Chapter 13
The moonlight casts a pale glow through the curtains, illuminating the room with a ghostly hue. Shadows dance across the walls, mimicking the
tumultuous whirlwind of my thoughts. The weight of Margaret”s words presses upon me like an invisible burden, suffocating the remnants of confidence
that still cling desperately to my soul.
The silence of the night is broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. I close my eyes, seeking refuge from the tormenting whispers that
linger in the air. But even in the darkness behind my eyelids, the haunting echo of her voice reverberates, a constant reminder of my inadequacies.
Minutes bleed into hours as I lie there, caught in the grip of my own self-doubt. The tears flow freely, tracing a path down my cheeks, each one betraying
the heaviness in my heart. They soak into the fabric of my pillow, mingling with the anguish that stains my soul.
Morning arrives, and the sun timidly peeks through the window, casting gentle rays of light upon the room. But there is no warmth in its golden embrace. Instead, dawn only serves to highlight the cracks in my fragile fa?ade.
I rise from the bed with a heavy heart, my footsteps tentative as I make my way through the house. The atmosphere is charged with an unspoken tension,
like a taut wire ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The air hangs heavy, pregnant with unexpressed frustrations.
As I enter the kitchen, the clink of dishes and the aroma of brewing coffee assault my senses. But even the familiar comforts fail to ease the restlessness
within me. Every sound grates against my senses, setting my teeth on edge. I struggle to find my footing amidst the storm raging inside, my emotions threatening to spill over like an overflowing dam.
Jackson approaches me, his brows furrowed with concern, his eyes searching for a connection. His lips curl into a gentle smile, a feeble attempt to quell the storm in my heart.
”Good morning, Maya,” he says, his voice a soft melody in the midst of my internal chaos. ”Did you sleep well?”
I scoff, unable to mask the bitterness that coats my words. ”Sleep well? How can anyone sleep well with the weight of the world on their shoulders?”
His smile falters, but he presses on, determined to break through the fortress of my anguish. ”I know you”re going through a difficult time, Maya. But we”re in this together. Let”s try to support each other.”
The words, meant to offer solace, only fuel my frustrations. I glare at him, my voice dripping with resentment. ”Support? That”s easy for you to say, you
have been dealing with Margaret for years. You know her and know what to expect. I am sorry Jackson; I am not used to being treated this way and think
it is so unfair. She has not given me a chance to prove that I can love you and Henry.”
Jackson”s eyes widen, hurt etching lines on his face. ”Maya, I”m trying my best here. I want to help you, but you”re pushing me away.”
”Well, maybe I wouldn”t have to push if you were actually listening,” I retort, my voice sharp enough to cut through the fragile silence. ”I am not trying to push you away, that is the last thing I want to do, but Margaret’s voice keeps ringing in my ears”.
His shoulders slump, defeated. ”I”m sorry if I can”t fully comprehend your pain, but I”m here for you, Maya. We”re a team, remember?”
His words chafe me further, and all I want is to get him out of my sight. But before I can leave, Henry enters the room all set for school, his innocent eyes brimming with joy.
I look at him, my patience already worn thin, and find myself unable to see past the haze of my own frustrations. He spills a glass of milk as he rushes forward to greet me.
”Henry, you have to be more careful and pay attention to what you are doing” I snap, my voice sharp and cutting, the sting of my words aimed directly at his tender heart.
His bottom lip trembles tears well up in his eyes, and my heart splinters into a thousand pieces. Guilt washes over me, drowning out the anger that fueled my outburst.
”Oh, Henry, I”m so sorry,” I whisper, moving closer to him. ”I didn”t mean to snap at you. It”s not your fault. Please forgive me.” I reach out to him, desperate to undo the damage I”ve caused, but he recoils, retreating into a corner where the pain of my words cannot reach him.
”I did not mean to spill it,
Maya. Why are you being so mean to me” he whispers, his voice fragile and filled with hurt.
