A Newly Painted Canvas

It was just another day of wandering within my canvas, splotched with striking black ink, as Ronin Underwood, a high school student trying to escape that which haunts him. One day I stumbled upon a small cafe. I thought to myself it might provide some solace to my bleak existence, so I drag my legs to the door. The chime of the doorbell echoes as I swing it open with a lazy shove and time seems to slow and as I look to the counter I’m shocked to find that there isn’t a soul to be seen. The tables and chairs remain occupied by phantoms and the pastries in the display case still radiating heat. My vision goes blurry and in an instant, my head spins as the world starts to go dark. I think to myself, am I dying? What is going on? Is this the Danse Macabre I haven’t heard so cacophonous since the car accident that took away everything? The questions dissipate as the ink maelstrom overcomes my vision with swift, vehemence and the world becomes a void.

The void fades into a black and white scene on a highway. I’m in the backseat of a car and I realize I’m having that dream again. The one where I’m back in that car on that dreary, rainy day and the faint, ethereal outline of my mother, father, and older brother fill the other seats. It was at the apex of March’s rains when we set out on a road trip to Boston which lay a few hours south of our suburban house in Portland, Maine. The wipers battered the pattering raindrops and the joyous banter of my brother and father barely rises above the pelting rain’s murmur. Suddenly, like every other time, the dream ends with the blinding view of a semi’s headlights and the cacophonous crashing of metal on metal that BOOMS as the world goes red for but a second, and I am then thrown back into the lightless abyss that overcomes my being.

I’m awoken by a large shadow and as my eyes flutter in a panic and my body lurches upward with an overwhelming burst of life, the programmed puppet strings which held me in my limbo snap, causing the black and white to shift into a dazzling kaleidoscope of colors. One ending with a tapestry in which a bouquet of roses takes on a myriad of hues and are sat in a room of pure white. I shake my head as this sensation seems so familiar yet so distant. It has to be a dream. I thought I was embargoed from the chromatic existence of those who haven’t faced off with the inescapable maw of tragedy. My eyes well with tears once I realize it was indeed the many colors I have missed for so long that were devouring the entirety of my vision this very moment. As I come back to my senses I realize that the cafe I was in was actually an empty, abandoned space with nothing but a small black book in the center only visible by the spotlight of the moon. This book is surrounded by scattered petals making the onyx leather float like a galleon placed dead center in a sea of gemstones, forming an array of dazzling lights, which reflect the luster of twilight’s moon.

Intrigued, I stand up and reach out to this mysterious book; apprehension being overrun by pure curiosity. I grab it, flip open the cover, and my eyes beam with a mix of fear and excitement. The page has little more than five names and phone numbers written in bold black ink. I quickly flip through the rest of the book and find that every other page is blank. In my hunger, I decided that if I did not call these numbers that my mind would only overwhelm me with regret. For some odd reason I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off this little black notebook, but why is that? I can’t place the feeling, so I decide to call and find out what’s up with this enigmatic curio.

Upon dialing the number under the name Lyon I am met with the thundering sound of something pounding into a hardwood floor, with a periodic swooshing sound accompanying it. Alarmed by the weird nature of the sounds I hang up and go down the list to Aurelia’s number and all that sounds are the familiar strokes of a brush that stop me from stepping outside the precise lines of ink that seem to proliferate on my canvas. My heart skips a beat and my breath becomes staggered as terror swallows my thoughts. In need of something to cleanse this feeling, I move onto Enzo’s number, only to hear the coalescence of hysterical laughter and a soft, smooth voice singing. Each crescendo amplifying a painful ringing in my ear and my heartbeat goes from andante to allegro. I chuck my phone in a panic and scrunch up like a newborn experiencing a new world after floating in a void for so long. I exhale sharply and prepare to tackle the fourth number under Angelo. It provides my ears with a steady, beautiful sonata and the ringing subsides as the call continues. I take a deep breath and having calmed down I call the final number. However, I hear nothing but the plaintive, repetitive ring of a phone. Despite this, my eyes suddenly burn with the image of a distant garden filled with all sorts of roses: red, orange, white, yellow, violet, and those that were marbled. I then see a butler speaking to a girl with long black hair and kind brown eyes.

