Untitled- Chapter 3

Untitled- Chapter 3

So, I ruined the night.
“Why do you always do this?” she had yelled after Alak and Isshi had escaped (this was even before she had discovered her defiled sink), “Do you think it’s funny? Is this some kind of joke? Answer me, Tooru!”
Although she so desperately wanted me to answer her, she gave me no chance; she was too busy throwing insult upon insult at me:
“Incompetent!”, “Stubborn!”, “Selfish!”, “Self-centered!”
I sat on the sofa, taking the brunt of it. I had learned at an early age to just let her get it all out rather than attempting to counter it, despite each attack seeming like a slap in the face.
“You— you— just—,” Mother was running low on fresh, colorful words, “I want you to call Alak tomorrow and apologize to him personally! Putting on a big show like that… You always just want the spotlight to be on you, don’t you, Tooru? Don’t you? Answer me, Tooru!”
Again: this was before she saw her sink.
“See? You’re feeling fine now. Awfully convenient you get sick right when we have guests over, hmm?”
Maybe Alak has some kind of horrible, contagious disease. Wouldn’t that make you feel bad for assuming things? Even then she’d probably find a way to blame me, though.
Mother continued: “I can’t believe it… All I wanted was for Alak to meet you, and you—“
She had paused to sigh.
“—you introduce yourself rudely; you storm away from dinner, and then you put on this act! What is the matter with you, Tooru? This is the worst you’ve ever been… Why are you acting like this? Maybe Alak’s right… I need to be stricter with you…”
Mother sighed again.
“I’m going to bed, I’m tired. I have to go to work tomorrow, and I just can’t—“
She rubbed her temples and turned away. Before going upstairs for the night, she said, “Just help me out, okay?”
So, that’s basically how it went. After I had emptied the dinner I had so much trouble even eating in the first place, Mother had the burden of checking on me when Isshi told her I was sick. When she found her bedroom door wide open and me leaning against her wall, she exploded. She grabbed me by the arm, tearing me away from her off-limits palace and locked me back where I belonged. I then heard her apologizing to Alak and Isshi and telling them that it “would be in their best interest to head home”, ignoring Isshi when he asked about me. Once she got them out and closed the door, she immediately rushed back to me, seizing my arm again, and dragged me to the living room to throw me on the couch. That’s when she started her rant and left me where I am now.
To say the least, being tossed around so much didn’t do wonders on my already churning stomach.
After Mother had made it clear she was done yelling, she trudged upstairs, chucking off her high heeled shoes and letting them tumble down the steps. Without hesitation, I stood up and picked the shoes off the ground, brushing at the scuffs with the sleeve of my shirt. I vaguely remembered the price of the shoes being in the triple-digits.
The door upstairs opened with a squeak and a news reporter talking about a recent car accident immediately followed on the television. Then what sounded like a Spanish soap opera, the weather channel, Home Shopping Network… Mother stopped flipping channels as two women raved about a juicer and how “you cannot miss this offer!” only to skip to the home design channel.
I listened in for a moment, even if I showed little to no interest in how wonderful olive green curtains would look in their brick apartment (despite that sounding really terrible). Once I finally realized that I didn’t give a damn, I made my way to the kitchen, the sound of a woman and an over-zealous man talking about the curtains fading away.
The dishes on the table were left how they were. Apparently Mother and Alak had finished while my plate and Isshi’s were nearly untouched. I stacked everything on top of each other, listening to the murmurs of voices upstairs and reminiscing of a time when I was allowed to listen and watch.
Before Mother removed the television and it was out in the living room, I was still only allowed 7 hours a week, maximum. Apparently any more and my “brain would turn to mush”, and being young, I partway believed it.
Despite this fear of my brain liquefying, I secretly would cram in as much T.V. as possible while Mother was away at work. It was my only window to the world, so I valued the time I spent there; I spent it on teen dramas, nightly news at 11 (Mother worked late then, and I watched even though I was supposed to be in bed by 9:00), judge shows and even the home shopping network when they managed coax me in. Unlike most kids, I never showed much interest in cartoons; it wasn’t “real” enough for me, and the thing I want most is reality, the norm. I was fascinated by the teen dramas someday becoming “real” for me; the things people did on the news were amazing; the stupidity of people on Judge Judy was unbelievable; and the sheer amount of unnecessary products on the home shopping network was amusing. If I wanted to see some cat hitting a dog on the head with a sledgehammer, I’m sure I could find it on the news someday rather than it having to be animated and put into a cartoon. I barely even passed a second glance at channel 107 with all the animated shows.
