The Painting

The beeping from the heart monitor woke me from a restless night. That, and the throbbing intensity I felt in my head. I felt as though I had fallen from Mt. Everest. Even as I lied there and focused on my breathing, I could feel a quiver of pain surging through my body. It was numbing. I dug my fingernails in the sheets beneath me to keep it at bay.

Beads of sweat tickled the back of my neck. I knew I was in the hospital; I didn’t understand why. Recollections of the night before seemed gone. I was completely alone in the room, no signs of my family anywhere. My mother always wore this lavender lotion that I could smell whenever she was nearby. The scent usually dawdles for a long while after she leaves a room.

As I attempted to turn over in the bed, there were two things that stopped me. One being the blazing outline of the sun, beaming through the window and blinding me. The second was the mere fact that my left arm was handcuffed to the bed. I felt my heart descending into my stomach. Tugging at the cuff, I felt trapped.

I could hear the soft chit chat of the nurses at the nurse’s station, right outside the door. Before I could stop myself, I was calling out to them to help me. I heard their whispers subsiding. I called to them again; my voice cracking in the process. The door creaked open and one of the nurses stood there, puzzled. She looked to be my mother’s age, mid 40’s at the youngest. Her curly blonde hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and out of her face, exhibiting her features. She had an amiable face. Long cheek bones, light on the blush; her gray eyes were round with long lashes and filled with so much candor. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine.

“I wasn’t expecting you to be awake yet…” Her voice was calm, yet something about it seemed perplexed.

“Where’s my mom?” I asked, my voice sounded dismayed. “What’s going on?” Tears were filling my eyes as my anxiety overflowed.

She opened her mouth to answer me, but her words fell short. “Please try and rest Avery,” she spoke to me as though I was a toddler. At 17 years old, I tried not to take breach of her tone.

“What’s going on?” I asked again, raising my voice. I wanted answers. Though it was clear I wasn’t going to get them from her. She remained silent for a short while, looking defeated. She stared to the ground, unable to meet my eyes. I noticed how uncomfortable she was, so I decided to ask another question. Another attempt to force answers out of her. “Why am I cuffed?”

I waited for her to answer but after another short pause, I knew she wasn’t going to. I lied back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. I was exhausted and the amount of pain I was feeling was unreal. All I knew was that I wanted my family with me, and I needed to know where they were. My insides were screaming for a familiar face.

“Please rest,” she finally spoke. She sounded tired. As she met my eyes she said, “Everything will be explained in due time.”

Saying nothing else, she went over to the window to fix the blinds, and then I noticed something I didn’t see before. In fact, I wasn’t sure if it was even there before. But I honestly wasn't in the right state of mind.

As she walked past the wall, there it appeared.

A painting.

It was of a small wooden cottage that sat at the edge of a round frozen pond. From the cottage grassland to the pond was this long dock with a sailboat resting on the frozen water. Snowflakes were falling from the puffy white clouds, and over the tops of the cottage.

The grassland appeared to be frosted over in delicate brush strokes of white snow. The scenery reminded me of my grandmothers’ cottage. She even had the same sailboat resting at the end of the dock. It belonged to my grandfather and has been in my family for generations. After he died, she could never bring herself to give it up. They both ended up dying when I was young. But I remember visiting them on the pond every summer. We would also visit them sometimes during the winter and go ice-skating as the pond froze over. It was some of the best times we had as a family.

As I continued to stare at the painting, I noticed the layers of trees surrounding the background. The trees were tall and towered over the rest of the scenery. There was darkness within them, and it gave me a chilling sensation. The trees distracted from the small silhouette of a girl hiding in the darkness. I found it strange because unless you were searching for the figure, and knew of its place, you would hardly notice her.

From her outline, it was clear she was wearing a dress. Her hair seemed to be long and braided down her sides. It reminded me of my sister because she kept her hair the same way. There was no one else in the painting besides the young girl. It was odd that the artist chose to include her, but not make her noticeable.

As the nurse began leaving, I stopped her again. “Excuse me? That painting. Who painted it?” she looked over at the wall, bewildered, and then back at me.

“I’m not too sure,” she answered. “I honestly never noticed it.”

As she left, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the painting. Staring at it and analyzing it was the only thing that got me through the next couple of hours.

Not before long, the door opened again, and I wasn’t prepared for who entered the room next.

