CHAPTER 2
“Why does homework have to be so darn tedious?” I breathed exasperatedly at my step brothers back. He was immersed in his computer screen doing some graphic design for college.
“Ugh” I sighed and pushed my drawing board off my lap in frustration. I send it flying a little further than what I had wanted and felt my stomach swoop as I watched it falling just short of the edge of Craig’s bed. I relax my out stretched arms that I flung up in a lazy attempt to convince myself that I was going to catch the board if it had missed the bed and fell on the floor, I don’t really know how as my butt was still firmly planted on the bed, but I fell back into one of Craig’s pillows missing his headboard with my head by an inch.
Klutz
noun
North American informal
noun: klutz; plural noun: klutzes
- A clumsy, awkward, or foolish person.
Story of my life; I tend to hurt myself more than actually to perform a productive set of human movement. I look more like a giraffe trying to ice-skate or trying to do Yoga, thanks to my impossibly long legs that look like two pieces of bamboo strapped together. I swing my legs up to look at them and in conformation to this, my legs were peppered with at least ten burses all together on my pale skin.
“Oh! Put those things down out of the sun you are going to blind someone with those!” Craig exclaimed teasingly covering his eyes in mock horror. I snap my legs back down to the bed feeling a little insulted, even though I knew he was only joking.
“I can’t help it if the sun doesn’t like me.” I try to sound sarcastic, but fail pitifully as it sounds more like I was about to cry.
Craig taught me about sarcasm, before him I had little to no sense of humour. He moved here from Cape Town when he was fourteen, to come and live with his dad (Jack). I’m not too sure what the reasons were behind it, but he and his mom barely speak, I’ve noticed. Craig got up from his desk chair and made his way over to the bed, collapsing onto it before he was completely by the bed, resulting in his torso flopping down on the mattress but his feet dangling off. Even though this was a double bed he still managed to bang his elbow against my shin, causing me to shoot my leg up in pain almost breaking his arm off in this violent movement. I clutched my leg to my chest rubbing frantically at my shin trying to ‘breathe through the pain’. Craig turned his head to survey the damage and came up to see me clutching my shin, red in the face, eyes pinched shut and pure pain evident on my face. He burst out into laughter at the sight of this, and I don’t blame him, I would have to if it were him, needless to say I did not find this hysterical at that point. Craig tried to sit up between his laughing fits but kept collapsing every time he looked up at my red face.
“I… I’m sorry I didn’t see that there.” He said a little out of breath through his laughter, pointing at my leg.
“I figured as much.” I tried through gritted teeth still rubbing frantically at my shin, a little less red in the face now.
“Are you ok?” With this his face became softer as if some paternal protection kicked in.
“I’ll be fine.” I said, while lowering my leg back down onto the bed.
“I think I’ll name that lovely blue green bruise after you as soon as the blood starts rushing to my skin.”
Not only did he get me on my scar from that time I tore open my leg on vacation, which was still quite sensitive, but it was right on top of another bruise I had there. Thank goodness I’m old enough to prevent people from thinking its abuse and too young for spousal abuse, not that I wear shorts to show them off that is.
“Ha! I like it!” he exclaimed and slapped me on the same damn spot. With that I flung myself up just enough so I could punch him in the arm. He flinched and pulled his arms up to cover his face and contracting his muscles just enough so it didn’t really hurt.
