Picture Perfect
The sun sets behind the trees, stoking the thinner patches
of foliage to bleed through as though from behind a brighter filter. A golden
streak of light exposes a gap between the leaves to cross the grass blades,
stopping just shy of my feet. I will it forward, but its constant failure
worries me I might have become a place where the light cannot penetrate.
My
brother jostles my arm and I let the thought fall onto the breeze, favouring
him with a smile. We're squeezed together onto an aged park bench, Mother
complaining about the state of it and causing the commotion as she frets over a
weathered stain on the brittle wood that is probably older than I am.
"People
are staring." My brother complained. Well I can't say I blame them.
Dressed to the nines in our summer finest, the park appeared to be nearing
capacity. The photographer is struggling to capture the moment without granting
Frisbee catching youngsters or small inquisitive dogs honorary membership to
our family. He's stood arms crossed and brow furrowed as he analyses the latest
snap on his tripod mounted digital camera.
"We
can't get her to wear a jacket or something?"
"I'm
not cold." I said instinctively. The breeze is not unpleasant. Mother looked
at me with those beautiful blue eyes of hers. This morning when choosing my
dress I made an effort to match them. Twirling in the mirror I thought I'd done
it, but the fabric had been unable to replicate the soft nervousness an eye can
hold. I got Father's brown eyes, and right now he is narrowing his, a surly
expression on his face as the man approaches with the camera. He'd brought it
over to prove a point.
"The
pose is perfect." He explained, all the while my father's anger rising.
"It's just-"
As he turned
the camera to show him the image I accidentally caught a peek, and my world
began to crumble like so many times before it. I pitched to flee, but Mother
caught me and took me in her arms. I looked at her and she looked at me, those
blue eyes of hers truly a beauty I'd lost the chance at forever, and suddenly
she grew steely. She reached around for the arms I had hidden behind my back. I
tried to fight, but her grip was so strong. She pulled them out in front and
held them up for me to see.
"Look
at them." She said, stern yet kind. It took every ounce of will to shift
from gentle blue to the horror that was to follow.
Searing
pains shoot out across my arms. I watch a helpless passenger as the red streaks
reveal themselves to me, one by one in assorted order, crawling across my
flesh, etched in by memory's painful quill. As they twin and twist I wish I'd
had the foresight to select a kind of pattern, instead of giving in to life on an
edge, especially when they're so readily available.
Over
time I'd trained myself not to see them. I'm so good, a mirror can't even break
the spell. But somehow a photo, that subjective third eye, had punched a hole
in my self deception, and the tears flowed freely. Through the murky filter I stared for as long
as I could, my mind's eye confusing a second or two for a lifetime. Too deep, I
grasped for the shallows of her eyes once more.
"I'm
sorry." I whispered. Mother shook her head.
"Stop
hiding and embrace it. Your past makes who you are." She released my arms and
reached down for her blouse. Before I could render what was happening she'd removed it completely. It was like a
dream, the petals woven into the fabric's design dropping to the ground like
nature had called them back to wither.
A group
of boys cheered and wolfed a whistle. Father, who had his back to us span round
before freezing in shock. My brother buried his head in his hands in embarrassment.
Mother, though, cared for none of it. She pointed at the discoloured cross
section on her exposed stomach. "This scar tells me about one of the
proudest moments of my life." She declared. "Even if it did turn out
to be your brother." She added, with a wink.
"Hey!"
I gawped at it, not quite sure how to react. There must have been something
solemn in my expression, because out of the corner of my eye I saw my brother's
face soften from outrage to understanding, and he began unbuttoning his own
shirt. He threw it to the ground in triumph, the same shirt he spent over an
hour ironing this morning, and pointed to a line of damaged flesh on his stomach.
"Appendix."
He grinned. "Doctor said I needed it removed or the pain would be
unbearable. I held out for six weeks." He framed it in a grid made between
his thumbs and his forefingers. "Hashtag Legend." I couldn't help but
smile a little at Mother's frown.
"The
point is," She said, taking my arms again, "they're a part of you
now. When I look at these scars," softly, she began tracing them with a
finger "I think of every battle
you've fought against a darkness that many would not be strong enough to
conquer. Every battle you've won. I
see them," she said, and it rang true - every ragged path she followed
matched the order I'd woven them, "and so should you."
I know now,
that I've been doing it wrong. Denial is the choice I'd made. A secret buried further
and further over time, though a fresh layer of earth added to the grave has
turned that hole in the ground of my subconscious into an unusual looking mound
that draws suspicion. Secrets crave discovery. All they want is for one strong
wind, one shift in the plates beneath the earth, one glimpse of a tiny screen
on a digital camera.
The
photographer still sneered at me, the
ribbons I wear more offensive to him than the clothes my family lack. I wanted him
gone, and that meant taking this damn photo. I look down at my brother's ruined
shirt, shrug Mother's hand free, and then my dress. Another round of cheers
goes up from those nearby and I expect my mother to panic, but instead she
laughs heartily. It is a good sound. Father, however, lost control of the lower
portion of his face. I think it came with a dawning realisation of the
direction things were heading. He had a nervous glance towards my brother,
which on reflection, was probably not the wisest decision. My brother's
expression twisted with devil, and he cupped a hand to his mouth.
"Off!"
There it was, one single word. The key to bedlam. The wolf pack started first,
baying at random before falling in line with my brother's pulsing decree. Those
nearby stopped to stare before joining the chant, spreading to the far reaches
of the park like wildfire.
As the
circle closed, Father looked around in panic before settling his eyes on me. I
smiled sweetly and shrugged my shoulders. He smiled back. "You know me and
your mother met in A&E." He said, fiddling with the button on his
collar. "You didn't know it was because of an incident involving a lot of
alcohol and a broom handle." He ripped his shirt free, popping the buttons
from their thread restraints like the Hulk, exposing a nasty score that cuts a
line in the hair of his chest.
Those
around us erupted in cheer. He span round, seeking the photographer who looked
very small amidst the conflagration. "Take the picture Dammit!" He
commanded, barely audible over the crowd. As the photographer failed to shake himself
free of whatever nightmare he thought he was having, my father marched over and
ripped the camera from him, turning it over and thrusting it back into his hand
with the lens pointing towards us on the bench, wrenching him from his stupor.
Eventually
his hand steadied long enough for him to take the picture, tripod lost to the
encroaching throng, and he traipsed over to us uncertainly, flinching at every
new voice bawled from the shifting mass that surrounds us. He flipped the
camera round, and showed us the image on the screen. Of course, my red ichor
twists were the first thing I noticed. But somehow, they seemed in place, flanked
either side by those borne by my family. A collection of tales sat side by side
against a backdrop of half a clamouring community, all crammed into one chaotic
frame.
"It's
perfect." I said. No denial. I meant it. As Mother put a hand on my shoulder,
I looked down to see the sun's dying light dance upon my painted toenails. We'd
broken through together. I vow to accept its gracious end as my new beginning.
__________
* This story was first published 25/08/16 as part of Short Fiction Break's 2016 5th Anniversary Competition - https://bit.ly/2H2zk0L
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