The paint is cold beneath my fingers.
It doesn’t bother me-I am always cold anyways. The paint swirls across the canvas, spreading the inky black across the pure, sterile white. Except for a slim, pale hand. It is clothed in gauzy black. That was the hardest part, making the arm visible while still making it appear to be covered. There is no light. There is no white, except for that small hand. It is all blacks, and grays, and blues. My standard palette these days. Van Gogh would be proud, if he were not dead. Art is the only thing keeping me here, the swirls of paint and the dust of chalk. I used to be outgoing. I used to sing, and write. I used to act. All the arts were my friend. But slowly and surely, I stopped caring. This is the one thing I will always have. This is the only way to express myself. Words fail, and senses dim with twilight, throats clogged with emotion. But the canvas is always waiting, its bright white challenging me to cover it, to paint a scene to fit my emotions. I don’t let anyone see them, of course. It would be too personal, and they would ask too many questions. I wipe my hands on my old shirt, then leave the canvas to shower.
“Elle, is that you?” My mother calls.
“No.” I reply, sarcasm dripping my voice.
“Sarcastic b****. Don’t take too long, I need one.” Obviously. I can smell you from here. I don’t voice these thoughts, though. I never do. Instead, I grab a towel and walk to the bathroom.
Here, in the shower, I don’t have to pretend. The warm water soothes the angry bruise on my legs-I’m such a klutz, when did that happen?- and sends black and blue spiraling into the drain, from my hands and hair. I’ve never been the neatest painter. A clump of hair lands in the bottom of the shower. That’s happened a lot, lately. My hair’s falling out-but I’m not complaining. It’s always been too thick for my tastes, anyway. Why does it matter? Why should I care what I look like anyway? I don’t have anyone who looks at me. I probably don’t have much more life left anyways. What is life? Why am I here? I have no purpose, no...no anything. Nothing but pain and paint. I sigh, turn off the shower, and wrap myself in the old, ratty towel. I always find myself contemplating lifes meaning instead of shampooing. I hurry to my bedroom, because I can hear my mother coming up the stairs. I close my door, and walk over to my bureau. Sweatpants and a T-shirt it is...
I skip breakfast that day. And lunch. ‘Not hungry’ I tell mom. She buys it. I throw up after dinner. ‘Sick’ I tell her when she sees. She buys it again, and attributes my not hungry excuse to nausea, which I am quick to agree with. Good news-I’m not going to school tomorrow. She works in the day. When I see her car drive off, I jump out of bed and walk out. The day is nice-too nice for comfort. Here in Maine, you can count on cold temperatures and miserable skies. But the sky is a lake, the sun an inferno, and the day is warm as summer. I’d rather have the rain. I like the coolness against my skin. And so much is inspired by rain. The dripping patterns down my window, tears of the sky. I look down at the pavement. The beauty of the day makes me wish I’d stayed inside. I am the furthest thing from belonging here, where everything is light and beauty. Just a blight on this otherwise perfect afternoon. This perfect day that reminds me so much of another...

There was a small flower growing out of a crack in the pavement. I was looking at the flower, wondering how it pushed itself up through that crack, when I hit a wall of flesh and muscle. A very apologetic wall of flesh and muscle.
“Sorry! I’m really, really sorry! God, I’m such a klutz. Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine!” I laughed. “Don’t worry about it.” He reached out a hand to help me up. After a moment, I hesitantly placed my hand in his, and he pulled me to my feet. He was taller than me, but looked to be about my age. My hand tingled from the warmth of his hand on mine. It was not an unpleasant feeling, but I still pulled my hand from his quickly. Seeing my scraped palms, he sighed.
“Jeez. I really am sorry.” I shook my head.
“It’s fine. Seriously.”
“Well...the least I can do is buy you an ice cream.” He said, looking at the shop next to us. “It’s at least seventy degrees out here.” I wanted to say no, but those big blue eyes were so innocent, so trustworthy. I found myself nodding my head.
“Alright.” He grabbed my hand again, and pulled me inside the shop.
“Come on! I’m Lucas, by the way. Luke.”
“Elle. Nice to meet you.”

And now I am walking down that street again, only this time he is gone and there is a gaping hole inside me and there is our favorite ice cream shop and I remember that first day so clearly and all I want to do is cry. But I can’t cry here, in the middle of a crowded street. So I turn and run home as fast as I can. There, I jump into bed, and hide myself under mounds of cover. I am fine. I can do this. I am fine. It’s been so long since somebody actually touched me. Not even in a romantic, or sexual way. Just...just letting me know I am real. Of course, there were the accidental things-brushing against someone in the hallway, touching hands when someone handed me something. But he deliberately touched me. Ruffling and playing with my hair. Reaching out to touch my hand, and cover it with his. Smoothing my hair back from my forehead. It’s little things like that that I remember most.Slowly, all emotions ebb away until I am numb again. I close my eyes. I have a pounding headache.

