The sound of a plate shattering, heavy breathing, loud footsteps and the solid thunk of her door slamming rudely into its frame was all that Jamie remembered of the situation that had resulted in her current position. She stood in her studio with her hand on the doorknob, bracing to block the entrance of the next person to try the door. “Jamie!” A voice yelled, Kylar’s voice, filled with rage and made gravely with pain. “This isn’t going to solve anything!” Kylar screamed through the door, pounding on the rickety structure with enough force to put Jamie in fear for its future.
Jamie slid to the floor, her whole body feeling feverish as she pressed her whole body against the cold hardwood flooring. Her electric blue hair clung to her sweaty forehead irritatingly, but she couldn’t summon the energy to do more than ineffectively toss her head. As the world faded into gray she found herself wondering. ‘What needs solved?”
Jamie started awake, shivering at the sudden intense cold that surrounded her. Her clothes had become drenched in sweat before the floor had cooled her down completely. With chattering teeth,, she stood slowly, groggily examining her studio for something that might warm her. In the small cluttered space that she used, she found her easel, pencil sets, and coloring supplies. Half of the dishes that she and Kylar owned collectively were peeking out from boxes that made up what she had begun calling “The Pile”. The pile was a trash mound that was made up almost entirely of boxes that she had stuffed things like laundry, dishes and things that she had no use for into and then set aside. Now the thing had grown to the point where it took up half of her studio.
She needed a blanket and she knew that there had to be one somewhere in the refuse. She eyed the mound of boxes with growing dread as the enormity of the task set in. She shook her head, the only other option was leaving and trying to dash to her room before Kylar caught her. That was impossible, so she sighed and wiped her soaked hair from her wet forehead, setting about her task with determination.
She picked a box at the top of a stack that was closest to the far wall and eased it down. It was so full that its sides had bowed and parts of the corners were ripping. She rifled through it, but found only old packaging and dishes. She continued down the stack, finding nothing useful in any of the boxes and setting them to the side. She moved to the next stack and began searching there.
Over the course of an hour, Jamie had cleared a quarter of the mess and found some dry clothes to change into. They were stained and smelly, but they were warm. Without the bone piercing cold to driving her, the blanket objective had lost its importance. However, she still liked the idea of cleaning up the mess that had taken over her studio. After a few minutes of planning, Jamie stood up and got back to cleaning.
About two hours, and another quarter of the mess later, Jamie ran into a problem. Her original plan had been to make semi-organized piles of dishes, laundry, and trash. This had collapsed because her piles had grown so large that they simply mounded together. Faced with this, Jamie decided to use the boxes to contain her mess. She found three boxes and used a permanent marker to label them dishes, laundry, and trash respectively. She sorted her piles into boxes fairly quickly, claiming a new box each time one filled up. After about half an hour she was back to the main body of the pile.
She reached for a small box that was sitting on the ground between two large stacks of boxes. She dug it into a more open area before popping it open. Inside were notebooks, most new and untouched, but two were obviously used. Jamie gazed at them in confusion; she’d thrown all of her used notebooks out when she’d moved in with Kylar three years ago.
Stupefied, she reached out to touch the one in the worst condition. It was so dilapidated that the cardboard cover was soft and thin like paper. She turned it in her hands, gazing at the baby blue cover, slowly recognizing the pattern etched into it, one that she’d designed. Jamie’s fingers caressed the edges, the paper was so worn that it didn’t even cut her fingers. It had lost all stiffness. The entire notebook was flaccid, bowing out toward the edges under some invisible weight in the middle.
Jamie flipped open the cover and with bewildered amazement read the words scrawled there. The hand writing was hers, that much was unmistakable, but it was so old. The letters were flowing, always touching one another, like word streams. There were large spaces between words, sometimes big enough to fit a whole other word in. This free form was nothing like the blocky, almost drafted, precision lettering that she had developed over the last five years. Her fingers brushed over the page, feeling the indentations of the writing.
The first page and half of the second was devoted to ideas; numbered ideas for plot events in the novel that this undoubtedly contained. Past that a story began to unfold, a story of romance in a fantasy land. A story full of youthful naivety that captivated her, sweeping her into the over the top, artsy environment head long. Jamie read the story, eight chapters, each at least ten pages long, without boring or loosing focus. She was astounded by the subtle brilliance of her own work, enchanted by characters that she had forgotten, and fully in love with the plot as it developed. As she got farther in and more enchanted, she found herself in a state of disbelief that such a wondrous tale had come from her pen.
At the end of the eighth chapter she flipped the page to begin the ninth, but found only white space and faded blue lines. She’d never finished it. Jamie felt a deep resonating pain in her chest where her heart had been before it dropped into her stomach. Now this wonderful work, this tale of love and woe in her fantasy land of magick and war, would never be complete. She would never have the satisfaction of writing those final words that would end the tale in either happiness or sorrow. She couldn’t. There was simply no way that her mediocre skill would even be able approach the level that she had once been writing on. Six years ago, if she hadn’t abandoned the tale for hopes of more mature prose, she could have written a wonderful and perfect conclusion for these people. Certainly not now though, never would that be a possibility again.
Six years is a long time. Six years has the potential to make or break a person. Jamie felt as though these last years had broken her. One by one her confidence, self-esteem, and self-worth had plummeted to dismal levels.
Jamie flipped back to the beginning of the notebook, running her fingers over the soft paper. With each indentation she felt, each peak of promise that crashed to despair, she felt herself grow angry, and with each peak she only got angrier until she was fuming. She remembered, how long had it been since she’d thought about high school or her childhood? She remembered how much she’d enjoyed writing; how filling blank space with her ideas had made her feel.
