An easel stood against the back wall of Casey’s dull room. Upon it was a painting of a vase of flowers. A cracked blue vase littered with little white markings. Inside was an array of white and yellow tulips with one of them withered. It was her first ever painting that she had created without guidance. The easel loomed over Casey who sat back against her bed, adjacent to the easel. Her gaze shifted from the easel to her right hand and in it she held an engraved, black brush that had been snapped in half. The splintered wood dug into her palm as she gripped the top half of the brush and caressed its golden bristles. The bristles began to feel warm as their color slowly warped into a reddish-black. She ran her thumb across the engraving, smearing blood that had trickled down her right arm across it. The name on the brush was burned into her memory, “Jason M.”. Casey tilted her head toward the ceiling. Her weak voice called out, “What have I done…?”.
No one responded. Only the glistening red, dull kitchen knife in her left hand and the spilled Xanax on the floor held the answer. As the blood drained from her body, she felt faint. Using a spare paint brush and a dirty shirt on her floor she tied a makeshift tourniquet on her right arm. She muttered, “You won’t win that easily…” and her vision faded to black.
A faint, cool breeze danced through an open window, into Casey’s apartment, and across her neck the following morning. Distant chirps of a Robin flooded Casey’s ears, as she awoke. She grit her teeth as she went to push herself up off the floor. A sharp pain shot up through her right arm, her wincing was followed up by an ear-splitting scream. The carpet beneath her squelched as she laid back onto the floor, breathing heavily, she slowly began to unravel the bloodied shirt around her arm. An array of cuts and lacerations revealed themselves, twisted and entangled like the veins beneath them. Her arm was caked in blood and she became acutely aware of the taste of iron that coated her throat. Casey looked toward one of the Xanax pills on the carpet to her left. She picked one up, tossed it in her mouth, and swallowed it. The pain in her arm seemed to dissipate and she slowly pushed herself up off the floor once again.
Casey made her way to the bathroom, flicked on its dim light, made her way toward her vanity, and looked at her reflection in the tooth-paste stained mirror. She was ghostly pale, her eyes were drained of their usual vibrant, hazel color. Her breathing began to quicken and she noticed her pupils beginning to dilate in the mirror. Her blonde hair swung around, with her shoulder, as she frantically tried to wipe away the condensation from her breath over and over. A caustic concoction brewing in her stomach, clawed its way up her throat as she threw up into the sink. Casey turned on the faucet, cupped her hands under it, and rinsed out her mouth. She splashed her face with the cold water and returned to her bed. The quiet sounds of the running faucet lulled her to sleep.
Several weeks passed. Casey had taken to wearing sweaters despite the brutal heat of summer. The iron smell in her apartment didn’t fade nor did the stains on her carpet. The easel that she’d once found solace in now sent shivers down her spine. It’s presence had been enough to crush her. On this particular day though, she mustered up the courage to pick up her brush yet again. Her shaky hand changed the canvas on the easel to a blank one. She took a deep breath, picked up her brush, and let her mind wander as she danced her brush along the canvas.
Casey’s love for art bloomed 10 years ago, during her senior year of college. Her major, biology, had slowly become a chore over her college career so she took her new love for art in stride. Her professor, Jason Moors, was an enthusiastic man. Despite his older age, he kept his class engaging, rigorous, and fun for all of his students. Casey had become quite close with him throughout the semester. She attended his office hours as often as she could to get new tips on how to progress her art career. Casey’s birthday fell at the end of the semester, so Jason made sure to invite her to his office after class.
“Happy Birthday, Casey!” Jason shouted with glee.
“Thank you, Jason!”
Jason brought Casey a long, thin, and black wooden box. The two golden hinges on its backside sparkled in the lamp-lit office. He gently placed the box in her hands and smiled. Casey opened the box and inside was a black brush with Jason’s name engraved into it.
“This is wonderful, thank you Jason!”
Jason took a step toward Casey, and his smile seemed to twist a bit. Casey’s heart sank, a pit formed in her stomach, and she felt a singular bead of sweat slowly make its way down her body.
His rough hand clasped over her mouth preventing any screams from escaping. Tears flooded out of her eyes as she struggled helplessly.
Her mind shifted back to the present, cutting her memory short. She wiped off her face, clearing her blurred vision, and focused on the lush sea of green that littered the canvas. An array of trees, wildlife and fauna. The glint of sun through the window gave the image a breath of life, but yet this piece troubled her. Much the same as the one that preceded it.
It was his style.
It was what he loved to paint.
It belonged to him.
She belonged to him.
