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ONE
TRIGGER WARNING! SLIGHT GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF OC'S SKIN DISEASE.
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IT NEVER FELT BETTER. Even as she stared down at the compressed pieces of paper. The surface is trailed with lines to form an image produced from her mind. And each time more images add onto what was there, the more the pages look cramped. It overflowed with thoughts brought onto dead leaves and spoke of secrets no one heard.
Because that was the language of an artist.
They spoke in symbols no one recognized. Sang tunes with their lips and their fingers no one's ever heard of. Wrote in tongues no one's understood. And no one other than those who spoke the same way.
(Obliviousness may breed ignorance and arrogance. Be warned not to grasp this all to yourself. For a language is meant to be heard, seen, and communicated by and to another.)
When someone sees a skull, they think of death. But if you look underneath, it could also represent life. Bones are the structure that carries the whole body. A skull covers the delicate organ in which we call the 'brain'. It protects. Yet somehow, they still see a representation of what is not alive—perhaps even something hollow and evil. And they could be right, and they could also be wrong.
A student knowledgeable in the field of medicine could see that it had its own rightful and essential functions. They see a skull for what it literally is and what it is made of. A person who can draw, will see the skull for what it looks like. They capture the smallest and largest details like a temporary photograph in their mind, then piece the whole image together. And a writer could see everything. They write what they see. They write what they don't. They write and connect what is underneath to leave it to the people to visualize and interpret things themselves.
But Zumi Hoga was no writer or a student of medicine. She was an artist—the very one that draws. One of the many who see underneath the underneath and transfers it onto paper. And one of the many who sees a skull for everything it is but doesn't forget to appreciate its existence when others don't. One who thinks 'fuck all and let me draw what I want' even when people didn't like nor understand what she creates.
She breathes out, closing her black book shut. The covers were rough and decorated with taped flowers that looked to be withered. And there's a butterfly wings tapes on the very center of the cover.
The hand that once held a pencil, lifts on to her left arm, and she scratches. Her nails drag down. It's painful and it itches. It stings and yet she doesn't stop even as marks trail down on her skin. They create something abstract. Pink and red were pretty, but not on skin. But art doesn't have to look pretty for it to be art. And art doesn't have to be happy for it to be art, just like how music doesn't have to sound nice for it to be music.
Because she's an artist, right? And she's one who can't stop making symbols everywhere.
Zumi Hoga closed her eyes and breathed out.
Sometimes, she didn't want to feel anymore.
-o-
It was the fifteenth night of September as Zumi Hoga walked down the path towards her home. Her arms and legs clad in fabric that stretched whenever she moved. Dull pain grazed the surrounding skin covered in lines and splotches, but she doesn't bother to care.
She greets the small structure that comes to view with thin lips. Bland memories are contained within the four new walls, so she doesn't have the reason to smile. Her hands pushed the door open and she sees her father and his greying hair. His appearance tells her that he's aged, but he stays up late to work as if he his body isn't weaker each day.
A simple nod is their only interaction most of the time one or the other comes back home. But one doesn't have to always speak up to say that they are fine. Sometimes, simply seeing that they are, is what tells you that they are.
I'm fine, is what they communicate, and they believe each other.
Evenings are spent quietly inside each of their designated rooms, but when the smell of food envelopes the house, it is a signal for them to get together. Small talks and idle muted chatter are what occurs before silence is what covers once again. But they are fine.
It is fine, other than the fact that it was all too quiet.
There was this certain sound amidst a place where no noises are made. It's buzzing—sounds with extremely short wavelengths that seemed to pierce your ear. You felt deaf, but you also heard too much. You cover your ears, but it sounds the same. And so, you plug your earphones in and drown out the buzzing with the music that blasts by your ears.
The music is loud, but it's better.
Zumi thinks that she isn't the only one who hears it sometimes, and the thought brings comfort. That she isn't the only one to listen to loud songs to overlap the deafening sound of silence.
She breathes out as she takes a seat on the wooden chair by the study table in her room. Her room was small. Hepplewhite ivory paints the walls, and over one side, a few wooden frames are hung. They contain smiles, but one can't shatter its frame to free the happiness for one to grasp. It's caged there for a reason. It's there to remind you of the times, and not what is at the moment.
A knock sounds at her door.
"Did you drink your tablets already?" Her father's lips pull up to a smile, but it doesn't look like the ones inside the frames.
Zumi shook her head before standing up. Her skin feels tense and dry. It aches when it bends, and so, she limps towards where her containers are placed. Her nail punctures a hole through the thin foil and the circular tablet falls on her palm.
Her father hands her a glass of water and she drinks; both the tablet and the water.
"It'll get better soon."
Her father always says that, and sometimes, it starts to irritate her.
"When you grow older, maybe it'll disappear."
Maybe. But no one knows that. She doesn't know that. He doesn't know that. Surely, because he's been saying the same thing for the last fourteen years and nothing's ever changed other than the fact that they're both growing older. And as time runs, it comes along with her. Maybe it'll tag along with her when she lays in a coffin as well.
No one can guarantee that things do get better, but one can live through it. And when you look back, the fact that you survived should be enough for you to smile.