She remembered the joy of creation, of true creation. In writing she could create a defined person with a personality as well as looks, she could make an entire world with its customs unique and present. In writing, her vision and interpretations were the only ones given credit because it was she who shaped the events. In drawing a visage, others could project their own ideals upon art that was hers and completely disregard what she had intentioned with that piece. Jamie placed the notebook on her desk, and then curled into a ball on the floor as she grieved all that had been taken from her.
She’d been the perfect victim. Naïve and trusting she had opened herself to the system that would destroy her. A tender nineteen, she had stepped onto campus expecting her curricula to nurture her talent, to support her as she refined her literary style. She was quickly sucked into the avaricious machine and crushed between its gears. Her professor found every weakness she had and played every insecurity to his advantage. He hammered her with criticism for every small detail that was out of place with no hint on how to improve. She found herself failing exams, skipping classes, eventually even her will to write vanished from her.
Two days before the beginning of Thanksgiving Break, she’d signed out of all of her classes. Her mom had been so overjoyed by her early return that she hadn’t bothered to ask why. She’d lied to her family for six days about how much she had learned and told them that was fine. When she said goodbye to her parents, she drove back to where she was attending school and checked into a motel and applied for a full time job. She hadn’t seen her family since.
Jamie had met Kylar three years later at an art gallery. After losing all confidence in her writing ability she’d begun sketching cartoons to relieve her stress. One of her co-workers had suggested that she try to get some sort of commissioned work after seeing a caricature she’d done of their boss. Having no experience in any sort of art field, she’d started viewing galleries as a form of research.
A few months after that she’d attended a showing of some pretentious rich man’s art. Most present were either enjoying his terrible play doh sculptures and outlandishly abstract approach to acrylic painting or hiding their disdain remarkably well. Across the room she’d noticed a tall figure, hanging in the corner, waving dismissively at attempts to start a conversation. Utterly bored out of her mind, she’d approached this figure. She stood close, a lot closer than she would have normally and opened the conversation with a crack on the monstrosity that sat directly in front of them. They walked a few circuits, entertaining each other with arguments over what made art good and bad. She learned that her new friends name was Kylar.
After they grew bored of the gallery, they went out for coffee at a nearby café. An hour later, they’d made plans to meet at a showing the following weekend. After that they spent every weekend together, eventually adding weekdays into the mix. They attended gallery showings, went to see independent art films, sometimes they just went out for coffee and walked around for hours. Within two months they were spending at least two weeknights together, along with most of weekend. Jamie’s time with Kylar made her happy, all other times were drab hours spent slaving away to fund the vibrant time spent in her new friend’s company.
Kylar suggested that they live together when Jamie’s lease was due to expire, a proposition that she fervently accepted. They lived together for two year, growing closer even as both of them floated through an uncountable number of flings induced by far too many nights spent at a nearby bar that always played Jamie’s favorite radio station and always had the crowd of artsy college drop outs that were always willing to take a walk to their apartment. After the end of Kylar’s most engaging relationship, the two of them had confessed their mutual love for each other and entered a committed relationship.
Six months had passed since then. It seemed like everything good that had existed between them was slowly being eaten away. She’d found every kindness that had made them good friends had become an expectation. Generally, these expectations went unfulfilled because neither of them felt the other had done anything to deserve this kindness. The dynamic of their debates had evaporated because they now felt that they were expected to avoid hurting each other’s feelings by relenting on their stances. What had once been challenging queries over good coffee had quickly decayed to screaming matches from opposing doorways.
Over the last month she found that she no longer had any will to create. Her canvases were quickly filling with scribbles and paint blotches rather than the cartoonish mosaics that had defined her work. Her frustration over the corruption of the best thing in her life was spilling over onto her art. Maybe that was a good thing she realized, a spark of light burning to life in her gut.
A smile pulled her cheeks up just a sliver but it was enough. She sat up from her position on the floor, rising to the desk and picking up the old notebook. She read over her plot ideas one more time and turned to the blank page where chapter nine should have been. She picked up the pen she used for inking and began writing.
It wasn’t her best, it wasn’t perfect, but it was something. It was something that she was doing rather than just lying around in her destructive depression. She forced all of her angst onto the page in the form of the story that she’d loved and written. She could do anything and she would start here. This imperfect novel would be the first entry in her journal of triumph.
Around eight in the morning, Jamie decided to give her hand a break and get something to eat. She placed her pen down in its spot on her desk and stood. After leaning on the desk for a few moments she stretched her aching muscles before limping to the door. The click of the lock disengaging caused movement outside. Jamie steeled herself as she opened the door, but found only a lanky form amassed in blankets offering a cup of hot coffee clutched between skinny fingers. The soft smile paired with unkempt hair and Kylar’s naturally boyish face melted Jamie’s heart.
She accepted the coffee and did her best to give Kylar a one armed hug and chaste kiss on the cheek. Withdrawing, Jamie took a sip of the coffee before speaking. “Thanks hon.”
“It’s nothing I brewed the pot a while ago.” Kylar replied with the smile turning into a small grin. Jamie nodded before taking a long sip from the cup.
“Sorry about last night.” She mumbled. “I just don’t know what’s going on in my head.”
Kylar moved forward, muscular arms moving to encircle the smaller, chunkier form of Jamie. “Don’t worry about that.”
“We need to talk about some things. First, though we have a lot of dishes to go through and some serious cleaning that needs done.”
Jamie felt her head rumble with Kylar’s chuckle. “Later, for now though, let’s just relax for a while. There’s supposed to be a Buffy marathon coming on soon.” Kylar’s strong fingers wrapped around hers, tugging her down the hall.