Daxton assured me he would contact Michelle as soon as he could to procure my journals. His intensity in wanting to read into my past made me feel things I didn’t wish to explore. Never have I ever shared anything I had written with anyone—not even my sister—so the thought of someone reading them made me anxious. I didn’t want to be judged. Like most people, I hid behind what I thought was a normal presentation of myself, so letting someone have access to my unfiltered thoughts was unsettling. The only thing I wanted more than to be out of here was for the truth to be told.
Lunch was served not long after my session with Daxton; hamburgers, macaroni salad, and green beans were on the menu. Kendi, Thelma, and I ate at our usual table. Much to my displeasure, Brandon was back at the table with the other men from our group. I could feel his eyes on my back, just like during the first meal I had with them yesterday. A darkness seemed to follow him wherever he went. I hadn’t noticed until he returnedthat the atmosphere surrounding our little band of misfits had significantly lightened while he was away.
Both Tyson and Andrew may have sat with him, but neither of them looked particularly comfortable with having him back at their table. They were seated at one side of the table while Brandon occupied his own, hunched over more like a creature than a man, shoveling food into his mouth while never looking away from where we sat. He chewed his food with his mouth open, not bothering to use manners for his company at the table, using his fingers instead of the plastic cutlery we were provided with our meal.
Following lunch, Cindy escorted the six of us down the hall from the cafeteria and to the stairs again. Only this time, instead of going back up towards our hall, she was taking us towards the basement, where our art therapy session would be taking place. Going down to the basement wasn’t as creepy as it sounded when she first said where we would be headed. It wasn’t completely underground; half windows high on the walls let in plenty of natural light, even if those windows were covered in bars. The walls were also brightly painted in neutral off white colors.
On our way down the sloped hallway, we passed by the gym, where another group was currently exercising, a couple of rooms used for additional group therapies, and a few offices. At the end of the hallway was the entrance to the art room.
“You’ll love Nadia,” Kendi whispered as we entered the room.
Set up similar to a classroom in a high school, the art room was an array of colors and textures. Down the middle of the room was an open space, lined on either side by tables with two chairs sitting at each. Tall ovens stood in the corner behind what must be Nadia's desk. Thomas also stood behind Nadia’s desk, an ever-present shadow remaining quiet as he followed our group around. It had to be to protect against unhinged patients. After Brandon's incident the other day, I couldn’t blame anyone for wanting that. Cindy was slim like Kendi, and Nadia wasn’t much bigger, so if a physical altercation broke out, they wouldn’t be able to maintain as much control without the additional reinforcement.
Amongst all the paint, brushes, canvases, and every other crafting item known to man stood a short woman in a dress similar to what Mrs. Frizzle might wear. Her face was well wrinkled, but shown brightly with a smile, and her light gray hair was pulled back into a neat bun on the top of her head. The rainbow of fabric she was dressed in clashed horribly with her bright red flat shoes and lime green hoop earrings.
“Welcome, everyone. Please find a seat wherever you feel comfortable,” Nadia spoke cheerfully, as if she were in a classroom meant for kindergarteners, not a room full of clinically insane adults.
Kendi grabbed my right hand gently, careful to avoid the bandages, and ushered me to the front of the room. She wasn’t forceful by any means, but she made it clear she wanted me totake the seat farthest from the aisle. I sat down politely without a word, Thelma taking the seat behind Kendi, and much to my displeasure, Brandon taking the seat beside her. Kendi eyed him, not with fear but with a challenge, as she sat down next to me.
“Today we will be painting self-portraits,” Nadia stated as she walked up and down the aisle, handing out supplies. Brushes and paints were already at each of our tables. Small desktop-sized easels were placed in front of us before she ventured back near her desk to grab a stack of blank canvases.
Taking mine from her, I placed it on the easel while Kendi set some brushes in the space between us. Scattered on the table were tubes of acrylic paint, in every color imaginable. Nadia passed out paint palettes after making sure everyone had a canvas while continuing to explain our instructions.
“I don’t want just a basic self-portrait of your face. I really want you to dig deep and paint me something that represents who you are at your core. What makes you who you are? I want you to express that on the canvas.” Nadia smiled at everyone as she finished with the instructions, letting us know we had as much time as we needed until dinner to finish.
While Kendi started squirting small amounts of brightly colored paints on her palette, I selected mostly reds and darker colors. The canvas we had been given was small, only slightly larger than an eight-by-ten photo, so coming up with something to paint was a challenge. Artistic ability wasn’t something I had beengifted with; those skills seemed to have been placed all in my sister. So what I chose to paint was simple, and lacked the detail that would have made it beautiful, only if I had attempted it with my heavy hand, it would have been ruined.
Even though my talents lay in writing, I still had to be able to picture what I wanted to write about. The madness I felt living inside my own head was my subject for my painting, slowly giving it life. Applying black paint to my brush, I started on the silhouette.
After a few minutes of trying to get my woman to look like a woman and not like a misshapen blob in the center of my canvas, I set the brush down for a moment, huffing in annoyance.
“Art is supposed to be relaxing,” Kendi said quietly while expertly painting colorful flowers along the bottom of her canvas.
“I never liked art much,” I admitted, watching her paint her flowers for a moment. “You’re really good at this.”
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders, “Thank you, art was my major in college. Try not to put as much paint on your brush and use shorter strokes. It’s a lot different than trying to draw with a pen or a pencil.”
“I’ll give it a shot, no promises that this entire canvas won't be solid black by the time I’m done with it,” sighing, I picked up my brush anyway, blotting some of the excessive paint off the bristles and trying once again.
“In the art world, we would just call it an abstract painting and you’d make millions,” she joked, continuing to make flowers onher canvas. Kendi didn’t just paint basic flowers, but a field of wildflowers in such detail that I was entranced by. Pastel colors bloomed under the expert strokes of her brush. Poppies, purple cone flowers, bluebells, lupines, blanket flowers, and daisies were scattered in her painting, the forefront of the mountains she had started outlining in her background.
“I think I’d just be happy to get through this session, I’m more of a writer than a painter.” Taking my brush, I started to slowly try to fix the outline of my woman sitting on the ground, her knees up shielding her body from the outside world. It was easier to paint her from the side, my ability to shade and create depth in a painting was amateur at best.
“I couldn’t write to save my life, to me art is an easier form of expression,” she stated.
“Is that what you did for a living? Paint?” I asked.
“No, sadly, finding a job with a fine arts degree around here isn’t that easy. I’ll have to find a new job once I leave here anyways.”
“I hadn’t even thought about what to tell my job when I leave.”
“Where do you work? Is your boss at least understanding of your situation?”
“I work at West Main Animal Clinic as a veterinary technician. I think they’ll understand. Dr. Faris has been my boss since before I graduated, and just worked the kennels at the clinic. I haven’t spoken to her yet personally; only my sister has. I can’t see her firing me, though.”
Slowly, my inner self was starting to take shape against the white background. The tears didn’t need to be shown on her; the pain needed to be evident in her body language. Her form was broken, a slender body with her knees drawn up to her chest. Resting her head against her knees with her long hair flowing down her back. Since she was nothing more than a shadow, I didn’t even try to give her the illusion of wearing clothes. I wanted her exposed and vulnerable in a way I couldn’t be. Mixing together shades of red, I started to work on the background. Reds and browns made up the majority of the background with white streaks dividing the colors.
“I’ve always wanted to work with animals,” she said conversationally while adding more paints to her palette.