Unfortunately, one night around 9 o’clock when I was 10, Mother was let off work early. When she unlocked the door to the living room, and all she heard was some woman on Judge Brown yelling obscenities about “her damn busted car”, she nearly lost it. Mother literally threw me over her shoulder (after desperately turning off the television), raced upstairs and tossed me into my room. I specifically remember the feeling of, “Lecture, lecture, lecture, oh shit, oh shit” and “When did she get strong enough to lift me like that?”
“What was that? Tell me what that was, Tooru!”
How could I have answered that?
“Her ex-husband broke her car, and she’s suing him for it.”
Wrong answer.
“You’re supposed to be asleep! And not watching that! And-and-and…You’ve already watched 7 hours this week! Do you always disobey me like this when I’m gone?”
Well, of course. What else would I do? Eat nutritious carrots and watch that crazy religious-education broadcasting you want me to try?
Luckily, I didn’t respond that time. When I was younger, I usually wasn’t as smart with what came out of my mouth.
“Tooru, it was a stretch for me to let you watch television at all in the first place,” Mother had said. I knew where it was going already: I lost my precious window.
“I’m forbidding it.”
I specifically remember the feeling of, “I hate you”.
“I’ve been trying to get a different shift at work so I don’t have to leave you alone at night. Obviously I was right when I thought I couldn’t trust you. Until then, I might have to hire a baby-sitter…”
A baby-sitter? I wanted to scoff, oh, how I wanted to scoff. I thought I was so old and responsible; I was ten, after all.
And that’s exactly what she did: hire a baby-sitter. Everyday (minus Wednesday and Thursday), from 4:00 to 9:00, Karly would be watching me and making sure I was in bed by the time she left. Mother must have paid her well, because she really did watch me, and she watched me intently. Except, of course, when she had to catch her favorite show on T.V., where I was promptly shooed to my room. I thought that she was trying to tease me with her freedom. But, I just thanked her for giving me my own freedom and used that time to read or draw. While T.V. was normally my escape, I had to replace it with drawing or reading.
Although I really would prefer to get my television back, I admit I would never have started becoming interested in art otherwise. I don’t have much natural talent, and I learned that, so instead I chose to paint surreal and abstract. Disturbed, meaningless works are much better than portrait drawing for getting your feelings out, I say.
Whenever given money, I would find a way to the crafts store and get a couple tubes of acrylic paint (they’re very expensive, so I can only buy a few at a time). I would then paint things like the gates of hell or umbrellas. I don’t like to think of my mind as being disturbed or unstable for some of my ideas as opposed to “creative”.
At one point, I made the mistake of wasting my money on oil paints. Luckily, I had painted an abstract piece with them, so all the mistakes, smears and blobs could be thought of as “artsy” and “on purpose”. How wonderful abstract art is when you have no talent.
I’m sure if Mother found any of my paintings, she would board up my room and forbid me from ever leaving. One of them is just a blank canvas with “Fuck! Fuck!” and a few swooshes of blue paint, and something tells me she would not find much humor in it.
Luckily, I chose to be smart about it; I have a rather large closet with all my clothes on hangers, and behind those clothes I have a corkboard tacked to the wall (I use it as an easel) and an overhead light. When I want to “express myself”, I just inch into my closet, turn on my light and gather up my paints. Because I haven’t invested in a palette yet, I just mix my colors on an old, once white T-shirt.
My “art studio” is so hidden, Mother has yet to find it or any of my paintings. I have learned not to let Mother into my personal life, so I have taken extra time to ensure she never gets near. After all, she has locked me out of hers, so I have no reason to allow her into mine; I think that is just fair. I consider my art my own secret, kept discreet in my closet, like many things of mine.
When Mother tells me anything about herself, I’ll tell her about myself. Until then, we’ll remain strangers living in the same house.
Honestly, that baby-sitter probably knew me better. During the time she was here, she would have phases when she thought she would “bond” with me. She was really just an intrusive, nosy girl. I remember always being annoyed by her persistent nature, but in a way, I can respect it now. She tried so hard to force me into talking, and only recently did I start to feel guilty for not throwing her a bone every so often. But, one’s persistence can only last so long, and I’ve been told before that I take a lot of patience: Karly’s determination only lasted four months, and that may be rounding up. After that, her confidence in me dwindled and she just gave up.
Occasionally, though, she would invite me to watch T.V. with her, even though Mother had already informed her of the dangers of letting a child watch that filth. Her disobeying Mother’s wishes were one of the last times I have ever dared get close to a television.
All the time (when she was still trying to get me close to her), it was reality show after reality show, one girl crying and another girl yelling; it’s all she would watch. I wanted so badly to tell her that reality isn’t like that at all, but then I would be a hypocrite: I was slightly obsessed with teen dramas. So instead I just sat on the couch and waited for something interesting to happen. But nothing ever did.