“Owe geez I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He said this all little pleadingly, chuckling at my futile efforts to hurt him this way, to be honest, my arms were way to lanky and weak to throw a good enough punch to actually hurt him, but I kept trying, even if it was only for a bruise the size of a peanut to appear a day or two later. I stopped pointlessly beating him and flopped back down. A sudden flash of memories hit me of when we were younger. I thought Craig was just the best thing. I wanted to be just like Craig. He was cool and smooth and sporty and I so badly wanted to be cool. I was a tomboy when I was a kid, and I didn’t really know the difference between boys and girls except for the parts that made us a boy or a girl. I remember how Craig and I would play in the garden for hours making bows and arrows and spears hunting things and being Native American Red Indians. We would ride our bikes and make stink bombs and be real ‘boys’. He did Judo when he was a young teen and one day while wrestling with him, trying to use my height against him, he flipped me over his shoulder and timed it so perfectly that I landed on the couch, needless to say a little shell shocked. He taught me how to play golf when this became his chosen sport, and we would practice our swings across from our house where there was a big open undeveloped field. I was lying on his bed, in one of our many houses we lived in, (my mom liked to move a lot) and was reading my book upside down while dangling my head off the bed (I found reading this way easier) minding my own business when Craig came into the room and made a comment that kind of caught me off guard; “Oh, you’re developing.” He was talking about my breasts. I remember laughing at him and shaking my head reminding him that I was after all a girl. He did that the first time I wore a dress and the first time I wore make-up, but never said anything when I would lay curled up in a little ball of pain in his bed when aunt flow and her friends ‘the cramps’ came to visit every month, and suddenly it became apparent that he was a boy and I was a girl. This didn’t change much how we were with each other or at least to my mind. Maybe when he started dating my best friend Mila, did it change slightly.
“You suck” I said it a little under my breath, not really meaning it. With an amused snort, Craig lay back down next to me assuming the same position I was in. We lay there staring at the ceiling for a moment before Craig spoke up again.
“Are you going to finish your homework?” He pointed at my drawing board that was now half on half off the bed. I lift my head to look in the direction of his pointing finger.
“I’ll think about it.” I said a little miffed just thinking about it and lowered my head back down.
“I hate high school, I feel so stuck, and I feel there is something more productive that I can do with my time. The only time I learn something new is when I’m in art history class or drama class and those classes aren’t exactly going to help me in life or to get a job.” I swung my arms up in the air and dropped them dramatically by my sides causing them to bounce a few times on the mattress.
“You only have two years left then you’re done, and you’re only fifteen…”
“Sixteen in October” I interrupted him.
“… whatever, you’re only a teen, what do you know about life actually?”
“Hey! You can’t say that, you left high school at sixteen to study design, so what do you actually know about life then, huh?” This came out more defensive than what I had intended it to be.
“I guess, I did however learn that at eighteen life gets serious fast and then you wish you were back in high school.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever feel that way about it.” I pursed my lips thinking it over.
“I think it’s the need to get out of this house, no maybe not the house… more away from my mom.” I look over to Craig waiting for him to respond.
He gave a little laugh “yes, definitely to get away from your mom, that’s for sure.”
I chuckled and shook my head at or obvious frustration toward my mother. Jack was almost never at home, always working or at the gym but that didn’t really matter. Jack is a really good father and always tried to give us all – Craig, Sam (my sister) and myself – the best he could afford and tends to go above and beyond for us. We did have our spats however, like two weeks ago; Craig got fed up with my mom emotionally abusing him, and cracked wide open like an egg, emotions spilling out like yoke. In protection of his wife and pure rage, Jack retorted and slapped Craig across the face. Jack slapped him so hard that Craig’s skin on his check had actually split open under the immense pressure. I remember hearing the slap and thinking that it would be crazy for someone to let off fireworks so early in the afternoon. I left my room to investigate what the sound was, and found Craig standing at the basin in our bathroom rinsing the wound and the tears streaming down his face. I ran to him bewildered trying to figure out what happened but all he said to me was to go away, that I should just leave him alone. I didn’t listen and tried to hug him but he just kept pushing me away. Finally he got a good enough grip of my arms and pushed me out of the bathroom locking the door behind him. I stood staring at the door in shock, worried to death that he would do something foolish and hurt himself. He might not have admitted it but he was going through a rough time. He and his long term girlfriend – also my friend – Recently broke up and depression was creeping up on him from the dark. I was so afraid that this would throw him over the edge, so I resolved to stay outside the bathroom door until he decided to come out. I remember lowering myself down against the door feeling a lump grow in my throat as I sat there waiting for him to come out. My mom and Jack were fighting down stairs, likely about what had just happened, when I heard a set of keys jingle followed by a car door slam and then there was silence. My mom had had enough and left. Jack never left, my mom however loved to run away from conflict and when she came back she would pretend that nothing happened.
