My hideaway

I have my headphones on full blast and a paintbrush in my hand. Here, I'm at home. This is my space. My mom kicked me out to go live with my dad in the-middle-of-nowhere, Idaho. She says for one reason, I say another. But no matter the reason, this is where I am. And I hate it. Well, I hated it at first, but I'm getting used to it. Leaving my friends at the start of high school was hard. But living in this tiny cabin with no internet, no cell phone, and no tv; I'm starting to go crazy. Or at least, I was before I ventured into our barn. It's old, like really old. The wood is falling apart and it's turned to a grey color I didn't know wood could be. There are two barn cats who came with the house when my dad bought it. And we feed them from time to time, though, we really don't need to since they leave us a murder scene every spring. We close up the barn during the winter when it's too cold for me to stay out for too long and when the snow is piled higher than the door swings. And then every spring, I send my dad to clean it out. There are always dozens of mice and small birds littering the floor. Which is the state in which I first found the barn. Littered with bodies, though not as many as the first spring morning after a big winter. But enough to give me the willies. So I make my dad clean them out for me so I don't have to see what the sweet cats do to their prey. They really are sweet. It took some time but Lucky, the big grey fluff ball of a cat finally trusted me enough to let me pet it by the end of last summer. And Jasmine, the tabby, will rub up against me petting herself on my leg the whole time I'm out here. They're the only friends I allow out here in my space. And I think I'm the only friend they allow into theirs. After that first trip into the barn, I knew it was going to be mine. I grabbed my easel, brushes, and paints and I set up shop in front of the big window. They've been planted here ever since.

This is my second summer out here in the middle of nowhere, and although I have more friends in town now, I still have no license or car to go see them. Still no internet, and still no cell phone. So on the days where my dad doesn't go into town, I spend my time in my safe space with the cats. I dip my brush in my acrylics. First blue, then orange, with a bit of yellow and purple. I don't know how the colors will all fit together. There's no reason I should be putting them together like this logically. But, my hand knows what it wants and it goes for it. By the end, I have a painting of an octopus, spread out with his tentacles behind him like he's gliding along gracefully. It's magnificent. I clean off my brushes and wipe my hands on my drama class hoodie that I use as a smock. I place everything back where it goes and give both cats some good love before I leave to go back inside. Into the air conditioning for some time spent on the couch watching "Resident Evil" for the 10th time this summer. Mainly because it's one of the only good movies my dad owns. I step out of the barn and onto the gravel walkway when I see my dad get out of his truck. I pull out my headphones to say hi, but I see he's already on the phone talking to someone. He's frustrated and arguing with them. And then I catch my name and realize he's talking about me.

"She's a good kid! She just needs some guidance and help!" He pauses for the other person on the line to speak. He tries to speak again and is cut off. Finally, "You're damn right I don't think you gave her the attention and help she needs! The drugs you had her on when she came to live up here made her a zombie! She was a shell. She doesn't need those damn things, what she needs is for her mother to quit treating her like shit!" His voice trails off as he gets closer to the house and farther from the barn where I'm standing. My dad doesn't curse in front of me, though I know he does elsewhere, so I know he didn't see me standing here. I blink back tears knowing he's only dealing with her because I have refused to. I haven't spoken to her since I left. Not that I have any desire to, but I know how cruel she can be. I wouldn't wish that on anyone, let alone my dad. He's a gentle giant with a soft heart. He doesn't deserve it. He's storming back outside, so I slip back into the barn and close the door. But I hear him anyway. "She's not coming back to live with you. I'm not sending her back down there to be your punching bag again. Fine, get the courts involved!" His truck door slams and I hear him drive away. Probably back to whatever construction job he's on today.

I put my headphones back in and turn the volume back up till it almost hurts. I pull out my paints and my roll of brushes. I set the drying octopus aside and pull out a new canvas. This one I have been saving for something special. It's the biggest canvas I've ever seen, and I wanted to use it for something that would do it justice. My face is basically a waterfall at this point. I have liquid dripping onto my hoodie and I can't entirely tell if it's all tears or some drool even from my wailing mouth. I can't believe she wants me back. After everything I tried to do to stay in the first place, to not leave my friends, now she wants me back? After I've finally made new friends, and after I finally have a life I can be happy with. Now? The sobs wrack my body as I put paint to canvas. I have to stop a couple of times because they're taking over and my body can't seem to remember how to stand upright. But when I figure it out again, I go back to my painting. By the time I'm done, the tears are dried and crusted on my cheeks, and the screams have died down to an occasional gentle hiccup. It's getting dark outside the big window so I know it'll be dinner time soon. I pack up my paints and clean my brushes. The cats are nowhere to be seen. They either got hungry and went hunting, or they were scared off by all the noise I was making. I turn around with my back to the door and take my earbuds out. It's a quiet evening but I can hear the bugs loud and clear. I stand there in the silence and admire my newest piece of art. After a few minutes, I turn the lights off and leave, making sure the door is secure behind me, and walk across the gravel. I feel like I left my soul back there in the barn on that canvas. That painting will haunt me forever, and I know it. Nothing I do will ever feel as powerful as that painting. The lights are on in the entry, and I walk through to greet my dad in the kitchen. Leaving behind the self-portrait in the barn. And it'll always be there, in the barn. So that no matter what happens, I can keep a piece of me tucked away. A piece of me in my safe space.