Damaged
She said that she wasn’t always like this. Or at least things used to much, much simpler. Coloring books, you know.Pasta art. Markers on the wall. She brings out a small wooden thing. A match. Everything changed. Everything always does. They stood there for hours, maybe days, in front of a weathered and gnarled tree. She said don’t call it tree. No, it wasn’t anything like that. Trees are green and welcoming. Not dead and barren. They should whisper things like “Hello little one, climb me.” Not “I’m going to scratch your window while you sleep.” Ten years old, under the covers, home alone. Scratch, scratch, I’m here. Her first time. Her father’s lighter.
He watched a drop of sweat trickle down her pale skin. It drew a line from her neck to her bare shoulder, glistening from the light. This was the fourth building tonight. She smiled at him. She said something about how people are trapped in their surroundings. Prisoners to the things they saw. Why can you only change something on a piece of paper or within a frame? Why can you build something you find beautiful, but not remove something you don’t? Why can’t I make my eyes the canvas, and change the world the way I see fit? Isn’t that what art is? He shrugged. He didn’t know much about art, but he thought he was an artist of a different sort. Of those smaller moments. The little details. Of matching his stride to follow hers. Of nodding just the right way, not “Yes, yes, yes, go on,” but “Yes… I understand”. Of holding hands, using his thumb to draw small messages on her skin, wondering if she understood what he was trying to say.
She asked him what he’s thankful for. He said he’s thankful to have her. She laughed, a terrifying and cold melody in the night. Don’t be silly, she said. She told him it’s the past that shows her who she is and who she is not, who she loves and who she can no longer love. He would always have her, even when he didn’t. She knew he wouldn’t understand this. How the past was her cage and her key. How every moment that has led up to this one, all them burned into her mind. The tree still scratching in her. His kiss from last night. The smell of ash from the other buildings. Something is always left behind and something always remains. Behind him, the sound of sirens began to fill the night. He knew it was too late to run away. He looked at her, knowing she must hear it, too. But she stood fixated, the flames dancing in her eyes. He grabbed her, We have to go. Inside the burning home, a man screamed in confused agony. I was only ten. He pulled her away as she softly muttered what the men had said as they held her down. Scratch, scratch. Here I am.
