"Canvas"
This was written recently for my Fiction class. Thought I would just post it up cause I can.
My father killed my mama. Took that barrel straight to her head and pulled the trigger. The police report called it suicide, but I knew better. When my mama took her life, I knew my father was right there with her; his addiction pushing her far past her limits. Unfortunate how Arizona law finds no guilt in those who bring people to such an end. Mama didn't deserve it; I didn't deserve it.
I often wonder who I hated more. The woman who left her twelve year old daughter with a man who was a far cry from a father, or a man who sat back and allowed his wife to die. Mama wasn't around to hate. No ghost would hurt like a man still within his fleshy skin. My father bared the whole of my hatred, smile always on his face. Maybe he thought he deserved it, or he just didn't care. I never could see the guilt shinning in his eyes, not back then.
Mama was an actress, if you could call her that. Commercials weren't exactly star making material. She was a country girl, born and raised in the ways of the old south. A place that coddles and breeds big dreams waiting to fail. Mama always told me she never had someone to knock some sense into her head. While bringing me up, she was always sure I kept both feet planted firmly on the ground. When I wanted to sing, she told me to become a lawyer; when I wanted to become a writer, she told me to become a doctor.
She never did talk much about her time in California, trying to make her way in a world that would much rather watch her fall into the despair of drugs and alcohol. The only story she would sometimes tell, back when I was too young to fully understand, was when she met my father. Back then he was working a steady job, earning a living for himself. I don't quite remember where they met, wouldn't bother asking either. It wouldn't matter, either way they ended up together in the end. Mama gave up her dreams for him; she quit acting and prepared to settle down.
My father should have done the same. Given up on any wild ideas he had leaking from his head. He had a wife to take care of and a child on the way by then. It was no time to go off chasing a dream sure to fail. When my father said he wanted to move to Arizona, Mama smiled and agreed. He wanted to paint the deserts, give life to the plains by way of his brush. Art was his his dirty little secret and Mama's end.
I figured he was afraid, thinking he would never be able to pursue his dream with a baby to raise. It was probably what pushed him towards his paintings. Growing up, I soon learned that art was like a drug to my father. He grew addicted, drunk even. I remember the times Mama would leave the house, toting me with her saying 'Papa won't notice either way. He should have married his canvas. Spends more time with it then his own wife'.
My father was always in front of his easel. Took his dinner in his studio more times than not. Mama stopped inviting him to the dinner table, and I stopped caring. I didn't have a father, only a lonely artist in the back room.
They argued a lot in the few months before Mama died. Money had been a problem. My fathers paintings didn't sell much. They were good, but he was a nobody. Selling paintings was a lot like acting. It was all about the presentation and how far you were willing to go to get yourself out there. The problem was my father didn't care to become famous. All he wanted was to paint, and to share his love of the scenes he portrayed. It had nothing to do with the money.
I could never be sure of the exact reason Mama took her life. Too me it would have been easier to just leave. She loved him too much, I guessed. Mama couldn't live with him, and she couldn't live without him. In the end she only had one option left. I was the one who found her, sprawled out lifeless on the floor of my father's studio. Her blood was painted on the canvases lying about, a spiteful color that shaded the rest of my life. Even to this day, when I close my eyes, I can still see that crimson liquid.
She had chosen the one day my father had bothered to leave the house for more supplies, when I would come home to an empty home. A happy twelve year old coming back to an unsuspecting horror. When I saw her, all else faded away in that moment. The want to run to her was there, but I knew it would do no good. There was so much blood, too much. Bile filled my mouth far quicker than the tears that warred to be freed. I hadn't even needed to see the gun lying in powder white hands to know what had happened. The pool that ebbed from my mama's head told the whole story. I had seen the same thing on those late night crime scene investigation shows that she liked to watch on Friday nights.
I still can't remember much of that night after that. Somehow I found myself sitting in the bathtub, my Mama's towel from that morning pressed to my nose. It smelled like the cheap shampoo that she used; a mix between floral and fruit. At one point I had thought to call 911, but the phones were dead.
Another bill that had been put aside to be paid far past it's due date. I knew when dad came home, the sobs were a clear sign. They were loud and I found them obnoxious. All I wanted was for them to stop. It was only another reminder of the death of my mama.
