Blood was no substitute for the scarlet-crimson color of paint I would customarily stroke to give her dark chocolate skin a contrasting flowy dress that exuded mystery. My body paralyzed from the instant recede after feeling warm flesh for the first time. Broad, considerably piercing brown eyes looked past me, causing confusion in my barely undeveloped frontal lobe. No one had ever looked directly at me, ever. I chose not to confide there could be more than a phantom to see, and to that tenet, there was not.
I reached for my paintbrush and began to swirl the bristles into the dark, thick globs that were carelessly nestled in a bright red liquid, mixing the two different consistencies into one solution. Without regard for symmetry or concern for beauty, I aimlessly decorated the drudged canvas with paint splatters. Feeling deprived of a talent I once performed daily, the inchoate piece would be my last. Unlike times in the past when I couldn’t paint only the pain of my beloved, now I couldn’t paint my beloved at all.
Thoughts of Nina circled my encephalon like static electricity on a balloon, which oddly enough gave me a sense of normalcy with its positive and negative circumstances. How would I explain this tragedy in such a way that would alleviate the grief of one, not two, deaths? If they were harmoniously meant to be, why now was I able to receive touch on my pale, freckled skin?
I have never felt my brush in my hand. Just as I do not now, either. That is okay. I still feel her. She is my art.
The doctor spoke to me with words that sounded as futile as my last painting. “Nina didn’t make it.”
Who is he talking to? Surely not me, I’m not here.
***
The previous day, I’d spent hours outlining the streets, the light posts, the people, the ornamental décor of each building to surround her. After all, she was in Prague – a city so brilliant that only she could enhance its beauty. Each movement of my brush over the penciled etching gave me hope that it would be her day to fulfil her dream of joining the Dance Theater of Harlem. Nina was never interested in the cliché Paris or New York City ballet companies, she wanted to thrive on a lesser known but grander stage.
It was time to paint her into the center of that brick lined street, with her white flowing dress embellished with hardly off-white beading just beneath her perfect diaphragm. I always loved when I dressed her in white, she blossomed like a tiny bud into a splendid, fully bloomed flower. The kind of flower that may live in a garden with other flowers but stood out way above the others, so it was the first – and only flower – one noticed.
***
My Nina had unmistakable honey chocolate skin that reflected specks of hazelnut gold even in the dark, that’s how lovely her tone gleamed. When you saw her earthly presence, it was a pure reflection of the balanced intention she boasted from the inside. Never without purpose, she carried herself through life with ease and grace that I spent hours a day varnishing.
At times, she would solemnly and solitarily look around a room, and I felt as if she just knew I was there with her. But how? She didn’t know me. She didn’t know my name. She didn’t know what I had sacrificed for her. I feared that one day she would know, and with her overbearing heart it would hurt her, but I thought that day was certainly years and years away.
2013.
Nina’s mother entered the bedroom and immediately went to her side, as tears streamed down her radiant and flawless cheeks. Just fifteen years old, she wept outlandishly with short gusts of breaths in between each cry. The immature and foolish boy who had broken her heart was no match for her perfection, and I knew it just as well as her mother did. I painted her innocent body sunken into her pink and green floral bedding, with her shining black hair interlaced in her mother’s arms. When your first crush destroys you, it can feel like the world is no longer rotating on its axis, and each breath is an unnatural force. Until the moment your body finally retires from emotional exhaustion and goes to sleep.
Morning dew gathered outside her window as birds chirped loudly enough to wake her up. She didn’t like birds. To her, birds were nothing more than glorified roaches, simply messy creatures with wings and the ability to shit on everything below them. No matter how beautiful a bird could be with glorious feathers adorned by many, I never drew birds in her paintings, that would have been a disgrace to my sweet Nina.
Her tears dried up and her heart still melted, she moved to the edge of her bed and sat up with just a hint of energy in her first few morning breaths. I knew she could flourish past this teenaged drama, if only she would stand up and go look in the mirror that boasted above her dresser. It was framed with stark white partition board, which didn’t match the dark walnut coloring and sturdiness of the handsome dresser. She’d once complained that she wanted her vanity to match her dresser like her friends’ fancy vanity cabinets, but her parents didn’t have the financial ability to buy such fancy furnishings, so this was what she had.
I personally always loved how the mismatched grains were a direct reflection of our unrequited love. She was the dark and strong foundation with boundless space to hold anything that bore weight into it. I was merely a pale and worthless piece, frail, and flimsy, but encompassed a piece of glass that cast her unwavering beauty – every day. Only her reflection made me priceless, nearly as invaluable as she was. If only she knew.
An off-white color paint was the basis for her painting that day, as livid as I felt, I had to keep my composure. The hint of light gray with black and white strokes in diagonal fashion portrayed the mirror in front of her porcelain-like face looking back at her. No tears, no pain, no anguish, just strength and confidence that she would conquer the day without any doubt of her self-worth. The stupid boy would never have the pleasure of knowing he wreaked any havoc. Nina would ignore him in the hallways at school and let it be known that she was better than him.
Because she was.
***