You Will be Hungry, Dear

I woke up with the sun this morning.

Without the familiar metropolitan lullaby that I’m used to outside my fifth storey apartment window, I spent my first week here barely sleeping. I still can’t identify the animal sounds outside during the night, but now that I’ve been here nearly a month I’m sleeping better than I ever have, accompanied by a chorus of what I’m certain are crickets and frogs.

As soon as the sky turned pale blue and the birds started chirping, sleepy heaviness left my body and I got up feeling light as air. I haven’t set an alarm in twelve days, and for ten of those days I haven’t felt guilty about it. Rest isn’t restful if you’re feeling guilty about it. I’m not a machine meant to churn out art day in and day out. I don’t need to be productive. I don’t need to be productive. Rest is productive. Everyone needs to recharge emotionally, physically and creatively.

I was told the ideal vacation length is three weeks. One week to decompress, one week to enjoy unburdened, and a third week to prepare to return to your usual routine. Too short and your nervous system gets thrown off. Obviously, some people need more or less time to decompress, but on average, three weeks is the sweet spot. It makes sense. That’s why so many people are just existing in a constant state of burnout, that’s why so many people get sick.

That’s how it caught up with me.

That’s why I accidentally set my kitchen on fire.

Well, partly why.

Even six years gone, the voices of my mother and father still hold me hostage in moments of anxiety. To this day their familiar taunts of inadequacy, liability and impracticality leave me cold and sweaty with my heart kicking against my ribs and the ghost of a fist around my stomach. And while I truly do love painting, I’ve come to the resigned understanding that those haunting words have fueled my craft, not out of passion, but rather out of fear of proving them right.

A deadline had been looming for a project that I may or may not have taken extra of my ADHD medication to help me complete. It was 2:00 AM, I was shaking and half-delirious, trying to cook my first proper meal of a day that had started at 7:00 AM the morning before, when my pan caught on fire. I watched the flames lick up the wall, frozen, tears streaming down my face, nausea clenching my stomach, grieving my ruined food my ruined food my ruined food my ruined food—

And then I blinked and the flames were gone. The stinging stench of smoke in my nose made my mouth water so hard that my cheeks ached. I could see the shape of my mother in front of me through the smoke, I could feel her hands gripping, shoving, I could hear her screaming… It’s useless! You can’t do anything! Get out! It’s not worth it! But when I could finally move again, wrenching my arm out to grab her, to try to prove myself, it was my roommate Fia standing in front of me, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me, my name tearing out of her throat in rough, screechy coughs: Elaine Elaine Elaine Elaine Elaine!

I’m standing with my coffee in a warm spot in the middle of the sunroom, where I set up my easel and supplies the first day I got here. I haven’t been able to paint yet, and even if I don’t paint at all while I’m here, it feels important to have a workspace established. It makes the possibility of making art tangible again. I can touch my brushes with one hand, my mug clutched against me, I can touch the large, naked canvas, the tubes of paint.

Only touch. If I look too long my gaze will inevitably fall to my collection of paints, two in particular. The two colours that will always remind me of fire. Those colours, orange and blue, are still fused onto the back of my eyelids, bright and hot, but there is no accompanying memory of heat. It’s a void, not even cold. Just empty. Like my canvas.

The windows in here run all the way up to the ceiling at the far end, and it has a beautiful view of the property. A decent part of the back yard is maintained for human enjoyment, made up of clover and creeping thyme, but further back it’s been left wild with long wispy grasses and wildflowers all shifting in the breeze, leading the way to the thick treeline. If I waded out into the tallest of it, it would reach my hips. I’m too afraid of ticks to do that though. In this case, the pretty sight is enough for me.

I already know I’m not going to paint today. It isn’t that I don’t want to, I do, it’s just that when I tried before something felt very wrong about it. I’ve been a painter for twelve years, I know my craft, and the particular creative urge guiding my hand is entirely foreign to me. Uncontained. Raw. Beckoning. Exposed. Unsafe. Inviting. Like déjà-vu crawling up my spine, while lacking the memory of its origin.

I don’t trust the part of me that wants to paint the fire. Or whether it’s me at all.

The floors creak under my socked feet as I take myself back to the kitchen with my mug in hand. From where I stand in front of the sink, I can see the tree line all the way to the start of the graveled path that extends two meters off the house all the way around. There’s a separate path parallel to the side of the house, which disappears into the fog coming off the lake half a kilometer away. There’s something soothing about the diffused sunlight coming through the fog that makes me want to walk straight into its embrace.

I’m going to indulge my restlessness and go for a very long walk, but I’m being practical about it. Preparing a stew in the slow-cooker is more future-oriented thinking than I’m used to. So I’m chopping vegetables while the meat browns and tossing the scraps into a bowl to bring to the compost when I head out. It smells good already and has inclined me to make myself a big omelet with some of the other vegetables I have on hand. I’m not usually hungry this early.