The funeral came and went, and I was left in a house with a man I could no longer stand to see as a father. He stopped spending so much time in his studio after that. For once I wished him to hide away in that damned room. When he did paint, my father started with those tainted canvases. Using my mother's blood as starting point for each new landscape that came to life upon their surfaces. Once done those pieces were packed away into the shed out back. It was their grave, buried away among layers of dust. Left in hopes that they could be forgotten. As I grew older I began to avoid that rotted building. As time went on I tried harder to forget as that shed screamed harder for my attention, waving a truth that I had refused to see. I never did bother to question why my father kept those bloodied canvases.
----------
"That's kinda freaky.” Kate licked the cherry syrup from her fork, cleaning it before going in for another bite of pie. I averted my eyes, going back to pick at my own slice. The filling reminded me too much of the nightmare of my past. “You sure your dad isn't like some kind of psycho?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Kate was always trying to choke information from me, always saying it was one step closer to becoming better friends. We met back during freshman year, three years ago, her overly cheery personality seemed to balance my more reserved nature. She was what I wished I could be; happy and carefree.
"Are you going to eat that?” She asked.
"No. It's free game. Have it.” I passed it towards her. My appetite was shot, and besides I liked keeping her happy. She was easier to maintain that way. I couldn't have her moping around looking like some neglected wet rag.
"Maybe he keeps them to honor her?” Was all said through a full mouth. Each word came out muffled and I found myself leaning closer so that I might hear better.
"Swallow first please.”
She smiled, a few pieces of crust clinging to the gaps in her teeth. Her throat bobbed soon after as she rid her mouth of pie. I waited, not quite wanting to rush the answer I knew I would be talked into giving.
"He keeps them to honor her. Think about it; makes sense.” Kate gave me the eye, the one that made me feel like she knew exactly what she was talking about, but I looked away. She couldn't possibly know, not with the perfect life she lead.
"You watch too much TV.” My neglected can of soda looked all too tempting at that moment. The liquid was warm and it burned my throat. I coughed and she tapped her fork on the now empty plate, keeping an impatient rhythm.
"Yes and you dance around things far too much.”
Once again I stayed quiet, nursing the mouth of my soda. Not so much drinking as I was trying to distract myself from what she was asking me to ponder.
"Fine then. Don't listen to a thing I say. But I do think I'm on to something.” Kate got up then, and I found myself feeling lighter. I had nothing against the girl, she was my best friend, but at times I found the air to be so stifling when she pushed at me. My eyes threatened to droop as I watched her clean her plate. The cherry syrup, diluted with water, ran in fading currents from the polished white surface of her mom's china. It was getting late, probably past eleven. Weekend nights were usually spent like this. Me and Kate, eating whatever homemade pie or pastry that had been left in the refrigerator free for the taking.
"It's getting late.” I wanted to leave, but my bottom stayed glued to her chair. Nothing awaited me at home so why hurry. No doubt my father would be shut within that room.
"You heading home?” She asked, but I didn't know why. I was sure she already knew the answer to that. How many times had we gone through the same routine? Too many to count. I rarely ever asked to stay the night. Some part of me saw it as myself trying to run from what awaited me at home. I wouldn't allow this house to become my escape; I was stronger than that. It was an odd night when the weight of my past seemed to crush me, making me give into my instincts and to flee to one of the few places I felt safe. In this house there where no dark memories that could reach out with gnarled claws in hopes of pulling me back into a part of my life I would rather tuck away.
"Yeah.” I fought to stand, my knees shaking. Leaving now would be for the best. Soon her mother would come down, and it was all the harder to say no to her.
"I'll walk you to the door.”
"Don't bother. I think I can mange to let myself out.” I watched her dry her hands for a moment, a part of me hoping she would walk me out anyways. It was the part of me that didn't want to be alone just yet.
Kate nodded, turning to rest her back against the beige granite counter. Her manicured nail clipped against the edge a habit I had come to expect from her when she thought too hard. I half expected her to make me stay, maybe it was that determined look in her eyes. Instead she just merely smiled, giving me only a quick parting note. “Krys... think about what I said. 'Kay?”
I didn't look back when I left. She probably thought I didn't hear her. I did, I just didn't want to think about it. Tonight I would sleep, and in the morning today would just been another lived day. I would put Kate's words behind me, because I didn't want to think about it. Hating my father was so much easier than trying to understand, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to try to understand my father. Perhaps I was afraid to forgive him. If not him, then who could I blame for the lose of my mama?
