Dark Places

24 | i love pissing you off

❝and we both say that we will concentrate; but in this moment together,
i have never felt so far away.
you keep me numb,
and you keep me blind.❞

☽

THEY MAY BE DEAD, but they're alive and breathing within the walls of Maine College of Art. Sophany and Nikki linger, linger, linger, in a ghostly aftertaste, like chasing a shot of tequila with a lukewarm Tecate, in a barren, poorly lit basement—fuzzy, bleary, blurring lines between life and death. I can't seem to pull apart the rumors from the traces of truth. MECA becomes a chamber, locked and keyed, with that symphony of secrets simmering to the surface, whisper networks tangling into an infinite web of gossip, until I'm coated, slick, stuck, sober, in the hushed vice of voices that unravel in echoes.

It paints the air silver, through the strands of smoke, in an icy darkness, leaving the hollow lies of their lives in our fucking throats.

I try to focus on my Senior Synthesis, but I'm distracted by a million quiet stories, regurgitated in morbidly scandalous details. Sophany was an addict, they say. Nikki was an addict, they say. Sophany lost her brother, they say. Nikki lost her lover, they say. I heard they were together, they whisper, and it was a gesture of love. Suicide Pact. Somehow, Sophany and Nikki become immortal, romanticized, lost in a snarled Shakespearean tragedy, inextricably linked to each other through a seemingly shocking lesbian affair.

MECA, a gossiping gospel. MECA, a sanctuary of secrets. MECA, a tomb, teeming with thoughtless thoughts.

Dizzily, I trip through the beginning of the week, two Illustration classes, inundated with incessant injuries, wondering if I can get away with slipping in late, sneaking off early, sandbagging this shit, until it blows over. I fall into a helpless pattern, looking over my shoulder, listening for footsteps, locking myself in my bedroom, tossing and turning in a suffocating darkness, only to wake up, confused, in the late morning, realizing I'm in Portland.

Jonah tries to talk to me, but I can tell I'm already stumbling off the edge of sobriety, or sanity, and I don't want to bring him with me. Jonah would be collateral damage to inevitable self-destruction, searching through the remains, charcoal and newsprint, shrapnel that an artist abandons in their premature burnout.

MECA never felt safe to me, but now, it feels heavy and tense, like I'm living out a nightmare of eternal finals, days of abstract procrastination, crunching seconds, minutes, hours to a final deadline. Friday.

Friday looms over the Porteous building.

I don't want to get out of bed on Friday, but I force myself to Congress in the soft sunset, cursing shortened days, longer nights, and... colder darkness. In late-September, I'm already shivering. Sighing, I curb the numbness, ignoring the sharp arc of wind, whipping icy hair across my cheeks, in an effort to pretend those things don't exist. Corpses. Cravings. Cold. No. I've been burning baseless fears and emotions into charcoal, crushing it between my fingers, just to carve dust beneath my fingernails, before I spiral, slashing strips of newsprint, jagged strokes, sharp edges, cut shadows, desperate to find the spaces that stay light.

It's easy, so fucking easy, to coat an entire piece of newsprint, drench it, cover it, shroud it in a matte blackness or soften it into a thick, powdery smokescreen, to hide the surface below, knowing that it will only barely fade with the touch of oily fingertips, but knowing, knowing, knowing that it can never be completely taken away. No. If I blacken a piece of newsprint, I will always lose, in the thin material, the most organic source of light. It can't return to a previous form; it can only be smudged and smeared, kneaded erasers like weapons, muddying the shades of grey. I suppose it's a fatal flaw that Jess would love—struggling to keep light in a composition, allowing negative space to breathe pale and ashy, contrasting traces of darkness.