I sat there for what felt like hours, listening intently listening either for my mom’s arrival or for the unmistakable unlocking of the door behind me. Finally when I felt movement at the door and the sound of the key in the lock twisting, I sprung to my feet so that I could brace myself for anything that could have met me on the other side of the door. Craig emerged with blood shot eyes and dried tears on his cheeks, face all puffy and strained. I remember feeling the tears stinging at my eyes. My heart broke to see him like that, I couldn’t stand that he was hurting this much. I had a wave of anger rush over me followed by a strong sense of protection. I started swallowing down the tears and the lump the size of a baseball in my throat in an attempt to protect Craig. I wanted to be strong for him and show him that I was there for him. He kind of shoved past me – clearly still a bit defensive – and with that I took the opportunity to surreptitiously glance into the bathroom to see if there was any evidence that he could have done something stupid, and to my relief there was nothing. I quickly turned on my heel to follow him into his bedroom, but I was to slow and got the door shut on me. I didn’t hear a key turn in the door so I tried the handle and it opened. Slowly I pushed open the door and stuck my head in through the gap. Craig was laying on the bed with his head stuffed into a pillow; it looked so comfy and would be great for my sore body, I remembered thinking. I slowly stuck my body through the tiny gap of the door trying not to disturb Craig too much and shuffled towards the bed. Because his bed is pushed up against the wall on right hand side and he was lying on the left side of the bed I had to strategically climb over him so as to not step on him or sit on him or something that might have pushed the wrong button and cause him to throw me out. I couldn’t be thrown out, my butt and back wouldn’t handle another hour on a cold tiled floor.
He didn’t move however, he didn’t say a word he just laid there face planted in the pillow. When I finally got over him, I lay down on my side next to him; his face was still in the pillow, I panicked a little and shot my hand to his torso to see if he was still breathing, he was. Craig didn’t protest my hand so I left it there on his back comfortingly rubbing my hand up and down his spine. I’ve only ever see Craig cry once before this, and it was cause of a back injury he did up while playing golf as a teen. My eyes landed on the bit of the gash on Craig’s cheek that wasn’t hidden by the pillow and at the sight of it got Goosebumps, thinking how painful that must have been. I was thinking about the gash needing a proper clean when it dawned on me that he might have fallen asleep when I suddenly felt his back violently contacting, with a snotty sob following soon after. Needless to say I didn’t leave his side until he fell asleep.
“Well, if you do what I did and go to college, what are you going to study then?”
Remembering the events of the last few weeks I looked over to Craig, who was looking at the ceiling intently, and notice that the once open gash on his cheek was healing nicely and only a scab remained. I averted my gaze quickly before he could notice that I was looking. I gave Craig’s question some thought for a moment a little distracted by my own thought. “Fashion design?” I said a questioningly.
Craig sort of pinched his face together frowning at my answer, “why fashion design?” he asked like I was proposing to become a fire breather or a circus gypsy, now I know my family has gypsy blood but I’m not that crazy. I fell back into my previous thoughts.
Jack barely got angry, and I suppose it was because of incidents like that. The last time he got this angry he kicked a door and broke his toe. Jack is originally from Manchester England and moved to Cape Town a few years ago. He still has his accent and because I grew up with him from the age of three I picked it up, also his mannerisms and sayings. I remember being told at school to stop with my silly accent and I couldn’t understand what accent these people were talking about. Later in life when I started going to Afrikaans school I noticed that I sounded different and made an effort to change it, I still however get it poking through when I talk to Jack and Craig and especially if I’m upset or when talking to myself. So I think that’s why Jack gets quite strong when his angry, due to his heritage and up brining in Manchester. Manchester is after all the home of Manchester United, and we all know that footballers tend to be a bit more on the aggressive side. However they are still English and the English love their visits to the pub at night where they can freely relax with a pint of beer in one hand, a smoke in the other and with great mates to spur them on, but they are quite harmless. However they are pretty good fighters, after all they are descended from Romans as the name Manchester originates from the Roman word Mamucium which was the Roman fort of the civilian settlement in 79AD. Manchester is known for the rough and tumble attitude of the people who live there also the posh footballer’s wives with their orange tans. Jack is more of a typical Brit that loves a glass of wine when he gets home rather than typical ‘berk’.
