The Way We Get By

9 // Alex

this update is really, really long. so sorry.

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The graphite pencil in my hand makes delicate strokes on the canvas and shapes the woman's hair with accuracy and stark precision.

She's in pain but no one can see. Her face is twisted into a smile, one that her eyes aren't reciprocating. Her eyes are filled with agony and desperately searching for a way out of her pit of sorrow.  But no one can see, because she's holding up a strong smile. No one cares enough to look deeper into her, to see the hurt that she's hiding in the back of her mind.

Me and this woman, we've got a lot in common. I understand her. I understand what it's like to pretend. I understand that pain never ends.

"Your piece for the art show is coming along really well, Alex."

I flinch as my art teacher comes up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder.

"Oh, y—yeah," I stammer, glancing around the quiet art room as I take in my surroundings and fall back into reality. "Thanks."

Mrs. Weber, an older woman with a grey hair that's always pulled into a loose bun, smiles down at me and peels her hand off of my shoulder.

"Can I have a look?"

I take my hand away from the canvas as I feel a smug smile creep up on me while I let my teacher observe my piece.

"Perspective, Alex. An interesting choice."

Jason glances up from across the table with his art piece sitting in front of him. He keeps his eyes on my piece for a brief moment before looking back down at his, and I swear I see him clench his jaw.

His piece is barely even halfway finished, and it's a far cry from being well thought out or neat. If he wants to win so badly, he needs to put in the damn effort.

"Keep up the good work, Picasso," Mrs. Weber encourages.

I move my eyes away from Jason and force another fake, ingenuine smile onto my face. The pain of having to smile is like lifting a weight that is simply too heavy for me, and Jason's glares don't help me very much.

"Yeah, thanks," I mumble in an attempt to dismiss her admiring comments.

She nods and wanders away with a watchful eye on the other students as they work peacefully on their art projects. Despite her compliments, I don't feel confident. I don't feel like I have a chance at winning this art show or getting scouted by a big college.

I look over at the girl sitting next to me and her art piece is stunning. It's a flower bed ripe with beautiful colors and elaborate, intricate designs. I wouldn't win against her.

And if I can't even beat the girl sitting next to me, how am I going to beat every sophomore in the state of Maine? I'm stupid for even doing this fucking show.

And I may have forgotten to mention that I'm leaving for my first therapy appointment in about two minutes and eighteen, now seventeen seconds, so that isn't making me feel any better. It's all making me want to curl up into a ball and cry like the sensitive, unworthy little bitch that I am.

"You may be better at art than me," Jason whispers, leaning over the table to make sure the other kids around us can't hear him. "But I still weigh less than you, Alex. Remember that."

His words, although only meant to motivate me and help me keep up with my weight loss, drive a knife through my heart. It hurts just as badly as if I had actually been stabbed. In fact, he probably could've taken this pencil out of my hand and stuck it through my eye, and it still would've hurt less.