the kind people at Wattpad love to see activity. And cheers to you for taking the time to read my book!***