Broth, seasonings, vegetables, slow-cooker set to 8 hours on low. If I’m not back by the time it’s ready it’ll switch over to a Warming function.

As I turn to place the bowl of vegetable scraps on the counter near the back door I glance out through the screen and stop short.

“Oh.”

Deer. There are deer outside.

I go to the door, moving very slowly as if there are no walls containing me, as if the slightest movement would send them running. My gaze flits to the tree line and then back to the deer and I clutch the bowl to my chest. The scent of the vegetable scraps is enough to make my mouth water. I swallow and open the door slowly and carefully, stepping out onto the covered back deck, feeling a little jolt of childish glee that begs to be indulged.

A doe eyes me as I descend the stairs and I take the butt of a carrot into my hand, extending it slowly as I step onto the gravel path in my socks. She does not seem convinced and backs away despite the wide berth between us.

I toss the carrot. The doe does not run away.

The fawns seem more curious though and are the first to approach the carrot, awkwardly head-butting each other to get the treat for themself.

A breath of a laugh escapes me as I reach into the bowl and hold out more scraps, making chirping sounds as I would to coax a cat closer, as my heart kicks against my ribs at the possibility of feeding them out of my hand.

The bigger fawn is the bolder one, already starting toward me, but the doe gets closest to me first. She seems apprehensive, pausing a few feet from me, but I just keep my hand outstretched to her and wait until she eventually closes the distance, eating the scraps and backing away the moment I move to pick up some more.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, and carefully toss some of the food for the fawns, who go for it immediately. They’re close enough that I can see the buttons of their forming antlers on the tops of their little heads. Already, I’m slowly grasping my next handful to offer them.

With a startling, urgent bleating, the doe darts off to my left with the fawns at her haunches. I let out a heavy breath and when I turn back, I see it approaching, utterly unencumbered despite an irregular and arthritic gait. My next inhalation gets caught in my throat.

Its face is obscured by wet strips of hanging velvet, peeling from its glistening, crimson antlers. An acrid stench of gamey meat makes my nose run and my eyes water, followed by afternotes of rain-wetted beast, perspiration and rotting wood. Its teeth and lips and tongue nudge my fist, which I open obediently to let it eat. My other hand twitches to caress its rough, damp head as it moves to eat from my bowl, its slick, sticky antlers mere centimeters from my face. I drag my gaze over its body, following the mossen seams over its thick hide, stretched over a sloping muscular back and an assemblage of ribs that shift and collapse with uneven, soundless, heaving, shuddering… breaths ?

My chest hurts, my throat hurts, my head hurts. Something squeals cuttingly. It’s the same bone-deep ache of staying outside too long in the cold, but rather than it being only in my hands and feet, it has sunk deep into my whole body. Flickers of movement dart around behind my eyelids in hues of pink and orange and brown. A different shrill sound reaches my ears as if through water, as if my ears are full.

Hot, itchy pain shoots up my throat, making my eyes well and forcing a cough from my throat. Something hugs my chest tighter.

“Elaine!” Shrill, sharp, hoarse, choking.

A hot, pronounced ache on my leg, again, again. Then shaking.

I whine and cough, my hands working slower than my brain as I try to lift them to my chest— what is on my chest?

“Elaine! Elaine!”

I open my eyes. Grey, grey — orange and blue orange and blue and yellow, and orange and blue, warped hulking black. Fire fire fire—

“Get your seatbelt off! Elaine! Get your seatbelt off!” My mother punches my leg from the passenger seat, her figure black against the thick smoke filling the car.

“Stop!” I plead, choking as I turn my head away from her.

Green, starkly green. Why is it green? I can smell the rain, feel it— no? Why am I wet? Why am I hot and wet? Why is the rain cold?— green— leaves so close, green, grey, a mass of shuddering grey where my father should be— why isn’t he telling her to stop?

“Get your seatbelt off!” My mother screams, her voice tearing out of her.

My hand jerks to my side, fumbling for the buckle. I cry when it releases, falling to the right side of the car, heaving in a full breath that makes my ribs ache and my throat burn, I start to cough.

“I’ll get yours!” My voice is hoarse. Tears sting my eyes, my nose runs, my mouth waters.

“The door!” she howls at me, venom in her voice. “Open the door!”

I reach into the grey haze, through the gap between the front seats. I can unbuckle her.

She slaps my wrist. Something roars. I fall back sobbing.

“I can unbuckle you!” I scream.

“Open the door, Elaine!”

“I can get you out—”

“It’s useless!”

“Mom—”

“Get out!”

“I can—”

“You can’t do anything!” she screeches.

I’m sobbing.