”Maya, what”s gotten into you?” Jackson”s voice carries a mixture of concern and anger. He glances at me, his eyes searching mine for answers.
I clench my fists, trying to rein in my emotions, but they slip through my grasp like sand. ”I don”t know, Jackson!” I yell.
Jackson takes one look at me and turns away with Henry holding firmly to his hand. I grip the edge of the working top and sigh. What have I done? Three
drops of tears fall to the surface and just then, I hear the front door slam shut. Jackson and Henry left for work and school respectively. I feel so guilty for
how I reacted this morning, but I was feeling so overwhelmed with all the different emotions plaguing me. Margaret’s words only magnified the feelings
of inadequacy that have consumed me since moving in with Jackson.
With Jackson and Henry’s departure, the house falls into a deafening silence. The emptiness envelops me, amplifying the turmoil within. I crumble to the
floor, my tears flowing like a torrential downpour, releasing the pent-up frustration and anguish that have consumed me.
Just when I feel like I”m drowning in my sea of despair, my phone rings. I reach for it, my trembling fingers grasping the device as if it holds the answers to
the turmoil in my soul. The caller ID reveals the name ”James,” my trusted art dealer. With a mix of anticipation and trepidation, I take a deep breath and
answer the call.
”Hello, James,” I say, my voice betraying the fragility within me. ”What”s the news?”
There is a momentary pause and when James finally speaks, his voice is laced with disappointment. ”Maya, I hate to tell you this, but your recent
paintings... they haven”t been selling as we had hoped. The response from buyers has been lackluster, and I”m afraid we won”t be able to proceed with
the exhibition we planned.”
A surge of frustration and helplessness rises within me, threatening to engulf me entirely. I clench my free hand into a fist, my knuckles turning white as I
struggle to find the right words. ”But... but I poured my heart and soul into those paintings,” I manage to choke out, my voice quivering with raw emotion.
”I thought they had something special, something that would resonate with people.”
James sighs, his tone sympathetic yet tinged with resignation. ”I know, Maya. Your passion and talent are undeniable. But art is subjective, and sometimes even the most brilliant creations can go unnoticed. It”s a tough industry, and success doesn”t come easily.”
The tears, momentarily abated, return with a vengeance. The news strikes me like a blow to the gut, intensifying the turmoil within me. I slump against the wall, defeated and drained. Is there no end to this cascade of disappointments?
”I don”t know what to do,” I whisper brokenly, my voice barely audible. ”I”ve put everything into my art, and now it feels like it”s all for nothing. I really looked forward to this exhibition.”
There is a softness in James” voice as he responds, his words a lifeline in the darkness. ”Maya, this setback doesn”t define you as an artist. It”s a
momentary setback, a chance to regroup and find new inspiration. Take the time you need to heal and rediscover your creative spirit. Remember, true
artists endure and rise above the challenges they face.”
His words only aggravate my mind’s agitation. As I end the call, I find myself adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I feel as if the ground beneath me has
crumbled, leaving me suspended in an abyss of uncertainty. Frustrated and sad, I walk into the kitchen wondering how I can recover from this setback. I
take a deep breath and reach under the cabinet to grab dish liquid and notice tucked away in the corner a half-bottle of alcohol.
As I reached for the bottle, I noticed behind the bottle were multiple bottles of open alcohol, some with dust on them and some without. I know Jackson
does not drink a lot, at least he does not when we are together, and begin to wonder if these bottles belong to his deceased wife. I began to look under
more cabinets and there were hidden open whisky bottles all over the house, even the bathroom. This is very unsettling for me and makes no sense, I
could not help but wonder “Why are these bottles all over the house, and what if Henry were to find them?”
I angrily started snatching every bottle and placed them on the kitchen counter, wanting an explanation from Jackson and consolation within. The day
seemed like a fog, and I spent the day absorbed in movies and an old novel I read previously, lacking the motivation to paint or do anything productive.