The road was dark, the air stiff. My steps were slow, I was in no hurry now. It wasn't as if I had far to go, or anyone at home awaiting my return. Me and Kate lived only a few house down from each other, in a neighborhood that seemed more like a graveyard then a suburb. Most of the houses were far too aged to be considered good. I was waiting for my own house to cave in eventually. Every once in awhile I would pass a renovated house, much like Kate's, that was bubbling over with that cute cottage feel, picketed fence and all.
My own crumbling home loomed in the distance, and I paced towards it. The lights were off, making the interior looks as dead as the exterior. Only I knew that there was indeed life inside. As I neared the door, I caught an ever slight flash. The television? I hadn't remembered leaving it on when I left.
Upon opening the door, I stopped. Through the darkness of the room I spotted my father's face, lit up by the changing scene on the old tube television. It was currently playing some old commercial from years back that left me confused. I was sure that movie had come out seven or eight years ago.
I shut the door quietly behind me, not wanting to wake my slumbering farther. He laid there on our tattered couch, empty beer bottle laying on it's side on the coffee table. The faded quilt that laid to his left caught my eye. It was my mama's quilt, she had knitted it herself back when she still lived with her parents before running off to California.
I adverted my eyes back to the screen, seeing something I had once considered a familiar sight. In that instant I knew what my father was watching. Mama used to tape her crime dramas, I just never knew he
had kept them. Looking back towards the couch I faltered. A part of me wanted to flee from the scene that threatened to tell more than I thought I was ready to face. Another part of me kept me still.
Without thinking I moved forwards, each step bring me closer to my father. It was cold, I was always keeping the air conditioner running; one of the few things I was sure the bill got paid for. I steadied my hand, reaching out for my Mama's quilt. Carefully I pulled it over my father, gently tucking the hems in at his sides.
He grumbled once, and I jumped away as if burned. My hands shook in front of me and I clenched them to keep them still. It was odd how an act, that would normally seem so normal between father and daughter, had my heart racing. I needed to leave, and so I did.
With an abrupt turn, I fled; down the hall and to my room. Once in side I shut my door falling against it's firm surface. With my eyes closed, I focused on steadying my breathing. Drawing up my legs, I buried my face into my denim clad knees. I felt the tears soak through the stiff material, but I only pressed my face in further. Everything felt so lost; not right. That night I cried myself to sleep, too confused to do much else.
My father killed my mama. Took that barrel straight to her head and pulled the trigger. The police report called it suicide, but I knew better. When my mama took her life, I knew my father was right there with her; his addiction pushing her far past her limits. Unfortunate how Arizona law finds no guilt in those who bring people to such an end. Mama didn't deserve it; I didn't deserve it.
I often wonder who I hated more. The woman who left her twelve year old daughter with a man who was a far cry from a father, or a man who sat back and allowed his wife to die. Mama wasn't around to hate. No ghost would hurt like a man still within his fleshy skin. My father bared the whole of my hatred, smile always on his face. Maybe he thought he deserved it, or he just didn't care. I never could see the guilt shinning in his eyes, not back then.
Mama was an actress, if you could call her that. Commercials weren't exactly star making material. She was a country girl, born and raised in the ways of the old south. A place that coddles and breeds big dreams waiting to fail. Mama always told me she never had someone to knock some sense into her head. While bringing me up, she was always sure I kept both feet planted firmly on the ground. When I wanted to sing, she told me to become a lawyer; when I wanted to become a writer, she told me to become a doctor.
She never did talk much about her time in California, trying to make her way in a world that would much rather watch her fall into the despair of drugs and alcohol. The only story she would sometimes tell, back when I was too young to fully understand, was when she met my father. Back then he was working a steady job, earning a living for himself. I don't quite remember where they met, wouldn't bother asking either. It wouldn't matter, either way they ended up together in the end. Mama gave up her dreams for him; she quit acting and prepared to settle down.
My father should have done the same. Given up on any wild ideas he had leaking from his head. He had a wife to take care of and a child on the way by then. It was no time to go off chasing a dream sure to fail. When my father said he wanted to move to Arizona, Mama smiled and agreed. He wanted to paint the deserts, give life to the plains by way of his brush. Art was his his dirty little secret and Mama's end.
I figured he was afraid, thinking he would never be able to pursue his dream with a baby to raise. It was probably what pushed him towards his paintings. Growing up, I soon learned that art was like a drug to my father. He grew addicted, drunk even. I remember the times Mama would leave the house, toting me with her saying 'Papa won't notice either way. He should have married his canvas. Spends more time with it then his own wife'.
