The Painting

I used to paint. I used to have hobbies, friends.

A life.

But I knew he wouldn’t stop hitting me, so I left.

I could put up with the rages. It was kinda comforting, in a way. Just like my dad all over again, so I mostly ignored it. But I told him after the first hit that it was his once. He’ll never get another. Well, that promise lasted exactly till the next paycheck, and the bender that came with it.

One thing I was smart about, is that I had my own account. He was never on the paperwork, and we had an account where I put my part of the bill money. My stuff easily fit in my tiny car, and off I went. Yeah, I got it checked for trackers, but a few towns away. Then I went a different direction.

I can find a job anywhere, really. And I can put up with a lot of crap. But sorry not sorry, no one gets to pound on me. Dad learned that the hard way, too.

I found a place far, far away. I gotta share the common rooms with the roomies, but they’re not a bad sort. I keep my food in a fridge in my own room now, and there’s a lock on my door. One roomie doesn’t understand that if they didn’t buy it, they shouldn’t eat it without permission. They learned the hard way too, because I like a lot of hot spices that hit later in the evening. Still, I keep myself to myself, and now they leave me alone. Had to get another gallon of milk, though. I made them buy it.

And I saved myself a little bit of money, and bought some supplies at the local crafts store.

Not the good stuff, of course. Couldn’t afford that. Someday, I will. But till then, real ultramarine and hand-ground burnt sienna are beyond my reach. Yeah, my asshole ex threw out the supplies I so carefully packed and brought with as my most prized possessions.

My only possessions. Dad sold everything when Mom died, and drank the profit. All I’ve got are memories.

Well, that’s as good a place as any to start.

I’ve got a touch of talent. And a decent memory. So the first things I painted were some of those memories – Mom’s face, my dog Frosty that died when I was six. The backyard, where I’d hide in the tree when Dad was on a bender. A butterfly I watched come out of its chrysalis when I was fourteen.

And, the big one. I painted myself, in the mirror.

What I am. No varnish, haha, artist joke. No filters, no special lighting, just me and the afternoon sun in a place where I wasn’t being cussed out, beat on, taken from.

I hung it beside my bed, to remind me who I wanted to be.

I noticed the changes pretty quickly. I painted the darn thing, I darn well know I didn’t even open the crinaquidone violet. I didn't paint a bruise on my cheek. Weird, for sure, but I just went to bed. Obviously I was too tired from work to see properly.

The next day, I noticed that it looked like someone touched up the painting to hide the bruises. Like I used to apply makeup the few times I got marked by a stray fist, you know? The colors faded over time.

The black eye that showed up a few weeks later freaked me out. I checked my supplies, but they were untouched. No one picked my lock, and you’d better believe that the one roomie would have gone for my fridge, because he could smell my leftover takeout and was whining about it.

The other roomie was medically mellow, and since they were getting their needs met by their own job, they really didn’t care about me much. Couldn’t pick a lock if their stash was on the other side, I think.

The changes kept happening, and they were freaking me out.

The split lip was awful, and when it healed, I could see a scar left from it. More bruises, then the hair was cut. I called the mellow roomie into my room for that one, and they shrugged, said “Hey, whatever floats your boat, looks to me like the life you left behind. Cool you’d paint that, I guess?”

When they wandered out, I sat on the bed to think.

Was this Me, the Me I left behind?

Was this a mirror into the life I’d have lived if I hadn’t left?

And, the scary thought – what if there was a Me that had been left? And that’s why I wasn’t getting phone calls from a number I didn’t block, just in case I needed to know when he was coming for me?

I’d grown up not needing to talk to anyone about anything, because people would only use it against you. But I felt, for the first time, a real strong pull to talk to someone about – this.

Instead, I would look at the painting before bedtime.

It took a while to figure out, when she started getting fatter, was because she was pregnant.

The tired eyes never left. Dark circles showed up under her eyes, and never faded either.

I looked in my own mirror for that one, but my eyes were fine. So was my lip.

But my mellow roomie mentioned to others that I could paint. Slowly, I started making a bit more money, for commissions. I got good at people’s pets. They would come in, with sad or bright eyes, and show me pic after pic of their good boi, or their murder mittens, and leave all happy that I turned all those photos into a personal keepsake.

I wasn’t into side hustle, but the cash inflow was nice.

And I got better supplies. And my paintings got even better.

The funny one was being taken to a local strip bar, and me sitting there doing quick paintings for the performing girls. They paid me cash on the spot, and taking in all those singles the next morning for the prim tellers to count was funny. I hope they smelled like a dozen cheap colognes for weeks.

Then came the day when the painting wasn’t fat anymore, and was holding a baby.

I didn’t know how to feel. There was my ex’s hair, with my dimple on the cheek, and my eyes.

I looked happy, but very, very sad.

It didn’t last long. Not a few months later, baby was gone, and my face was old, and I had graying hair, and wrinkles.

I kept looking at myself in my bathroom mirror. No, I was still young, and working, and painting. A painting of the cutest corgi I’d ever met was half-done on my desk. I didn’t know how to feel about the other-me having a kid. I never wanted one, I mean, with my growing up, why would I want to? Didn’t trust that I even knew how to hold one, much less take care of it.

But I had a tidy sum in the bank, and solid honest work. I was thinking of getting into a place where I could have a dog. Why be a crazy cat person, when I could be different? Or maybe lizards. Something, you know? Why not?

And then came the day when the painting went black.

Other-me was gone.

What happened?

I had a guess, and I wasn’t happy about it.

There were rust-brown stains in the corner of the canvas, suspicious drip marks that my brush didn’t put there.

I thought I had left my old world behind. But I kept looking at the painting, so I guess not? I cracked a bit, and looked up the local news.

My ex looked great in handcuffs. Manslaughter, at least, but they were trying to go for harder charges, with all the documentation that the hospital shared. They were looking at checking out the baby, too, maybe they missed something.

I didn’t want to know how. I mean, if it was me, how did we keep separate bank accounts? What about my SSN? Wouldn’t that have shown up?

I gave up.

A week later, the black on the canvas was replaced by some peaceful scene, up a hill. It looked towards some mountains I remember, near my ex’s place. There was a pretty church up there, very historical, and a cemetery.

I guess I made the right choice.

I moved soon after, got a decent place to myself in a college town. There’s a co-op nearby, and they love when I come in with a stack of finished canvases. I keep them small, and affordable, and they sell well. I still have a regular job, too, and it’s not too bad, working at the college. I keep an eye out for people like me, and give them a bit of encouragement, and advice.

About painting. And life choices.

The painting? Still by my bed. The trees change color in the fall, and the blossoms are pretty come spring. In winter, sometimes I can see tracks in the snow. During rain, it’s like I added a fine misty gray to the scene.

It’s a good reminder of what could have been if I’d made the wrong choice.