Page 27 of If We Say Goodbye

I settle on a picture of a sunset over the ocean. It’s simple, and I don’t have to think about what I’m doing. I’ll set myself on autopilot and just get through this moment.

I pick up one of the brushes and trace the bristles across the palm of my hand—a habit I’ve created through the years.

My paintings are traditionally more abstract, with wild colors. I love creating portraits with blocks of colors to create people’s faces. It’s ironic, considering I normally wear dark colors. No one would ever guess that my art was so colorful by just looking at me.

Mom loves my paintings because they go along with the bright colors she has throughout the house.

Slowly, I dip my brush into the pink and place my first stroke. It’s terrible. I add hints of purple and orange to help blend this atrocity into a passable sunset. It helps a little, but it still looks like a five year old did it. It’s lifeless and stiff.

This isn’t helping. I’m wasting my time.

My lip quivers. I don’t want to cry again.

I stand and knock the canvas over. I kick it, and my foot rips a hole right in the center of my terrible painting. I tug on my hair, staring down at the mess. My heart beats faster. This was supposed to help, so why do I feel worse? It’s just another reminder that I can’t do anything right. I’m a failure.

I pick up the canvas and my entire bin of paint supplies, marching them down the hallway and outside. Rain drenches me in seconds, but I barely notice. I rip the top off the garbage can and shove everything into it. I slam the lid down, but the canvas is still poking out the top, refusing to let the lid close properly.

I open and close it repeatedly, pushing with all of my might, but it still won’t close.

Rain is running down my back, and no matter how many times I try to shake my head, my hair is still in my face.

I scream as I push the garbage can.

It teeters over, spilling everything from last night’s dinner scraps to soda cans onto our driveway. I crouch down, hugging my knees. I bury my head in my arms, trying to ignore the world around me. I want to disappear. I want to close my eyes and fade into the dark.

The sound of the rain continues, but it isn’t hitting my head anymore.

I look up.

Caleb stands next to me with an umbrella over my head. Rain soaks his bangs. “Are you okay?”

“Go away.”

He sits down next to me on the wet concrete, keeping the umbrella in place over me.

I grab it and toss it to the side. “I told you to go!” I scramble to my feet and lift the garbage can.

He picks up some of the loose garbage on the ground. “I’m not going to do that.”

I step closer to him, trying to scare him away. “Why? Why won’t you leave me alone?” I yell. My heart is pounding in my ears, and pressure is building in my chest, aching to explode.

He doesn’t budge, taking a second to reply as if trying to choose his next words wisely. “Why would I want to?”

“Because I deserve to be!”

He steps closer, only inches away from me now. “No, you don’t.”

“Really? Like you know. I’m a screw up!” There’s no stopping my tears. Once the dam breaks, there’s a flood.

“You’re just in pain,” he whispers.

I cower, unable to maintain my confidant stance in front of him. I shake my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. I’ve been there.”

Droplets of rain trickle down his face, but he stands there, unaffected. He’s an immovable wall, watching me with intense brown eyes. He’s sincere. I know he is. It’s been four years since his dad died, and he must have the delusional thought that he can help me move on the way he did.

A breeze sends chills through me, and I shiver.

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