My father was always in front of his easel. Took his dinner in his studio more times than not. Mama stopped inviting him to the dinner table, and I stopped caring. I didn't have a father, only a lonely artist in the back room.
They argued a lot in the few months before Mama died. Money had been a problem. My fathers paintings didn't sell much. They were good, but he was a nobody. Selling paintings was a lot like acting. It was all about the presentation and how far you were willing to go to get yourself out there. The problem was my father didn't care to become famous. All he wanted was to paint, and to share his love of the scenes he portrayed. It had nothing to do with the money.
I could never be sure of the exact reason Mama took her life. Too me it would have been easier to just leave. She loved him too much, I guessed. Mama couldn't live with him, and she couldn't live without him. In the end she only had one option left. I was the one who found her, sprawled out lifeless on the floor of my father's studio. Her blood was painted on the canvases lying about, a spiteful color that shaded the rest of my life. Even to this day, when I close my eyes, I can still see that crimson liquid.
She had chosen the one day my father had bothered to leave the house for more supplies, when I would come home to an empty home. A happy twelve year old coming back to an unsuspecting horror. When I saw her, all else faded away in that moment. The want to run to her was there, but I knew it would do no good. There was so much blood, too much. Bile filled my mouth far quicker than the tears that warred to be freed. I hadn't even needed to see the gun lying in powder white hands to know what had happened. The pool that ebbed from my mama's head told the whole story. I had seen the same thing on those late night crime scene investigation shows that she liked to watch on Friday nights.
I still can't remember much of that night after that. Somehow I found myself sitting in the bathtub, my Mama's towel from that morning pressed to my nose. It smelled like the cheap shampoo that she used; a mix between floral and fruit. At one point I had thought to call 911, but the phones were dead.
Another bill that had been put aside to be paid far past it's due date. I knew when dad came home, the sobs were a clear sign. They were loud and I found them obnoxious. All I wanted was for them to stop. It was only another reminder of the death of my mama.
The funeral came and went, and I was left in a house with a man I could no longer stand to see as a father. He stopped spending so much time in his studio after that. For once I wished him to hide away in that damned room. When he did paint, my father started with those tainted canvases. Using my mother's blood as starting point for each new landscape that came to life upon their surfaces. Once done those pieces were packed away into the shed out back. It was their grave, buried away among layers of dust. Left in hopes that they could be forgotten. As I grew older I began to avoid that rotted building. As time went on I tried harder to forget as that shed screamed harder for my attention, waving a truth that I had refused to see. I never did bother to question why my father kept those bloodied canvases.
----------
"That's kinda freaky.” Kate licked the cherry syrup from her fork, cleaning it before going in for another bite of pie. I averted my eyes, going back to pick at my own slice. The filling reminded me too much of the nightmare of my past. “You sure your dad isn't like some kind of psycho?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Kate was always trying to choke information from me, always saying it was one step closer to becoming better friends. We met back during freshman year, three years ago, her overly cheery personality seemed to balance my more reserved nature. She was what I wished I could be; happy and carefree.
"Are you going to eat that?” She asked.
"No. It's free game. Have it.” I passed it towards her. My appetite was shot, and besides I liked keeping her happy. She was easier to maintain that way. I couldn't have her moping around looking like some neglected wet rag.
"Maybe he keeps them to honor her?” Was all said through a full mouth. Each word came out muffled and I found myself leaning closer so that I might hear better.
"Swallow first please.”
She smiled, a few pieces of crust clinging to the gaps in her teeth. Her throat bobbed soon after as she rid her mouth of pie. I waited, not quite wanting to rush the answer I knew I would be talked into giving.
"He keeps them to honor her. Think about it; makes sense.” Kate gave me the eye, the one that made me feel like she knew exactly what she was talking about, but I looked away. She couldn't possibly know, not with the perfect life she lead.
"You watch too much TV.” My neglected can of soda looked all too tempting at that moment. The liquid was warm and it burned my throat. I coughed and she tapped her fork on the now empty plate, keeping an impatient rhythm.
"Yes and you dance around things far too much.”
Once again I stayed quiet, nursing the mouth of my soda. Not so much drinking as I was trying to distract myself from what she was asking me to ponder.
