ABERRATION

 

(Artwork By: Erryn Edwards)

Wynn placed the earrings she had been gifted by her aunt in a velvet case, the pearl drops rolling off to the side. Hair pins lay scattered across the wooden dressing table, some bent out of shape. She had never been comfortable letting her hair down, they always seemed to make her neck itch. But she was trying to make an effort and had convinced herself the discomfort was part of the process.

The party had been decent. While she knew very few people, everyone was friendly. They were curious to know about her tattoo, praising her for having the courage to have something permanently needled into her body. “Are those wings?” She’d nod, and each interrogator would speculate the significance behind it. She did not refute any ideas. She was too tired to explain.

Wynn stood up and turned to her bed, well-made without no creases. Eighteen months ago, she wouldn’t have come home to a clean room. There would be books, notepads, clothes, and unfinished sketches everywhere. There would be crinkled paper on the floor, with lyrics to songs she never composed, feelings she had never experienced but wrote about. The mess was gone, now. The books had been sold off to a second-hand store, the clothes were neatly folded and kept in the almirah and she hadn’t drawn anything in two years.

Walking to her wardrobe, Wynn glanced at her reflection in the window. Her skin was covered with make-up she had splurged her allowance on. Nowadays, she never really felt her face was clean. Every time she rubbed her hand against it, pieces of foundation the cotton swab had missed would come off.

As she changed into her nightwear, blue silk shirt and shorts, she realized she almost missed the way her old Mickey Mouse t-shirt and baggy pajamas felt against her skin after a long day. They smelt like paint and ink, and no amount of washing could took that away.

Wynn placed the dress she had worn in the dry-cleaning bag. It was a backless red get-up, a daring attempt on her part to express her femininity. Jeans and a Taylor Swift hoodie were things of the past.

Braiding her hair before going to brush her teeth, she scoured the inside of her bedside drawer for a rubber hand, and her hand closed around a box. She took it out and kept it on her bed. Letting the hair fall back onto her shoulders, she opened it.

It was packed with tiny slips of paper. Wynn did not immediately recognize what it was, and perhaps if she had, she would have kept it back in. She picked up the piece of paper on top, and opened to read it:

12/07/2010: I got an A+ in a math test today. Mother let me watch an extra hour of television, Sherlock at that, as a reward. I am happy.

Wynn smiled. The words played out the scene in front of her, and she could feel what her younger self did. She kept it aside and opened the second one.

13/06/2013: I made Professor Crane’s portrait and it was selected for an art competition. I feel so happy.

She remembered she did not sleep for two days because she did not want to stop working on the drawing. It was the first time she had successfully drawn a real person.

The slip she picked next was dotted with large, loopy letters, a childlike essence effervescent and contagious.

13/10/2008: I visited the bookstore. It was big. There were so many books. The lady there taught me a new word. I am joyous.

Wynn was surprised to see that at five, she appreciated the beauty of books. Realizing how this was making her feel, she was about to close the box, when her eyes fell on a slip buried deep in. It was bigger than the rest.

07/01/2020: I have been invited to a birthday party. The first I have attended in years. I am so excited! It is going to be a good night.

Her memory of that day was clear as glass. The humiliation was burned into her soul, as though she had been branded. The words, “No one likes an artsy, do-gooder, know-it-all freak like you” still rang in her ears on her bad days.

She had come back wondering where she had gone wrong. All her life, she had never felt the way that statement made her feel. How was it that everyone her age seemed to hate her?

At first, she denied it. So, what if she did not have friends? She was happy. Wasn’t she? The walls she had created around herself were helping her, right? Her life wasn’t spiraling out of control because she did not pay attention and she did not care, was it?

Doubt crept in where it shouldn’t have. It took months for the change, but it happened. The late night creativity sessions stopped, she did not feel any motivation or inspiration. She couldn’t bring herself to read anymore and made herself think it was a waste of time. She saved up money and forced herself to get a tattoo. Wings, on her back, the start of a new her. Every second she had spent in the parlor had been painful, and even today, she did not know why she had done it. What purpose did it really serve?

She held back from anything that resembled her old self. The layer of concealer became thicker, as though it was trying to bury something that should not be seen. The chaos had transformed into order, and there was no room for change.

She felt a tear drop roll down her cheek, falling onto the slip. Salty tears mixed with mascara, spreading through the white paper like blood coursing through veins.

***

She brushed her teeth for exactly two minutes. Applying moisturizer on her face, Wynn started wiping off the eyeliner. She stopped midway when she saw something black on the bathroom mirror. On looking closely, she saw the words, ‘I AM HAPPY’ written over and over again. She felt confused, thinking she was seeing things. She blinked, but it did not go away. Panic was starting to creep in. She started rubbing the glass with her palm. The ink became smudged all over, but it did not come off.

Stepping back, Wynn stared in horror at the mirror. Looking at herself, she could see nothing, but darkness, an aberration of reality.