…

“Avery Barker?” Two men stood at the door: both in police uniforms. The one standing closest had a look about him that seemed mundane. He had a dark gaze upon his eyes and frown lines that deepened as he came into my field of vision.

My palms were sweaty as I became even more apprehensive.

“Miss Barker, Do you remember who I am?” His voice was boisterous and practically impaired my eardrums.

I shook my head.

“Let me rephrase that. Do you remember what happened yesterday?” he leaned closer; he was pressing for an answer that I didn’t have.

Why was I being interrogated? What did I do?

“N… no sir…” I said, my voice quivering. “Where’s my mom?”

“Do you remember where you were last night?” He asked. I could hear how impatient he was. I closed my eyes to shut him out, but his face was etched in my mind. Memories slowly began to invade my brain. Or maybe I never lost them. Maybe I was in denial.

It was the sounds that I remembered the most. The panicking of the ones around me. The screaming of that woman when she was crying to her children. But most of all, the yelling of the officer as he screamed in my face for me to answer him. The smell of his harsh breath was unforgettable. He was standing over me and asking me how much I had to drink. I couldn’t answer him. My consciousness was going in and out as his trying tone kept pressing for answers.

The imperceptible street lights fogged the surrounding area. I could hear the honking of the traffic and the yelling of angry drivers. They were forced to a halt as the streets were being cleaned from the accident that took place.

Bringing myself back to the hospital room, I felt washed out. I could hardly open my mouth to speak, and I couldn’t look the officer in the eyes. My eyes traced the painting on the wall again. As I kept staring at it, I was thunderstruck at what I was seeing. A small boy appeared next to the girl. He wasn’t there before. I had to blink a few times to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. But there he was, standing by her side and holding her hand.

I turned to the police officer; my breathing was trivial. “Where’s my family?” I grew angry because no one would answer my question. Just as he was angry because I couldn’t answer him.

“Do you remember where you were last night?” he asked again, ignoring my question.

How could I tell him that I remembered lying in the middle of the street with him yelling over me? How could I tell him that I remembered the traffic and the panicking? How could I tell him that I remembered the crying of that woman when she called out to her children?

My fingers trembled within the cuff as I stayed silent for a short while. Meeting his eyes, my vision was clouded with tears as I allowed myself to nod once. His mouth was in a thin line.

“Where’s my family?” I asked once more, keeping my tone low and hardly audible.

Watching the painting on the wall, I saw it beginning to transform. A tall and slender woman stood in between the children. They stood close to her as she kept her protective arms around them and shielding them from whatever they were afraid of. They were shadowy figures, but I couldn’t help but think that they were staring directly at me.

I was surprised to see both the cops staring at the painting as well. They were both silent for a long while. I was trying to figure out what I was seeing. Neither of them looked as stunned, but they did look disheartened.

The cop closest to me turned to face me once again, straightening his shoulders. “That’s all three…” He muttered.

“All three? All three who?” I asked, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the answer.

“The three who died.” The cop in the background said. He’s been quiet up until that point.

I stared amongst the cops, my emotions were raw and my fingers were clenched in fists. I was angry; not with them, but with myself. As I spoke, my voice no longer felt like my own. It sounded distorted and distant; It was as though I was a stranger in my body. No longer was I in control of my emotions.

“Where’s my family…?” I asked again. I knew the answer. I didn’t want it to be true; but seeing the painting on the wall was enough for me to understand what it meant.

Without answering my question, he stepped closer to me and unhooked the cuff around the bed. Instead, he hooked the other end of the cuff to my other arm and tightened them. My wrists felt numb as the circulation was cut off. I didn’t fight him. I allowed him to pull me, with force, out of the bed and onto my feet.

I kept my head down as he spoke.

“Avery Barker, you are under arrest for driving under the influence. You are also being charged for the death of Diane Barker, and her two children Madeline and Oliver Barker. You have the right to remain silent, everything you say and do will be held against you in the court of law.”

Before we left the room, I glanced over at the painting once more. Another silhouette caught my eye; appearing in the corner and sitting on the frozen pond. She sat cross legged and kept her head down. She had the same mop curls that rested above her shoulders as I did.

I realized she wasn’t like the other silhouettes. This one had a face.

My face.

She was staring directly at me.

She was the ghost of my past.

The End