“Let me help!” I beg. I can barely see.

“It’s not worth it!” Is she sobbing too? “Get out! Open the door!”

So I do.

I open the door and hear her scream.

I fall right onto the muddy shoulder, right at the border of the road, heaving in cold air. Gravel bites at my arms. The pavement is cool under my cheek. Why am I so hot? Why am I shivering?

Some hulking, broken beast lays in the road several meters away, its ripped flesh leaking blood, its limbs cruelly twisted, twitching.

I drag myself forward, crawling onto the wet road, crawling toward it ?

A low protesting groan reaches my ears— from ahead? from behind?

Crimson drips like sweat into my eyes, stinging them. I stop, pawing at my face, blinking hard, desperate to see my way forward.

The beast spasms and raises its head.

Again, I hear the protesting groan. It’s behind me.

I turn onto my side, looking back at the car.

A piercing metallic scream explodes like thunder, a flash of yellow light blinding me, heat kissing my face as I’m flattened onto my back against the wet pavement, my limbs impossibly heavy.

A droning, whiny ringing reverberates through my skull.

Black smoke belches out of the car, the metal moaning lowly. And when my vision clears enough, I can see flames licking over the last of the teal paint in hues of orange and blue and orange and blue and white and yellow and orange and blue.

I can’t look away from the flames and the smoke. I can’t look away.

Until it is standing over me, blocking my view of the wreck.

The rain comes down in a sudden torrent.

But I am protected under its bloody, steaming, gored frame.

The beast snorts hollowly, with hot breath clouding out from its nostrils. When did it get so cold? The sun was so warm on my skin when I stepped outside. My face aches. Did clouds roll in? I didn’t check the weather. Now the cold, biting edges of gravel are digging into the soles of my feet through my socks, a sharp contrast to the bone-deep ache in my feet and legs.

The beast turns its head and licks my quivering fingers, up to my wrist, up to the crease of my elbow, its teeth never more than nudging my skin. A piece of its sticky raw antler grazes the apple of my cheek and it twitches away in adjustment, jerking its head to the side and making me cringe.

I am alone.

That was the same deer.

That was not a deer.

That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer. That was not a deer.

That was never a deer.

Dear friend, I did not mark you when we first met. I see I have neglected you.

You were standing with me for many long hours before I released you, collapsing mere seconds after I left, that cold, wet gravel biting against your skin as your burning, bone-tired muscles begin to shake you uncontrollably. You heave in what feels like your first breath in hours and immediately retch, the back of your mouth aching as you salivate in excess, your first raspy wail tearing past your newly unlocked jaw and cracked blue lips. With every subsequent, staggering breath, you sob and choke, at the whim of spasming, stitched ribs. You scream in a blind panic in the moonlit dark until you see the shadows of your hands through a red haze of swollen, watering eyes. You cannot form your fingers into fists until you plant your stiff hands into the gravel and force them closed.

Your clothes are a second skin, clinging stiff and sticky to you as you regain control of your limbs, dragging yourself across the gravel to the deck stairs, beastly moans and wails leaving your throat as you weakly crawl toward the faint shape of light through a doorway.

You stick your face under the spout of the water cooler in the kitchen and depress the faucet, sobbing and sputtering as the cold water pours out onto your skin and past your lips. You get a minor reprieve from the pain in your face after messily gulping down nearly a liter of the water, but your clenching stomach leaves you humming, whining, and quivering on the floor until you are sure you will not throw up.

Only then do you crawl to the sunroom, still the brightest room in the house lit even by moonlight.

You knock the easel over and the canvas with it, grappling for your paints. Orange and blue. Orange and blue. They are the brightest, the hottest, and you are cold and shivering as you uncap the paint tubes with numb, stinging fingers.

I wish I had found you again sooner, friend.

Bursts of sobbed laughter leave your raspy throat and dissolve into weeping as you clench your fists and flames spurt out onto the canvas.

Your hand is utterly unhindered as the rest of your body continues to shiver and spasm, as your eyes continue to water, tracking tears down your aching cheeks. But that does not matter. You can see the flames building before you, in hues of orange and blue, mingling with reds and browns, yellow, green and white. They will lick up your arms and swallow your hands.

You will feel as though you have come home.

You will collapse when it is done, you will sleep, and you will awaken in the warmth of the morning sun, comfortable. You will be covered in ash, uninjured. You will be greeted by your work. Your canvas will bare my likeness, painted by your hand, set ablaze.

You will not be afraid of what you have created.

You will keep my mark on your cheek this time. You will go on as if it has always been there.

You will be hungry.

-----------------

Thank you so much for reading! Your engagement helps me reach a wider audience. If you like my work and would like to support me, please consider leaving a tip. No amount is insignificant. ♡

— Rooney