Page 32 of Inked in Bloom
The truth hits me harder than that bus ever could:
I’m dead.
Dead. Never among the living again. Logically, I’ve known this, but this is the first time the weight of it settles in my gut,unsettling everything else.
I tuck myself beneath the small lip of the kitchen island, sobs racking my body, every part of me shaking. My chest heaves, pain lancing me like a shard of glass shoved between my ribs.
I allow myself five minutes to be weak. Undone.
I can’t believe he tried to talk to me—apologize. It was his fault. He must have known I would recognize him.
I inhale.One, two, three, four, andhold with my lungs expanded for seven more seconds. Then I release the breath, counting down as I do…Four, three, two, one.
Repeating the exercise, I press my back against the wood until the kettle wheezes.
How the hell am I supposed to prepare for spring with him there every damn day? I don’t know, but I’m going to find a way because I refuse to give up on the people who need me most. If that means gritting my teeth during Transformational Studies, fighting the urge to sucker punch my professor, so be it.
After a few minutes, I use a barstool and pull myself up, pouring a mug of tea. I cup it and a tall glass of water, then wobble my way up the stairs. Drinking tonight was a poor choice.
Dr. Tanner would be very disappointed in how I’m coping.
No, she wouldn’t.
She’d be giving me tools to get through it. She has a whole arsenal of them. Meanwhile, this Monroe, one I barely recognize, has the self-regulation skills of a toddler.
I imagine lying on the couch in my office across from the put-together therapist version of myself. She’s pristine, intelligent, and definitely not in the midst of having an emotional spiral.
What would Dr. Tanner do?
She’d tell me to acknowledge how I feel…but I think I’ve done enough of that tonight.
I set the brimming mug of tea on the desk in the corner of my room. Beside it is an easel, a handful of various sized canvases and paints, as well as charcoals and sketching pens.
When did those get here?
I suppose this whole place is magical—probably some nice gesture from my roommates to help me feel more at home. Guess it’s obvious I’m hanging on by a thread.
Not wanting paint on my dress, I tug it over my head, discarding it on the floor. Only instead of the floor, it disappears into thin air. I’m left in my underwear. Too bad all my old, oversized button-ups aren’t here. I’d commandeered a handful from my ex, and he fortunately didn’t want them back with paint spatters on them.
Is he mourning me right now? Or did he mourn an easy lay? I don’t miss him, was neverin lovewith him, but there was a strange comfort in our toxic routine. We didn’t work in a relationship and I wasn’t built for commitment—I already had so many between work, Painting Hope, and everyone in my life who needed me. But I’d kept Jay around, and he was more than happy obliging when I wanted a certain itch scratched.
He probably texted and assumed I ghosted him.
It’s laughable that I never had time for relationships and now I have all the time in the world—literally—and yet I’m hiding away in my room, eyes half swollen shut from crying, standing around in my underwear. Alone.
I turn and stare at the canvas. Blank and waiting to be filled.
Where do I even start?
I tap the ball of my foot against the floor, waiting for inspiration, but it’s as if my creative well has run dry. I chug some water and set it down on my desk next to the plain white teacups Cherri and I nabbed earlier.
Crossing the room, I grab one white teacup and set up a small paint station at my desk. With each stroke against the porcelain that shard lodged in my chest loosens and loosens. It isn’t until I’ve halfway painted the second teacup that it hits me just how much I’ve missed this. The thrill of snatching something unexpected and improving it. Making it my own. Whenever Charlotte and I did this, she said it always felt like she was leaving a piece of herself when we’d return the items to their place of origin.
Such a small act…but it meant something to her and she meant everything to me. And what did I do with the tokens she’d left behind for me? Shoved them in cabinets, stuck them up on walls, and whatever I couldn’t find room for, I tucked in the corner of my closet. It made it feel like she was still around. I could almost pretend she was off traveling on some big adventure, exploring old ruins, admiring swanky art galleries, falling in love…
Did that make me a fraud? Spending my days guiding my clients to drag their baggage into the light, then going home and hiding mine in the darkened corners of my tiny apartment?
No, it makes you human.
