Finger Painting

Chapter 1: July 6th, 2004

Lotus Blood- Age 6

I wasn't born to be soft and quiet, I was born to make the world shatter and shake at my fingertips.

Painting was my favorite thing to do, a blissful activity I indulged in. Six-year-old Lotus had painting going for her, and as much as she could, she would sit and paint in the cold, cement-made basement. I guess it was one of those unfinished kinds but I didn't mind, I just needed my finger paints and my imagination.

Drip.

"Three hundred and forty-seven." My voice rang out and bounced off the walls of the serene area. The small, leaky faucet near the corner of the room dripped every once in a while and I counted it every time it did. I wasn't sure why I felt compelled to do so but I guess it helped organize my thoughts so I never stopped.

I shivered in my thin blanket - it was a midnight blue, a gift from a relative who I hadn't ever actually spoken to. My breath was warm and every time I breathed out a small cloud of heat came with it. I surveyed my surroundings to locate my red paint and was mindful of the brown shards of glass in the process.

Drip.

"Three hundred and forty-eight," I said, plunging my ring finger into the porcelain bowl filled with the most vibrant blue paint I could get. I'm not sure why such loud colors amused me, I guess they were just brimming with life and what I associated with possible happiness and home. My home situation wasn't anything like the vivid blue color I smeared across the new white canvas, but it was very easily represented by the state of the basement I sat in.

Boxes towered over me and made a sort of cave where I kept my paintings, they were propped up against all the brown packages and lined the walls. My paintings brought a sliver of life to the dingy, dark basement. This part of the house felt like my true home. Purely because of the little bits of me I left behind down-

Drip.

"Three hundred and forty-nine."

I jolted out of my trance of painting when I heard my mother screeching at me. She wasn't drunk, only upset, like always. I only retracted my hand from the colorful canvas and rose to my feet. I turned around when I heard feet pound on the stairs and the gasp of my brother. His eyes scanned me standing in the middle of a circle of broken glass. There was only one way to get in and out of my protective circle and it was hidden in the copious amounts of boxes.

A tiny tunnel only large enough for me to fit through, I had to move a box or two but I knew a way around it. My brother was barefoot. That meant that his anger only festered while staring at my smug expression. Then I made an effort to glance at him then the broken glass as if I was taunting him, saying, "What? Are you going to step on that?"

My blanket stayed draped over my shoulders and I felt the blue paint encasing my fingers drying at a gradual pace, as I brushed away my thin brown hair. My brother and I shared that, it was quite a boring feature, yes, but it was the main thing we had gotten from our father.

Drip.

"Three hundred and fifty," I said and enunciated each part of the number, it must have been terrifying for Nathan to watch his six-year-old sister standing alone, while being surrounded by shards of glass, blue paint drying on her finger, all while she looked him straight in the eyes counting.

"I'm telling mom." Nathan was only ten years old, yet he was the favorite child, our mother's actual baby. She cared for him more, and only because she thought I was the cause of my father's death when in reality I didn't even know he was dead till she screamed at me to call paramedics.

Or maybe she felt guilty - I didn't. Was I supposed to?

Nathan darted up the stairs, and his raucous running across the hardwood floors was nothing new. He reminded me of dad to an extent, his rare smiles and smirks were carbon copies that made me reciprocate a happy feeling. Even though my brother hated me, I didn't. I never could hate him. Or at least that's what I convinced myself.

Drip.

"Three hundred and fifty-one," I picked at the dried, cracking, cobalt blue paint on my index finger until my mother stood before me wearing heavy-duty boots. She hated it when I painted, it was because it reminded her of dad. He was like me in that sense, he loved the arts and things of that sort. My mother, on the other hand, did not appreciate such "wastes of time" if we were using her terminology.

I didn't cry or thrash when my mother's strong hand curled around my forearm, she dragged me away from my glass barrier and threw me roughly onto the cement floor. She stalked back to my canvas and collected all the paints and stormed upstairs most likely throwing them away, to my dismay.

I didn't cry though. I didn't cry when she took away the only thing that I really loved, I loved my brother, yes, but only because he was family. Sometimes it seems like you're obligated to love your family.

I didn't cry.

I didn't cry - because I was a weapon. And weapons don't weep.

Hey! Welcome to my new book! I'm issuing another warning that this book goes through cutting/self-harm, hallucination, death/murder, rape, etc. I will be putting disclaimers at the beginning of each chapter but if any of these themes offend you please choose another one of my books.