Dark. Everything is dark, so dark. Where am I? I hear a cry from the left. It’s a little girl. She is crying, and running. Suddenly, she trips and I get a good look at her face. It’s me, when I was younger. She is me. She has blood on the hem of her dress.
“Please help me.” She whispers. “Please.” I start walking, but no matter how fast I walk, she always stays the same distance away. “Help me.” She keeps whispering. “Please.” Just then, the floor opens up beneath my feet.
I jolt awake. I am covered in a sheen of sweat, but I shiver all the same. My damp hair sticks to the back of my neck. I quickly pull it into a ponytail. I must have been asleep when mom got home. The clock on my phone reads 2:43 in the morning. The nightmare must have been the last of a series of dreams. Shaken, I curl up onto a tight ball, pulling my covers over my head. Under here, I feel protected. It is warm, and comfortable. But soon the warmth becomes suffocating, and I have to yank the blankets off my head.  Eventually, I fall back asleep. This time I dream of Lucas. We are riding bikes down an endless dirt road, laughing and talking excitedly. I almost cry when I wake in the morning. But of course, I never cry. It’s the weekend, so I don’t need to pretend to be sick anymore. I can’t bear being in my house, the rain is falling lightly outside and I feel as though I am burning. Perhaps I did have a fever. My mother takes no notice when I leave. She’s probably still asleep, as it’s only six in the morning. I am wearing a coat, but I soon shed it to let the rain drench me. I close my eyes, and play a little game I used to love, where I imagine the rain is magic. It washes away every imperfection, every scar, every flaw, until I am finally perfect. Of course, when I open my eyes, I am still the small, scraggly haired, too pale girl who can’t walk without tripping over her own feet. I keep walking through the trees, until I reach it. The pond, with the rope swing on the oak, and the weeping willow. I haven’t been here since...since a long time ago. My breath catches in my throat, but I press on. The rain has let up a bit, so I take off my shoes and dip my feet into the pond. Trying not to think, or remember, I close my eyes and press my back against the willow. Of course, this place is too full of memories for me now, and I was a fool to think I could come here without one resurfacing.

“Pass me the board.” Luke said. I picked it up, handing it to him.
“Are you sure that will hold our weight?” I asked. He rolled his eyes.
“My god, Elle, don’t worry about it! You’re a twig!” He laughed, poking me in the stomach. I giggled, squirming away.
“Yeah. but you’re not!” He put his hand to his chest.
“Ouch! That was uncalled for!” I laughed, and punched his shoulder lightly.
“You know it’s true.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He finished knotting the rope, and stood up.
“Okay, try it!”
“Are you sure? I mean, since you built it-I figured maybe you would want the honor?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He replied, rolling his eyes. “Stop being a wuss and get on the swing.” I hesitantly sat down on the swing. I felt Lucas’s strong hands on my back-and then I was flying. The wind rushed over my face and my hair blew our behind me. For a moment, I was suspended in air, weightless. Then gravity brought me rushing down to earth again, my bare feet brushing the dirt beneath the tree. I laughed, exhilarated.
“This is so much fun! You have to try it, Luke!” He brought the swing to a stop, and I hopped off.
“Come on, up you go.” We took turns doing this until the sky was purple and the fireflies danced in the grass. I twirled the whole way up the path, hair blowing all around. Lucas was staring at me strangely.
“What?” I asked, feeling self-conscious.
“Oh, sorry. You’re just really pretty...pretty silly!” I rolled my eyes. He rolled his back, and bent down for a second. When he came back up, his hand was glowing. No, not his hand, something in it. A firefly. He placed it in my hands, and my skin tingled where our hands touched. The firefly soon flew away, but he remained with his hands touching mine. His face was illuminated by fireflies and moonlight, giving it an unearthly glow. Suddenly, my phone beeped, breaking the moment. I rolled my eyes and withdrew my hands, fumbling for it. It was a text from my mother.
“Ugh. It’s my mother. She wants me inside Right! Now!” He chuckled a little.
“Alright. See you tomorrow?”
“Of course.” He smiled, and in that moment, I wanted to kiss him so much it hurt. But I didn’t. I just walked back home.

