Monicca Winters

Painted Black

Adylase sprinted out into the middle of the road, pouring screams out toward her

mother; the kind of screams that come from the depths of the lungs, the kind that makes

the throat sting. Flailing her arms, she switched from slapping her face with her palms, to

pounding her thighs with her fists. She seemed unmoved by the fat raindrops that spilled

from the sky, unmoved by the wind that made the trees twist, unmoved by the dense fog

that flooded the dimly lit street. Adylase flung off her blue jacket, and abandoned it onto

the yellow lines that dotted the road. With a jolt, she spun around violently and let her

eyes reach her mothers; her polka dotted dress danced with the wind; first left, then

right, exposing pink underwear beneath white tights. Her brown hair, matted and frizzy,

clung to her face; her nose released snot, and her hands attempted to whip it away; her

yellow rain boots had been painted with mud. She kept screaming, letting tears weave

between the freckles on her cheeks. The only break between screams came out as

suicide threats; threats to wait for a car to shatter her, threats to let herself become

smashed into the pavement. Her mother, Linda, was one step behind her; she screamed

with anger, torture, and pain. Capturing Adylase, she lifted her, hugged her tight, and

whispered soft words into her ear. Adylase's anger dissipated and she collapsed into her

mothers arms.

Perhaps Adylase would be less desperate, less angry, less depressed, if the stench

of divorce hadnt lingered so long in her household. Perhaps it would have been

different if she hadnt witnessed her father's hands wrapped around her mother's neck; his

face pinched with anger, his constant drunken eyes. And maybe it would be different if
her own thoughts didnt bounce around her skull so violently. Thoughts that intruded her

mind, telling her daily that not a soul wanted to speak with her, not a heartbeat wished to

connect. She felt abnormal, strange, and too unique to stand with the crowd.

After Adylase's meltdown, when the horizon swallowed the sun and painted the

sky black, Adylase was tucked into bed. She listened as the cars whooshed past

the house, imagining them spraying rain water from their tires. She listened to the ticking

of her wall clock, crickets, the music flowing from her music box. The sounds occupied

her ears, causing her to nearly miss the knock that came from the front door. Who could

it possibly be? She wondered to herself. A pair of voices wafted up through the crack of

her bedroom door, but they were too distant to understand the words. As the

voices grew closer, she confirmed that they belonged to two men; two men with

heavy bodies, she thought, as they clomped up the stairs. Next came shouts, deep and

loud, demanding her father get up from his bed, demanding that he come speak with

them. Shivering beneath the covers, Adylase waited until all three pairs of feet made their

way downstairs. Then, cautiously walking on her toes, she maneuvered down the flight of

stairs. Catching a glimpse of her father, she called to him; his arms had been laced behind

his back, hands meshed together in the silver cuffs. He didnt look back. Perhaps he

hadnt heard her, she thought. Releasing heavy sobs, she called out to her dad over and

over; he didnt respond, didnt even pivot his neck.

Accepting her fathers leaving didnt come easy for Adylase. The corners of her

mind grew dark, and any sliver of positive thought burnt out. Her voice grew silent; she

began having an even harder time speaking with her mother, playing with children her

age, and paying attention in the classroom. Adylase spent her time at recess swinging in
silence or hiding beneath the playground equipment or crawling solo across the grassy

fields. She had become exhausted; the questioning and sympathetic looks had just

become another load on her conscious.

Multiple hours of the week, Adylase spent time in the guidance

counselor room at school; a small, quaint and dusty room with dim lighting and shutters

that were always closed. Everyday was the same. The guidance counselor would ask how

she was feeling, and then she would ask how things were going at home. Had she done

anything fun over the weekend? Had she made any new friends? What was she learning

in school? Adylase would either give one word answers, or she would shake her head

yes or no. She kept the dark corners of her mind locked, taking caution that the

deepest thoughts didn't leak out. Most of the time that she spent with the

guidance counselor, Adylase would only half listen. Instead, she would pull

out fond memories that were usually buried in her mind. Memories that brought back the

faint whiff of her fathers fresh cologne, memories of the time her father used to play

with the dog in the backyard, memories where she could feel his breath as he whispered

in her ear that he loved her. And when it was time to go, when the sound of the bell rang

in her ears, the memories would fade.

One Monday morning, Adylase slouched into the guidance counselors

room, ready for the usual questioning. Stepping in, her nose caught the scent of freshly

cut grass mixed with paint; the shades were open, the room was less dusty, an easel

holding white paper sat in the center of the floor. There was a pair of paintbrushes nestled

into the ledge of the easel, and a painting pallet held an array of colors. The guidance

counselor welcomed her to sit. The meeting would no longer be about words, she had
said, but instead she wanted her to draw. Draw emotions, draw what angers you, and

draw what you cannot manage to speak, the guidance counselor explained. Oh, how

foolish! How absurd! Adylase couldnt possibly put words into a drawing! But, being too

shy to protest, she grasped the paintbrush between her fingers and dipped it into the

water.

Adylase started with her father. She painted him lying just where the sea reaches

the shoreline. She painted the two of them playing on the swings in the backyard, she

painted him cutting down a tree for Christmas and teaching her how to trim it. Then, with

shaky hands, she painted him drinking; a bottle of liquor in one hand, a can of beer in the

other; red eyes and worn out limbs. Swirling the paintbrush in water, she switched the

color to gray and drew the small spoons she used to find in the stones that covered the

tool shed's floor behind their house. She remembers asking her father why they were out

there; he told her he used them to make his favorite soup. Now, without her father telling

her she was too young to have some, she drew herself tasting it. For the last painting of

her father, she drew his hands around her mothers neck; a small bubble coming from her

mother's mouth, filled with the words help.

Next, Adylase sketched in her mother. She painted a beautiful woman with

blonde straight hair that ran just below her shoulder blades. She drew her blue eyes,

sullen and sad, dark bags hanging beneath them. Fair skin, her favorite black

dress, and that half-hearted smile she typically wore. With every stroke, Adylase was

reminded of the love she has for her mother.

At last, she was almost done. Dipping her brush into the black paint, she began

lathering it on any white space that remained. Stroke after stroke, she left thick
black layers; a dark, looming shadow. And then, she paused. She took the painting in, her

eyes focused on the small white space that still remained. Plunging her paintbrush into

the murky water, she swirled it around, mixing the colors for so long that she became

mildly dizzy. Then she glided the paintbrush across some orange, then some yellow,

and swiftly filled in the white space left on the paper. Dropping the paintbrush into the

ledge of the easel, she closed her eyes and listened to the beats of her heart.