“You know, you don’t have to watch it if you don’t want to,” she would say, “You aren’t even supposed to anyway.”
I never responded. She never asked for a response, so I never felt the need to give her one. Karly would just turn back to her show after a few seconds of blank staring.
Watching television, even if it was a program I hated, was relaxing to me. There could be three girls screaming and throwing pillows at each other, but I would somehow zone out into my own world. Just the thought of so much on those other channels was enough for me; when I tried to actually watch them, I would just get bored, and wish I just thought of it as being mysterious and unknown instead. But, many things in my life could be described that way. I have never been to a city, nor do I want to. I have never been to a theme park, nor do I want to. I have never been to a mall, nor do I want to. I know I would be disappointed by the reality of it, so I would much rather dream.
I shook my hands, watching the water run off my pruny fingers. The sound of the T.V. upstairs hushed; Mother must have gotten bored and fallen asleep. I hung up the dripping towel and set the dishes aside. I figured I would put them away tomorrow.
Surely enough, as I quietly walked down the hallway to my prison, there was no glow from under the door to Mother’s room. A part of me wanted to open the door just a crack to see if she was truly asleep. Maybe I could have apologized for upsetting her. I paused for a second, but continued to my own shelter.
I closed and locked the door, being quiet. The pink and orange sunset leaked through the cracks in my blinds.
“I can’t believe how early it is,” I thought, letting my body fall on my bed, “That really was a long night; I knew it was going to be from the start.”
I stripped down to nothing but my boxers. Our air conditioner rarely works, especially in the summer, and with Mother always being in some kind of hellish rage I doubt she would ever notice.
“I have to call Alak tomorrow.”
I turned, facing the wall. I then started to trace the texture with the tip of my finger.
“Isshi, too.”
I kicked the wall, my feet flat against its surface.
“What the hell am I supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry for calling myself Meet, not talking to you, not finishing dinner and then puking into my mother’s sink’? Or would a simple ‘sorry’ suffice?”
My leg began to shake as my toes gripped the wall more.
“And this probably won’t be the last time they come here, will it?”
My leg slipped off, and I felt a pinch, then a surge of pain: I pulled a muscle.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow.” I complained while pulling my leg to my chest. Helplessly, I rolled over, sighing deeply.
After a minute or three of watching my reflection in the closet mirrors of myself in a ball, I sat up, sliding off my bed. I hobbled toward my reflection, taking a second to stare, then slid the doors open. When I turned around to close them, it caught on a shoe. I cursed and ran over the shoe with the door. After that failed, I kicked the shoe across the room.
My hands blindly tried to grasp the cord to the light. Again, I swore before grabbing hold of it and yanking hard. The yellow light illuminated black and grey, plain clothes.
I tore my most recent attempt off my corkboard, tossing it in the overflowing trash bin (the failures). My fingers groped the floor for a pencil. The dull light above flickered, leaving me in the dark every couple seconds.
I managed to find a blue Crayola colored pencil; it would have to do.
For the past few months, I had been checking out some books on realism at the public library. I realize I said realistic portraits are useless to me for expressing deep emotions, and I’m keeping to that. But looking at the black and white pictures of their penciled-in faces, I just had to try and replicate it. Because of my, well, lack of talent, the faces came out disproportionate, rigid and inhuman looking, but in a way, I liked it.
As I drew myself in blue, my features slowly came to be, if not blown out of proportion: my wide, flat nose was wider and flatter, my big, black eyes were bigger and blacker (well, bluer, technically) any my short lips were even shorter. Of course, one thing will never change: even in my self-portrait, I looked bored, and my eye bags were big and black (blue). I drew how I saw myself in the mirror, how I perceived myself, as I did with everyone.
My face started to become recognizable as my pencil swiped across the paper, drawing in wavy strands of hair. Placing my pencil on a nearby shelf, I dropped to my knees, trying to find another color: a light brown for my skin, a black for my eyes and hair, a red for my collar, anything.
I got back on my feet, eyeing the shelf with 12 tubes of recently empty acrylic paint. No acrylics, no pencils, not even any Crayolas. Everything had been used up or sharpened to oblivion.
So, it was simply “Self-portrait in blue”.
Taking a moment, I stared apathetically.
Without hesitation, I ripped the sheet out, tearing the top corner. I rolled it up tight and threw it aside. I needed more practice; that was an embarrassing attempt.
Somehow more frustrated than before, I emerged from my retreat, eyeing the red, glowing numbers of the clock on my nightstand: 9:26 PM.
Damn, time couldn’t pass by any slower tonight, could it?
There was nothing more to do. I laid on my bed, pulled the covers over and shut my eyes tight.