Chapter 31
Lanston
“Lanston,dear. It’s time for school.” My mother called from the living room of our small, shitty house. It’s the first day of my junior year in high school.
I grabbed my secret stash of art brushes, charcoal pencils, and drawing notebooks that I secretly bought over the summer. It was dangerous to take this risk, knowing how much my father despised my attraction to artistic things. But he should be asleep already. The night shift always wears him out well before dawn.
My mom knocked gently on my door and peeked in. “Are you almost ready?” she asked kindly. I nodded. Relieved that I could finally go back to school after a long summer stuck at home. School was the only place I could escape this life of constant fear and uncertainty.
My smile was short-lived, as my father loomed ominously behind my mom. Her smile was weak and feigned happiness. I would feel betrayed, but this wasn’t the first time she’d smiled while he cornered me.
“Good morning, sir,” I said as I kept my eyes low and out of his cold sight.
“Lanston, what’s the last class on your schedule?” He held up a folded piece of paper with a list of my classes. My heart sank. I knew he was talking about the art class. It must’ve been mailed. “Well?” he pried.
I tried to think of anything that would take the blame off of me, even though it’s an extracurricular that I purposefully signed up for. “Everyone has to take an art class.” I lied.
His scowl grew, but it was left at that.
My mom kept her fake smile glued to her face as she dropped me off at school.
A breath of relief flowed through my lungs as I stepped onto the front lawn. Cement steps led up to the school building and many students swarmed in groups with their friends.
I pulled the sleeves of my sweater down into my palms, keeping the scars of the summer tucked away.
This year, I would want to live. I made a small promise to myself.
The day went quickly. New faces, old faces, homework. People were friendly and that was something I really missed.
Art class was held outside. It was a nice, sunny September day, but the warm weather was limited, so the teacher encouraged everyone to enjoy it as much as they could. I drew a tree—tall and entirely black and lifeless. Beneath the earth were bones instead of dirt.
I thought of death a lot.
Something about it lured me, the sadness perhaps, or maybe it was the comfort it brought me. It was something undeniable. Something we all face together in the end. No one is the exception.
“Nevers, may I see what you’ve conjured up today?” Mrs. Bensen asked curiously. She was older, mid-sixties, and probably close to retiring. Her smile was bright and filled with kindness. Still, I hesitated. My drawings were always perceived with bad thoughts.
People just thought I was strange, and I was. But it didn’t make me bad, did it?
I showed Mrs. Bensen the picture and she examined it carefully for a few minutes. The wrinkles around her eyes grew with a grin. Then she handed it back to me. I awaited her feedback. For some reason, it felt important. Whatever she had to say, I wanted to hear it.
“You have great talent, Nevers. Your use of multiple forms of shading is impressive, and it’s a creative take on the tree assigned,” she said kindly.
It confused me for a moment. Surely, she didn’t actually think it was good. But her smile was true and the light in her wise eyes comforted me.
“You don’t think it’s wicked?” I asked quietly, looking from side to side to ensure no one overheard us. Mrs. Bensen chuckled softly and patted me on the shoulder.
“My sweet boy, a majority of the world’s most treasured artists are of similar mind to you. Dark and dreadful things fill their heads. But isn’t that what attracts us to them? They are different and stand out. I would rather see a dark, twisted perspective on something than the same old tree over and over.” She motioned her hand to the students behind her.
They were all drawing the tree as it was, an exact replica. Green and alive, filled with leaves and sunlight. Mine was the only tortured one.
“You are unique.”
A stupid grin was planted on my face for the rest of the afternoon. I was unique? I’d never thought that before. I replayed her words over and over in my head on the car ride home. Feeling the inspiration to draw and take my passion to the next level.
Is this what it felt like for someone to believe in you?
I’d never known. But my chest was lighter than it’d ever been; hope and dreams filled my mind.
When we pulled up to the house, I thanked my mom for picking me up from school. Usually, I had to walk home, but she was actually on time today. I couldn’t wait to drive myself soon.
I headed inside and went straight to my room with the intention of grabbing my extra notebooks and pencils and heading to the library so I could draw in peace. The door creaked as I shoved it with my shoulder and my breath caught in my lungs as I saw my father sitting at the edge of my bed, flipping through the artwork I’d hidden all summer.
My eyes widened and fear flooded me.
“What the fuck is this?” he asked quietly, dangerously. When I didn’t respond, he shouted, “What the fuck is this, Lanston!” He slammed the notebook on the floor and stood abruptly. I flinched and started to backtrack into the hallway.
Words evaded me. Nothing I could’ve said would calm him.
“I told you I don’t want you drawing this shit! Get the fuck out of my house, you worthless boy.” He swung a punch at my face. I leaned back to avoid it and fell backward against the hallway wall, knocking picture frames to the ground as I scrambled to get up quickly.
He kicked me in my ribs and I muffled the groan of pain. I staggered to my feet and ran through the shithole of a house, gasping, crying, clenching my teeth so hard I tasted blood.
My mom’s eyes widened as I flew past her. I knew she wouldn’t say anything; she never did.
I dared a glance back as I reached the end of our driveway and saw the two of them staring at me like I was a disappointment. Something that embarrassed them. Something that the neighbors should shake their heads at. Their frowns were heavy with disdain and weariness.
They were sick of me.
But what did I do wrong? What did I do?
I ran until I reached the library, making sure to pull my hood up so no one saw my puffy eyes. The bottom floor was always vacant, and today was no different. The desk in the corner was dark, and I decided that I would stay there for as long as I could.
There I remained, curled under the particle board with my backpack tucked tightly between my chest and thighs.
I cried loudly. Uncaring. The sobs filled the dark room, and no one heard the words I said.
No one heard me.
“I want to die.”
Waves echo somewhere distant. Crashing on the sand and sounding angrier than I’ve ever heard the sea.
My eyes open dreadfully. Why did I dream of them? I shake my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts of the horrors of my past.
A shudder runs down my spine and I blink a few times as I try to remember where I am. Sand is cold beneath my fingertips and the sky is bright with clouds separating above. It comes to me like a freight train. Those Who Whisper, the darkness, my rose running away.
Ophelia.