Berk
noun
Britishinformal
noun: berk; plural noun: berks; noun: burke; plural noun: burkes; noun: burk; plural noun: burks
- a stupid person.
Berk: n idiot. Yes, yes, another friendly U.K. word for moron; this one implies a degree of clumsiness: Look, you berk, I said to bend it, not bust it. The word originally derives from the rhyming slang “Berkeley Hunt” (or “Berkshire Hunt”), which rhymes with — well, “punt,” among other words.
“Well because I’m good at making clothes and art and it encompasses both those things.” Impressed by my diplomatic answer I pouted my lips and nodded my head up and down in an ‘oh- yes-I-did’ manner.
Craig chuckled at my face dropping his head and shaking it. “Okay smarty pants, maybe you should become a politician seeing that you always have the right answers.”
“Well, thanks to my clever mouth, I’ll do sales if all fails.” I said with a sarcastic smile.
“I’ll sell clothes, then I’m still sort of in the same field.” Craig burst out into laughter at this. Perplexed I looked at him questioningly. I replayed the words over in my head and couldn’t find what was so funny; yes it was funny but not that funny. Then again sometimes I didn’t catch jokes the same way other people did, or I understood them differently, maybe because my mind worked in a very unique way or maybe I was just slow.
“I want to play you a song.” Craig said while getting up from the bed. He made his way over to his computer and started clicking away. The room was filled with a slow haunting melody that made Goosebumps erupt from my skin. I knew this song; it was one that Craig would listen to over and over in the car on the way to school or well, whenever he had the opportunity to. Coldplay was his favourite band or at least one of them and I sort of suspect that it was because it conjured up emotions in him the same way it did for me. He stopped listening to them when he and Mila were dating, probably because he didn’t have the need to remind himself of the ‘pain’ inside to be a brooding artist as most artists need. There is a saying that goes; “you cannot spell paint without pain.” And that’s very true. If only we could harness happiness into inspiration for painting or writing or any art form, in that matter, but it just seemed like Craig and I, like many artist, just couldn’t do that. Studies have shown that mental illness, physical pain and or emotional pain go hand in hand with beautiful art, be it literature to photography, and the more contemporary art forms; painting, sketching and writing.
We all know Vincent Van Gogh as the artist that cut off a portion of his ear as a poetic statement, of sorts, due to Paul Gauguin (a fellow artist that stayed with Van Gogh and studied with him) stating that he would be moving out.(I think in some way it was a ‘bromance’ gone wrong.) Vincent was of Dutch decent. He was said to be a shy and emotional child, that no doubt, was coupled with low self-esteem as many of us artist suffer from due to our odd ways that aren’t accepted by society, that see us as abnormal. Van Gogh suffered from epilepsy that some say was due to a legion on his brain from birth. I however think he saw life in a different way to what was accepted as the norm and found himself tortured by the constant feeling of loneliness.
Lone·ly (lnl)
adj. lone·li·er, lone·li·est
- a. Without companions; lone.
- Characterized by aloneness; solitary.
- Unfrequented by people; desolate: a lonely crossroads.
- a. Dejected by the awareness of being alone.
- Producing such dejection: the loneliest night of the week.
Loneliness is realising that no one in your circle understand you and that you have no one to confide in – when you need it the most – without judgement.
