Phantom

Chapter 1

The tang of corroded metal floods my tongue, reminding me just how fragile humans truly are.

Usually, when morose thoughts like these invade my mind, I’m lying on my bedroom floor, staring cross-eyed up at the ceiling, experiencing a full-blown existential crisis about something that is never that serious––not choking on a mouthful of paint.

A jolt down my spine sends me leaping to stand; the chair I’d been sitting in tumbles to the ground with a sharp thwack against the hardwood.

Throwing my paintbrush on the palette, I sputter as my throat constricts against the nauseating bite of pigments and additives.

Wordlessly, I dash from my bedroom and run down the hall.

It’s not until I skid into the bathroom that I remember my phone. It’s still recording. I catch my concerningly pale reflection in the mirror and glare daggers at myself. Idiot.

My throat spasms with a gag, ripping my attention away as I lurch toward the sink.

Thrusting the water on with much more force than necessary, I hurry to rinse out my mouth.

After a few careful swishes, the sour taste is gone and my nausea subsides, but a foul prickling sensation lingers on my tongue.

Once more, for good measure, I spit before turning the faucet off.

I’m an absolute, bona fide idiot.

Of course I would splatter paint in my mouth while livestreaming for the whole damn world to see.

Thankfully, I was using acrylic paint, so no risk of it being toxic.

Just nasty as hell. But there’s also little reason to worry about the livestream, I remind myself.

Chances are no one saw. No one of consequence ever does.

I’m not exactly what one would describe as ‘successful’ on social media.

‘Might-as-well-be-invisible’ is more accurate.

Sighing, I wipe my mouth with the only part of my hand that’s paint-free and drag my feet as I meander back to my bedroom.

Willing the heat in my cheeks to recede, I grab my phone off its stand and cancel the livestream.

The analytics pop up immediately, informing me, yet again, of just how lame I am.

Only one person watched my stream. Better than last time, I note, remembering that my livestream from yesterday had a whopping zero views.

Though, as I go to swipe out of the app, something catches my eye.

Three hours.

The person who viewed my livestream watched me paint for three hours.

A swarm of nervous bees rouses my stomach once more.

I don’t believe it. User4372957382 thought I was interesting enough to watch for three whole hours?

The thought sounds more like a question than a statement in my head, but there’s no denying the data on my screen.

The corners of my mouth twitch as I lock my phone.

Slowly, I stretch, reaching my hands over my head and bending from side to side.

The coiled muscles in my side twinge until I heave a deep, intentional breath.

Gratefully, a sliver of the never-ending tension that twists my muscles into pretzels melts away, leaving me feeling marginally better than I had a moment before.

When my arms drop to hang at my sides and I turn toward the canvas, the buzzing of the bees has assuaged.

A small success worth celebrating, even if it’s only temporary.

Stunning shades of violet, ocher, and magenta meet my eyes.

Every Saturday morning for the last month, I’ve been rising before the sun for a sunrise painting series I’ve been livestreaming on social media.

I cock my head to the left, assessing my work.

This is my best rendition yet, for sure, but it’s still missing something.

I cross my arms and stand before the easel for several moments, considering the painting. Warm, golden light cascades through my bedroom window, illuminating the canvas.

Perhaps it’s the colors I chose, or the texture from the brush strokes.

No, I realize as I take a few steps closer and squint, I think it’s the emotion behind the piece.

The navy splatters I chose to add at the last minute—the ones I ended up choking on—illustrating the last wisps of night blinking out of existence, add too much conflict to the piece.

Am I glad that morning has come? Or am I sad that night is ending?

Looking at this painting I can’t tell, and that’s the problem.

I yank my worn wooden palette and paintbrushes from the corner of my desk and walk out of my room again.

I descend two sets of creaking staircases to the basement and watch as the leftover paint washes down the drain of the utility sink.

My teeth grind together as the last of the murky beige water slips from view.

Destined for the sewers. Just like my dreams.

As I head back up the stairs, the buttery, overly sweet scent of pancakes invades my senses. My stomach growls in response, but I ignore it, instead choosing to stalk past the kitchen and ascend the next set of stairs. I’m halfway up when Mom’s voice reaches my ears.

“Maeve Adelyn, you’re not skipping breakfast again today. I expect you to be back down here in ten.”

I roll my eyes before responding, “Okay.”

Back in my room, I upright the chipped wooden stool that had fallen over and place the clean palette and brushes atop the seat before toeing it back toward the easel.

Unzipping my favorite long-sleeve coveralls, I step out of the sunny yellow cloth before hanging it on a hook behind the door.

I wander back to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.

Roughly, I rip the hair tie from the messy bun I’d left in overnight and brush through my frizzy, thoroughly crinkled hair.

I wince at the sharp tug against my scalp as I work on a particularly stubborn tangle.

In the mirror, my wide, round eyes fill with unshed tears. The moisture catches on a border of thick brown lashes but refuses to fall. Swallowing hard against the knot in my throat, I force my gaze away.

I always get emotional on Saturdays in the fall. It’s become something of a routine for me. Wake up, eat breakfast, drive two hours to Chicago, eat lunch, watch a football game, see my brother, eat dinner, drive two hours back, and feel like shit. Every single Saturday there’s a home game.

I used to love autumn, and I never used to mind football, but now I hate them both.

As quickly as I can, I return to my room and go through the motions of painting my face with makeup.

It’s not the kind of painting I prefer. And when I’m done—eyes shadowed and lashes lengthened—I pull my hair into two high ponytails on either side of my head, then braid, twirl, and pin them into buns.

The plaited twists look perky, like miniature Mickey Mouse ears at the crown of my head.

Good. I don’t want anyone thinking differently.

I want them to see a content young woman excitedly cheering on her older brother with her big, happy family.

I throw on a pair of boyfriend-cut blue jeans, cheap Doc Martens look-alikes, and a too-large Northwestern University football jersey with our surname and my brother’s number on the back. After one final look in the mirror, I gallop down the stairs to the dining room.

Dad and my younger brother, Gideon, are already seated at the table, engaged in a heated thumb war match while they wait for Mom.

“Good morning, darling,” Dad says, looking over Gideon’s shoulder at me. His bright green eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

“Morning,” I reply with a forced smile of my own as I take a seat across from them.

The table is already set and loaded with an assortment of breakfast foods.

I wince at the sight of a plate of steaming bacon and attempt to ignore the familiar clench of guilt in my chest. I’m the only vegetarian member of my family, and it’s impossible not to resent the emotional hoops I have to jump through to pretend that it doesn’t bother me.

Gideon claims my attention with a high-pitched squeal of victory as Dad lets him pin down his thumb and win their game.

He’s six, so he loves this type of stuff.

I smile again, real this time, as he punches at the air with two small fists.

“I win!” he exclaims just as Mom enters the room with my little sister, Everly, in tow.

Her dark brown hair is still damp and dripping from her morning bath, but she’s fully dressed and reaches for the chair with her booster seat to my left.

I laugh as I bend down to help her up and buckle her in.

She’s three and a half. You can’t forget to add the half, or she’ll have a meltdown.

It’d be cute if her meltdowns weren’t apocalyptic.

“Dig in, everybody,” Dad announces as he pulls the rapidly cooling slices of pig toward him.

I shake my head and suppress a fresh wave of nausea as I reach for a bowl of yogurt and fresh fruit. I can never quite eat my fill on Saturdays; the anxiety gets in the way.

As I eat silently among the rowdy chaos that is my family, my thoughts drift back to the painting in my room. My mind’s eye becomes a riot of color, and for a single blessed moment, I forget it’s Saturday.