"Fine then. Don't listen to a thing I say. But I do think I'm on to something.” Kate got up then, and I found myself feeling lighter. I had nothing against the girl, she was my best friend, but at times I found the air to be so stifling when she pushed at me. My eyes threatened to droop as I watched her clean her plate. The cherry syrup, diluted with water, ran in fading currents from the polished white surface of her mom's china. It was getting late, probably past eleven. Weekend nights were usually spent like this. Me and Kate, eating whatever homemade pie or pastry that had been left in the refrigerator free for the taking.
"It's getting late.” I wanted to leave, but my bottom stayed glued to her chair. Nothing awaited me at home so why hurry. No doubt my father would be shut within that room.
"You heading home?” She asked, but I didn't know why. I was sure she already knew the answer to that. How many times had we gone through the same routine? Too many to count. I rarely ever asked to stay the night. Some part of me saw it as myself trying to run from what awaited me at home. I wouldn't allow this house to become my escape; I was stronger than that. It was an odd night when the weight of my past seemed to crush me, making me give into my instincts and to flee to one of the few places I felt safe. In this house there where no dark memories that could reach out with gnarled claws in hopes of pulling me back into a part of my life I would rather tuck away.
"Yeah.” I fought to stand, my knees shaking. Leaving now would be for the best. Soon her mother would come down, and it was all the harder to say no to her.
"I'll walk you to the door.”
"Don't bother. I think I can mange to let myself out.” I watched her dry her hands for a moment, a part of me hoping she would walk me out anyways. It was the part of me that didn't want to be alone just yet.
Kate nodded, turning to rest her back against the beige granite counter. Her manicured nail clipped against the edge a habit I had come to expect from her when she thought too hard. I half expected her to make me stay, maybe it was that determined look in her eyes. Instead she just merely smiled, giving me only a quick parting note. “Krys... think about what I said. 'Kay?”
I didn't look back when I left. She probably thought I didn't hear her. I did, I just didn't want to think about it. Tonight I would sleep, and in the morning today would just been another lived day. I would put Kate's words behind me, because I didn't want to think about it. Hating my father was so much easier than trying to understand, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to try to understand my father. Perhaps I was afraid to forgive him. If not him, then who could I blame for the lose of my mama?
The road was dark, the air stiff. My steps were slow, I was in no hurry now. It wasn't as if I had far to go, or anyone at home awaiting my return. Me and Kate lived only a few house down from each other, in a neighborhood that seemed more like a graveyard then a suburb. Most of the houses were far too aged to be considered good. I was waiting for my own house to cave in eventually. Every once in awhile I would pass a renovated house, much like Kate's, that was bubbling over with that cute cottage feel, picketed fence and all.
My own crumbling home loomed in the distance, and I paced towards it. The lights were off, making the interior looks as dead as the exterior. Only I knew that there was indeed life inside. As I neared the door, I caught an ever slight flash. The television? I hadn't remembered leaving it on when I left.
Upon opening the door, I stopped. Through the darkness of the room I spotted my father's face, lit up by the changing scene on the old tube television. It was currently playing some old commercial from years back that left me confused. I was sure that movie had come out seven or eight years ago.
I shut the door quietly behind me, not wanting to wake my slumbering farther. He laid there on our tattered couch, empty beer bottle laying on it's side on the coffee table. The faded quilt that laid to his left caught my eye. It was my mama's quilt, she had knitted it herself back when she still lived with her parents before running off to California.
I adverted my eyes back to the screen, seeing something I had once considered a familiar sight. In that instant I knew what my father was watching. Mama used to tape her crime dramas, I just never knew he
had kept them. Looking back towards the couch I faltered. A part of me wanted to flee from the scene that threatened to tell more than I thought I was ready to face. Another part of me kept me still.
Without thinking I moved forwards, each step bring me closer to my father. It was cold, I was always keeping the air conditioner running; one of the few things I was sure the bill got paid for. I steadied my hand, reaching out for my Mama's quilt. Carefully I pulled it over my father, gently tucking the hems in at his sides.
He grumbled once, and I jumped away as if burned. My hands shook in front of me and I clenched them to keep them still. It was odd how an act, that would normally seem so normal between father and daughter, had my heart racing. I needed to leave, and so I did.
With an abrupt turn, I fled; down the hall and to my room. Once in side I shut my door falling against it's firm surface. With my eyes closed, I focused on steadying my breathing. Drawing up my legs, I buried my face into my denim clad knees. I felt the tears soak through the stiff material, but I only pressed my face in further. Everything felt so lost; not right. That night I cried myself to sleep, too confused to do much else.