The image crumbles before my eyes, and an ambush of white light blinds me, and as color returns, I see a room of stark white, a vase hosting those prismatic roses, and a girl with long black hair, and kind brown eyes. She smiles and says, “Glad to see you’re awake, do you remember me?” I squint as deja vu slaps me in the face, but I can’t pinpoint how I knew her. I respond with a simple, “Sorry, but I don’t remember you.” Her eyes flash a brief sadness but then return to the kind, loving orbs that greeted me upon awakening. “Yes well, that is to be expected, but no matter. I’m Mei Underwood, your cousin.” I now seem to recall visiting my grandfather’s estate and seeing her there on occasion when I was younger. We would play kick the can with my older brother in the sea of roses. This memory manifests into a spontaneous interest as I ask, “How is Gramps doing?” Her face dawns a serious expression as she says, “I’m afraid he has been dead for almost a year now. That reminds me he left you a few things in his will.” A brief sadness washes over me, but it is soon quelled as if this wasn’t the first time I have heard this news. I tilt my head as I exclaim, “Really?” She laughs and says, “Of course you were his prized troublemaker after all.” I glare at her in a joking manner and she continues with, “He left you $20,000 to pay for any surgery you might have needed when you woke up and he also left you and I ownership of the estate, so you would have somewhere to live.” I respond with, “I see, but what do you mean by woke up and any surgery you might need?” She replies earnestly, “You were in a coma for a year and a half and woke up a few months ago, but you have been suffering from hallucinations and episodes of amnesia since then.” That explains the fuzzy memories and the weird phone calls, but not that black notebook. “Do you know about a little black notebook that has five phone numbers in it that I may have had with me?” She points to the nightstand and says, “Yes that’s it right there, it has some of your friend’s numbers and mine as well in the event you might need me or want to chat.” The pieces slowly fall into place and the puzzle that was once a muddled canvas is now filled in with the colorful pieces of my past with friends and family.

Mei adjusts herself in her seat and brings me back to reality by exclaiming, “Ronin, you haven’t been able to leave the hospital due to your condition and the surgery has a 95% success rate. If you want to do it, the paperwork has been all filled out except for your signature. So, do you want to get the surgery?” Still, in awe of hearing what has been my life for the last two years and the apprehension that builds at the thought of surgery, I realize there aren’t many other options and this could return me to a normal, enjoyable life. I could get to know the cousin that has never left my side through this journey, make more great memories with my friends, and choose to transcend my past and burgeon as a dazzling rose. Silence swallows the space and is broken by, “I’ll do it. I’ll get the surgery and move forward.” Mei replies with a lucid grin, “Alright, I’ll have the doctor work things out and bring you the consent form in a few hours. For now just rest, and I’ll see you in a bit.” I nod and as she walks out my head sinks into the pillows and my consciousness is swallowed in sleep’s maw.

My eyes creak open to the stark white ceiling and Mei’s face suddenly looms over me and while donning a huge cheesy smile she adds, “Here’s the form and a pen.” I take the form and the pen and in the same blank ink that painted my bleak past, I wrote a future in a sea of jewels. The next few hours were hectic and blurry as a doctor carts me to the operating room and the anesthetic floods my body. The last thing I remember is seeing Mei’s jet-black hair fade into the distance.

I awaken in the same stark white that I had only days before and again I’m met by Mei’s grand smile. This sight shoots a feeling of joy throughout my being and her words only justify this feeling: “You still need to rest for a few days, but you should be mostly recovered in a few weeks.” I’ve made it through it all. I’m almost back to that angelic euphoria.”

The score of time continues onward and as it reaches one of its many crescendos I open a door guarded by two Aurelian lions. It swings open and erupts with Spring’s sensuous scent and the golden, warm glow of the Sun cascading in from the stained glass tableau of Eden. Staring outside the riverside mansion’s window, I am become by the view of a turquoise delta, sparkling as if emblazoned with beautiful jewels. Suddenly I hear a soft rapping at the doorway and turn to see the resplendent smiles of Mei, Lyon, Aurelia, Enzo, and Angelo. In unison, they serenade me with, “Welcome home!” and a sense of clarity of washes over me as tears ease down my cheek as I choke out, “Glad to be back.” My mind is flooded with all the vibrant colors that stand before me. My life is a diamond born from rot and now I can shine even brighter than before and with a smile on my face.