“For the wall in the pool house.”
“What? You want it on the wall… in your pool house?”
“If that’s okay, artist?”
I exhale and slide my fingers through my hair. “Um… yeah. No one’s ever liked my art enough to have it on their wall.”
“Well, I love your stuff, Nate. I’d have a piece of you on every wall if I could.”
I can’t hold back my smile, uplifted and happy. “Why are you so good to me?”
“Because you deserve someone to be on your side. Because there’s more to you than people realize. You don’t let people in, and you have to realize how talented you truly are.”
Swallowing hard, I sigh. “I want to let people in, but I’m scared of what they’ll think of me when they find out the truth.”
“That you can’t read?”
“Yeah, that, and the reason why.”
She looks at me, her eyes softening, the invitation clear. “Let me in, Nate. Tell me why.”
A tightness coils in my chest, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. The weight of years of hiding, of pushing people away, presses down on me, and the familiar urge to shut down stirs. I clench my hands together, feeling the tremor there, the vulnerability I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding. Letting someone in—especially Ria—feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, uncertain of the fall. I release a long, shuddering breath, my shoulders sagging under the weight of her gaze. My eyes drop to the ground as I nod, fighting the fear and hoping, just maybe, I can finally trust someone enough to share this part of me.
“When I was five, my mother was putting me to bed. She was reading to me and, in turn, teaching me how to read. She was trying to get me to readtoher. I couldn’t get the words right, no matter how hard I tried. I kept messing it up, and she started breathing heavily. I thought she was angry with me, so I tried harder. I really tried, but she clutched at her chest and cried out in agony. I had no idea what I’d done wrong, but she was in so much pain, and I thought I’d caused it…” I take a deep breath.
“I was young, I didn’t know any better… she was panting, heaving for air, and she was passing in and out of consciousness right in front of me. Her face was bright red, her eyes vacant. She wasn’t with me, but the whole time, I remember the intense strain on her face, the tight fists her hands were clenched in, and my screams echoing through the house. I was so young, I had no idea she was having a massive heart attack, and she died right in front of me on my bed…”
My heart races as my breathing quickens, and I pause for a second, trying to regain my composure.
“I haven’t been able to read since. I panic every time I’m supposed to read anything. That memory, that time, it all floods back. Her face, her pain. I associate words with Mom’s death, and I can’t get past it.”
Ria exhales, her eyes glistening with an intense sparkle like she’s trying so hard to keep it together.
I know the feeling.
I despise talking about this.
To be honest, I’m not sure I have actually spoken about this to anyone.
Now that the door is open, I can’t help but continue, “So, obviously, Matt knows I associate reading with Mom’s death, and trying to read dredges up the memories of her. What he doesn’t know is how I couldn’t cope with the feelings. Sure, he knew I struggled as a kid. Matt knew I was considered the loser twin, the one that everyone looked down on. He tried so hard to help me, but the problem was me. Knowing I couldn’t read and couldn’t further myself in any way made it hard to think anything other than lowly of myself. Growing up with thelosermentality—” She tries to interrupt, but I put up my hand and continue, “No! Me thinking it, everyone else thinking it, it fucks with your head.”
I give her a small smile, and her eyes twinkle with understanding.
“Matt protected me the best he could. He knew I was suffocating and suffering, but he didn’t know the extent of the inner demons I was fighting. The inner guilt, the inner doubt, the inner hate of myself. I can’t read, and it’s because every time I tried, I’d have nightmares about killing Mom all over again…” I pause, trying to rein in my inner panic. “Do you know how fucked up that is? Feeling like you killed your Mom because you were trying to read?”
She gasps and tightens her hand on my knee while I watch her bottom lip quiver. “Nate, you know that’s not true, right? There’s no way, no possible way you’re to blame for your mom’s death. It was a heart attack. There wasnothingyou could’ve done to save her.”
I smile weakly. “The fucked up thing is, I know that. I know it’s not my faultnow. How can you kill someone by reading, right? But I was five and didn’t know any better. I grew up thinking I’d caused it, and somehow, in my fucked up head, it’s ingrained in me now that reading is like a death sentence. So instead of reading, I turned to other vices to cope and make it through the tough times.”
“Music?” She raises a brow.
“And art. They both helped to pull my emotions out. With percussion, I was able to take my anger out on the skins. Smashing them made it easy to release my frustrations of the day on something other than people’s faces, which I was doing until Matt introduced me to music.”
“You have a lot to thank him for,” Ria suggests.
“I do… art, on the other hand, was something that came to me naturally. I’ve drawn ever since I could hold a pencil, and although my drawings started off dark in my younger years, they gradually flourished into actual artistry. I found somewhere I could go where no one could find or judge me, and I just expressed myself on paper or canvas when I could afford it. Matt never knew the extent of my drawing capabilities because I kept it so completely hidden from him. I found a place where I could be Nate, the artist. A space to be myself, to let go, to stop caring about anyone or anything. A place where my emotions spill onto the canvas, flowing through the tip of the brush. Painting helps me feel. It’s how I write the words I simply can’t.”
She smiles. “That’s beautiful, Nate. I’m glad you have an outlet. I’m so sorry you had such a hard childhood, though. It kills me to think of how difficult you had it.”