She wanted to eviscerate that version of her. To be able to be loved, feel beautiful, and to take back the one thing she loved more than anything. A longing gaze shifted toward the unclean knife still lying on the floor, as well as the Xanax scattered across it. It seemed almost too natural, as if the world was inviting her to do it again.
An alarm clock violated Casey’s sleep the following morning. She tilted her head towards the clock, “8:00 am Tuesday, August 21st”. The sight of this made Casey groan as she readied herself for work at “Joe’s Blend”.
A bell rang out as Casey opened the door to “Joe’s Blend”. A wooden sign on the front door read “We’re Closed” and had Tuesday’s hours etched into it, “10:00 am - 6:00 pm.” Casey peered inside at the circular analog clock above the coffee bar, “9:00 am” it read. She closed the door behind her and the nutty fragrance of the café danced around her nostrils. The dimly lit wooden building was decorated with flowers, hanging moss and cheesy “Don’t talk to me before I have my morning coffee” signs. Casey clocked in and walked behind the counter with its brilliantly shining, black marble top.
Silvia chirped, “Morning Casey! Cold again?”
Casey glanced at Silvia, her wispy silver hair and green eyes contrasted her rather youthful glow. “Yep. Freezing.”
“You’ll be able to cook an egg on the pavement later today, but suit yourself.” Silvia held out an iced coffee for Casey. “Here. I brewed one for you before you came in.”
“Thanks.” Casey took the iced coffee and took a long sip from it. The bitter flavor of the black coffee and the cool sensation down her throat gave her new life.
Silvia pulled out a red and white striped gift bag from behind the counter and handed it to Casey. “Happy Birthday!”
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“I don’t do gifts, Silvia, but thank you nonetheless.” Casey handed the bag back to Silvia and went to the back of the store to prepare for the morning rush.
Silvia, attached at Casey’s hip, questioned her. “Why not? It’s your birthday after all.”
Casey’s head started to pound. There was a wooden chair near the dishwashing sink that the two often used when on break. She took a seat and its legs creaked. Casey brushed off Silvia’s question. “Can you get me my iron? It should be in the bathroom back here.”
Silvia frowned but complied with Casey’s request. “Here you go. You alright? You’ve been taking more iron than normal as of late.”
Casey washed down her iron pills with her coffee. “A little extra iron never hurt anyone…What’d you get me anyway?”
Silvia’s face lit up, “Curious?” She retrieved the bag and held it out in front of her.
Casey breathed a sigh of relief. “A little bit.”
“Why not just open it, then?”
Casey went quiet and the low hum of the lights seemed to take over their conversation briefly.
“Why get me a gift, Silvia?”
“What do you mean by that? Because it’s your birthday obviously.”
“Why me? What about me is worth giving a gift to?” Casey’s quiet tone seemed to crescendo. “I HAVE DONE NOTHING TO-”
Silvia quietly pulled Casey into an embrace. Casey stopped like a deer in headlights and looked down at Silvia. After several moments she pushed Casey back and pulled the gift out of the bag. She presented Casey with a vase, similar to the one Casey had painted several weeks ago. “You said you were painting a vase so…I thought I’d get you one.”
Casey gently took the vase from Silvia and cradled it. She let out a heavy sigh and forced her eyes shut. Her voice broke as she spoke, “I’m…going to have to go home.”
“Don’t even worry about it, Tuesdays are slow anyway Casey.”
“Thanks, Silvia.”
Casey fiddled with the shoddy lock on her apartment door. The dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor greeted her once again. Along with the sickly mix of Febreze and iron attacking her nostrils. Casey set the vase on her cracked, wooden dinner table and opened her fridge. The flickering light and brief chill was all her fridge was good for. She closed it and walked to the back corner of her room. Her fluffy gray carpet molded into the shape of her shoes’ outer sole. Next to her bed and in front of her easel the carpet developed a maroon color and crunched under her feet.
Her vibrant easel brought a certain color into her otherwise dull apartment. Paintings and blank canvases were lined along the back wall. She placed a canvas on her easel and opened a small lock box and the faint smell of cherry wood rose from the box. She plucked one of the brushes from the box, readied some paint and stood idly in front of her easel.
Casey stared straight ahead at the easel and readied her brush. After several minutes she lowered it again. She continued this monotonous motion, unable to think of what to paint. Casey muttered under her breath, “It’s easier when no one cares…” She finally placed her brush back in its box and clicked it shut.
Casey turned and walked away from her easel. Trudging through her dull apartment she peeled her shoes off and left them by the front door. Her body burned under her damp, long-sleeved, cotton shirt. She undressed, tossed her dirty clothes into a pile on the floor, and then searched a pile of scattered clothes on her bed. She picked out an assortment of clothes and walked to her bathroom.