Van Gogh suffered from severe depression his whole life, in my opinion thanks to the aforementioned. This depression was unmistakable in his artwork but at the same time he captured the vibrancy of life that made his painting so hypnotic and mysterious, enough to disappear into. Some have motioned that this ability was due to the medication he had used for his epilepsy and that this had changed his visual perceptions of life. This could be true I, however, strongly disagree naturally. In my opinion this is science trying to explain the unexplainable functions and views of artist that are in some way – in my opinion – other worldly creatures. Vincent succumbed to the unintended aftermath of his, failed, attempt of suicide, which was beautifully poetic. When he was thirty-seven he went out into a field and shot himself in the chest, but died at home in his bed two days later, only. I once read a quote that said; “Suicide might be beautiful, but just remember you won’t be there to experience the beauty of it” – Unknown. Vincent is my favourite artist of the 1800’s as he, basically, encompasses what a true tortured artist is, or maybe because I can relate to him in many ways.
Then there was, Ernest Hemingway who was a part of the Red Cross Ambulance Corps in WWI and saw many awful things that must have changed him for life, he also suffered from manic depression. Hemingway lost a love thanks to a failed relationship and because of a broken heart committed suicide by shooting himself with a double-barrel shot gun through the forehead.
Last but not least is a person that touched many people’s hearts and left many behind when he decided life was too much for him. – Another example of the definition of a tortured artist – Kurt Cobain.
Kurt grew up in a small town, feeling misunderstood and depressed, a recurring attribute in tortured artists. Kurt isolated himself as a teen and adult and suffered from anger issues, which the media later on tried to sell as a by product of his mother and fathers divorce. This could have been a big factor, but once again the misunderstanding of society and what is portrayed as ‘normal’ is not so ‘normal’ to us as artists. We see beyond the flock of sheep and end up being the black sheep. Once again science tried to put a name to this, and was surmised that Kurt suffered from bipolar disorder as mental illness ran in his family and his journals showed that he had extreme highs and lows, which in my opinion comes along when fighting against yourself and your truth, and trying to fit in with the a flock, especially if you are constantly in the public eye. Kurt turned to heroine to still his mind and then stilled his mind one last time when he shot himself in the head. Many still say that he was murdered, instead of suicide.
So as tortured artists you can expect us to be dark, broody and misunderstood, and most of the times, find a vice for our tortures in ways that only destroy us even more. Craig chose weed to calm him down and to forget and I chose to see how many times I could cut my arms open, with a broken piece of razor, until the goose bumps wouldn’t erupt over my body anymore. We hid it well and never spoke about it with each other, we just understood.
“Okay, this next song is for you.” Craig said as he turned on his desk chair to look at me as the tune started. I listened intently at the song playing, half expecting it to be “Green Eyes” as Tristan played it to me and said this was my song and probably because I have green eyes. I found this a bit unimaginative, but still sweet.
Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah, they were all yellow.
I came along,
I wrote a song for you,
And all the things you do,
And it was called “Yellow”.
So then I took my turn,
Oh what a thing to have done,
And it was all yellow.
Your skin,
Oh yeah your skin and bones,
Turn into
Something beautiful,
You know,
You know I love you so,
You know I love you so.
At this I looked up at him and gave him my best ‘awwwhh-so-sweet face’ but he was frowning at his hands like they were made of some alien substance and he was trying very hard to figure out what it was.
I swam across,
I jumped across for you,
Oh what a thing to do.
‘Cause you were all yellow,
I drew a line,
I drew a line for you,
Oh what a thing to do,
And it was all yellow.
I tried to figure out what he was trying to tell me with this song. I know how Craig thinks he speaks through music. His favourite song of the week, I knew, described how he was feeling, then what was he trying to tell me with this?
Your skin,
Oh yeah your skin and bones,
Turn into
Something beautiful,
And you know,
For you I’d bleed myself dry,
For you I’d bleed myself dry.
At this I shot a glance up again at Craig, has he noticed?
It’s true,
Look how they shine for you,
Look how they shine for you,
I kept my eyes locked on him hoping he would give away some sort of clue to what he was saying with this song. Maybe I’m just looking too much into it. Maybe it just reminded him of me and maybe I’m just completely mad to think what I think his thinking the things this suggests his thinking… oh great now my brain has left the conversation and my impulsive heart is taking over!
Look how they shine for,
Look how they shine for you,
Look how they shine for you,
Look how they shine.
Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And all the things that you do.
dagreenfairy1 