I daren’t open my eyes. After that, how can I look at the swing, the pond, the path? The memories are everywhere, no matter how I try to avoid them. Eventually, I gather all my broken pieces, and tell myself the usual lies-It’s fine, It’s just a memory, this ache in your chest will go away soon.
My mother doesn’t notice me come in either. She’s probably in her room, with her boyfriend. I don’t even want to bother checking, as who knows what I’d hear? So I trudge up the stairs, leaving wet footprints on the lush carpet-I’ll hear about that later. But just now, I can’t bring myself to care. I’m tired, so tired, even though I just slept for almost fifteen hours. I plug my headphones into my phone and fall asleep with my spotify playlist at full volume.

When I wake a few hours later, I feel refreshed. I jump out of bed energetically. I’m not fooled into thinking that this is good at all-this temporary spurt of energy will only leave me more tired in the end. But I can paint now. I quickly set out my paints and get to work. But within seconds I can tell-for the first time in my life, I have no idea what to paint. So I close my eyes for a moment and let my hand decide. I am soon caught up in my usual trance, and hardly notice what I am drawing, until the sketch is finished. Then I sit back-and feel the old ache in my chest. Because it is him. His scruffy hair brushing his eyebrows, that c***y grin that I always wanted to either kiss or slap off-depending on my mood. My heart races as my eyes take in the features of the face that always haunts the back of my mind, in every thought, waking or not. The lump in my throat only grows bigger.

“You really drew all these?” Luke asked, incredulous. I smiled.
“Uh, yeah. You like them?”
“I love them!” I blushed, and suddenly he struck a ridiculously provocative pose.
“Elle...paint me like one of your french girls.” I had to sit down because I couldn’t breathe for laughing.I close my eyes, and throw the sheet over my easel. Then I go back to my bed. I watch TV for the rest of the night, until I finally drift back off to sleep.

I was swinging, going higher and higher. Luke’s hands were strong behind my back. Suddenly, I was falling. I had slid right off the swing, to land in the peaceful pond. I came up spluttering and gasping. Luke was immediately at the water's edge.
“My god, Elle! Are you okay?” I nodded slowly. He reached out a hand to help me out. I accepted it, then dragged him in with me. He came up laughing, and splashed me.
“Biatch!”
“You know you love me!” I splashed him again, then started swimming away as fast as I could, feeling wonderfully free in my loose clothes. He finally caught up to me, grabbing me. I laughed, and his grip tightened as he started laughing too. The laugh died in my throat as I met his gaze. It was intense and burning, and I found myself wondering how I never noticed.
“I love you.” He whispered. And everything was happening so fast but somehow perfectly and the crooked pieces of the jigsaw that is my life were finally beginning to fit together as I whispered what I had known for so long.
“I love you too.” Acting on impulse, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.

I wake up gasping for breath. My lips tingle, remembering the feeling of his.  I wrap my arms around myself, fighting to keep the jagged pieces of what is left of me together.But it is useless now, to try and fight back the memories. The floodgate has been opened.

The ice cream he bought me, that first day. It was strawberry.
He always took three sugars in his coffee.
He loved me.
He’s never coming back.
He’s dead. HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD HE’S DEAD AND HE’S NEVER COMING BACK.

It’s always so dramatic in movies. But that wasn’t how it was in real life. It was a normal day, and I was in my room reading, when my mom yelled to me. Something in her tone, frantic and urgent, made me sprint all the way down the stairs.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, out of breath and scared out of my mind.
“Oh, Elle! It’s Lucas. He’s in the hospital.

I grab my drawing of him and blindly run out of the house.
He was in a coma for nearly two days. I was by his bedside the whole time, saying nonsense things.
“I painted a really cool picture today.”
“My mom is worried sick, which is weird because she’s not even close to you.”
“I miss you, Lukie. Please...please come back.”

The thorns pierce my bare feet as I race down the path, the jagged hole in my chest growing larger by the second.

The second day, his heart machine flatlined. I didn’t cry. I didn’t do anything. I stayed in my room and read, and didn’t even go to his funeral.

I’m struggling for breath now, and tears are running down my cheeks in rivers, for the first time since he left. Finally, I reach the pond. I pick up the painting, and start ripping it.
“I hate you!” I scream. There is no answer but my own echo. “I hate you! Why did you leave? Why did you do this to me? How could you leave me behind like this! I HATE YOU!” THe picture is torn to shreds. I throw them in the river, and sink to my knees. “I love you, Lukie.” Chocolate Ice Cream was his favorite. “Please. Please come back to me. I love you sososo much and I don’t know how to breathe now that you’re gone.” But my only answer is the wind, calling its lonely call. He loved me, and now he’s gone. And suddenly, I know what I have to do. I stand up, my legs shaking, and walk towards the pond. I stand poised at the edge, on tiptoe, arms spread. He loved to swim.
“Goodbye. I’m coming, Luke.” I whisper, before I plummet into the water.