Casey placed the clothes onto her toilet seat, turned on her shower, and took a step inside. Cold water pelted her skin. She tirelessly tried to keep her arms hidden from the shower head. She could’ve accurately counted the drops of water that hit her fresh scar tissue.
Casey finished her shower and dried herself off. Her arms itched as her red-stained bath towel slid over them. She tossed on her clothes and took a look at herself in the mirror.
She held up her arm, tracing her finger along her scars and a tickling sensation overcame her arm. Casey turned away from the mirror and grabbed her clothes. She changed into them and as she left her bathroom the vase on the table, across the apartment, caught her eye.
A pit formed in Casey’s stomach and she sat on the floor with her back against the wall, just outside her bathroom. She placed her head in her hands as a crushing sense of guilt invaded her body and mind. “To be able to be loved? To love? To feel beautiful? To paint? No, Casey. You deserve none of it.” She pushed her back into the wall and slowly stood up. Her legs shook as she walked toward her kitchen. She grabbed the dull kitchen knife, with her left hand, in her sink and walked toward her easel. “All you did…was take advantage of someone’s kindness. Pathetic.” She brushed her hair away from her eyes and placed another canvas on her easel. The canvas fell several times, being knocked off from Casey’s jittery hands. Once it was set her hands grinded to a halt. She took a breath, picked up a brush with her right hand, and began to paint.
A tall older man loomed in the background of painting. Gray hair with speckles of brown, blue eyes, glasses and large arms gripping tightly around a younger woman in front of him. Her wrists were bound in chains that were littered with slashes, her body was pristine, but her hair looked a mess. Her eyes were closed and tears streamed down her cheeks. Using the knife she slashed at her arms again. She didn’t make a sound, but a smile crept across her face.
She slowly sat on the floor with her back against the bed. A reflection of herself from weeks prior. Casey looked at her bloodied arms, hands, and fingers. Then she looked back at the painting. “The chains are gone.” She breathed a sigh of relief as her vision started to fade.
“I feel…cold…Why?”
No one responded.
“Oh.” Casey paused.
“I’ve set myself free.”
POST MORTEM
Silvia held a red rose in her left hand. She pulled a brass key out of her purse and inserted it into the pristine lock on her apartment door. Her sink was spotless and the dishes from the night before were drying on a rack beside it. A floral scent filled the air and she could see her reflection in the shiny wooden floor. She opened the fridge, placed her rose inside, and took out a chilled bottle of red wine. She opened a cabinet above the sink and took out two sparkling wine glasses. She set the bottle in the middle of the table next to a blue and white vase. She placed one glass at each of the two wooden chairs around the table.
Silvia pulled out her cellphone and clicked on the home screen. “6:15 pm Sunday, August 21st” She placed it back in her purse, took a deep breath and opened the bottle of wine. Her hands shook as she poured wine into each glass on the table. Several drops of wine fell onto the glass tabletop. She went to the sink, grabbed a wet washcloth, and wiped up the wine on the table. Silvia then put the washcloth away and walked to the back of the apartment.
Silvia’s clothes were neatly folded in a pile on her bed. She took several minutes to place them in her dresser and then turned her attention toward her wicker laundry hamper. “I’ll take them down tomorrow.” Her expression darkened as she turned her head toward the left corner of the room. A lone easel, covered in dust, stood tall. Several paintings, ever so slightly faded, were hung along the back wall.
Silvia made her way back to the dining room table and pulled out the second chair. She opened her fridge and pulled out the rose that she had laid there earlier. She took a seat and stared at the empty seat across from her.
Inside the blue and white vase sat 3 withered roses. Silvia placed a fourth, fresh, rose inside of the vase. She reached into her purse one last time and took out her phone. She clicked it on. “10:00 pm Sunday, August 21st” The natural light that lit up the apartment had faded. The phone screen illuminated the tears in her eyes as she typed in her password.
Her hands moved on their own through her blurred vision. She clicked the “Messages” app and then onto her only pinned conversation. She wiped her eyes and read the previous three messages.
“Happy Birthday, Casey.” - 11:59 pm
“Happy Birthday Casey” - 11:59 pm
“happy birthday casey” - 11:59 pm
Tears fell onto her phone keyboard, she tried to type out a message but the moisture smearing across the phone made it impossible.
She wiped her phone dry and with shaky hands typed out a message.
“Hapyp birthda y Casey” - 11:59 pm
Silvia set her phone face down onto the table. “I miss you.”