There's Something About Mary

A boy gets trapped in the basement of his local art store.

I can hear the sirens wailing in the distance, forcing me to accept my demise. Only I’m not sure if I’m ready to face it. At the age of 15, I know I’m not ready for jail, or any of those boot camps I see in the movies. I just want to create art. Ironically, that’s how I ended up in this situation. Locked in the basement of Treasures Troves, the local art store, I sit and stare at my masterpiece. It’s the most beautiful painting I’ve ever created, and It’s probably going to get trashed, or either collected as evidence.

I’ve been here for over three hours, painting away my soul and the pain that resides in it. This, by any means, is not my first time here; only the first time that I messed up. This place has been my safe haven. The home that allowed me freedom away from abuse and bruised emotions. The home that’s now going to be taken away.

I’ve breathed and lived art since I was a little boy. In the 6^th grade, I remember winning my first school-wide art contest, the topic being our favorite superhero. I ended up drawing Superwoman to show tribute to my Aunt Mary. She was the best part of my childhood. She didn’t live far, so my parents allowed me to stay with her during the summers. She lived in a huge red barn that didn’t belong anywhere near the city limits, but that was the place she called home.

My first summer with her was the time in which I discovered this place. She knew how much I loved to draw, and she bought me my first set of charcoal pencils. The set I used to draw Superwoman, and the set I used to draw my masterpiece. One set given to me with love and kindness. The other set I inadvertently stole during my time trapped down here.

My Aunt was not much older than my mother, maybe by a year or two at most. She was her complete opposite in every way possible. While my mother was tall and thin, my Aunt was short and chunky. I used to think that she held so much love because she had more room to store it. She knew about the things that were going on in my house. She also knew that it would make matters worse by getting DCS involved. My parents could be cruel without having any reason at all. Imagine what they would do to me if they had a purpose.

The store is a pretty big place. Random pieces of art that wouldn’t fit on the walls lay against the baseboards; tons of art supplies sit on the shelves. To any stranger it would be deemed unprofessional and sloppy. Even I can admit I was caught off guard until I had met the owner; A short man with a mustache that resembled Mr. Monopoly’s, and a beard that reached the center of his chest. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, but his knee-high biker boots brought him up to height. He was a nice enough man, but he had the quirkiest personality, and the style of someone who was stuck in several different decades at the same time.

            I can hear the first the knock on the basement door. It’s only a matter of time before I’m handcuffed and taken away. I know this place like the back of my hand, but a fateful misstep caused me to trigger the alarm system. My Aunt Mary would buy my supplies for me, no questions asked. But she died of Lung Cancer a year ago. With my mom and dad treating me the way they do, I knew I couldn’t ask them for help. So, I wait until the evening after they’ve already gone to bed, and I come here to escape my reality. A reality that predicted that this was my future, and proved my parents right.

            I couldn’t have been more than five years old the first time my mother hit me. I had snuck into the kitchen to grab some cookies after they had gone to bed. I grabbed a stool from under the counter, and I headed towards the fridge. I climbed one step, another step, then I had one more left to go. My stubby legs caused me to have to stand on my tippy toes, but I still couldn’t reach it. I don’t know why I did it, but at the time I thought it was a good idea to try to jump and grab it on the way down. I fell against the fridge, and the cookie jar fell and broke into what seemed to be a million pieces. Frozen in fear, I stood there and stared at the mess I had made.

            My mother was the first one to come and investigate the noise. When she saw what had caused it, it seemed like something in her had snapped. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. A look that would eventually become permanent. A look that still sends shivers down my spine and engulfs me with impeccable fear. I’m not scared of dogs, or wolves, or monsters that supposedly hid under my bed. Heck, I’m not even afraid of my father. My mother is worse than any nightmare I could’ve possible imagined. The worst part being that I still love her.

            A bang much louder than the last one causes me to break out of my trance. It appears that my time has come. I walk over to my masterpiece and raise my hand, slowly sliding it down the canvas. My masterpiece will live through everything that it suffers, for it is stronger than I’ll ever be. In black and white shades of graphite and ink, I’ve illustrated Aunt Mary’s barn with the Treasure’s Troves sign hanging on the front. I’m not usually a landscape artist; I typically focus on portraits and small animals. But I miss my Aunt Mary, and I needed to feel near her again.

            A third bang sounds and the door opens, police enclosing the room. My mother with her horrifying eyes and my father; the shop owner, and another man that clings to his arm. I raise my hands and drop to my knees, waiting for further instructions. I hear the clink of handcuffs, and I’m read my Miranda Rights. Then a miracle happens. I see the shop owner’s friend whisper in his hear, then I hear a commanding stop. They walk over to my masterpiece and study it with so much intensity that I fear they might burn a hole through it. The owner, Mr. Sheldon, I will have learned later, tells the officers to uncuff me, and that everything is a big misunderstanding. My eyes must have shown my surprise because he tells me that he’ll explain in a few minutes, and to hold tight a little longer. He walks the chief officer and my parents outside for what seems to be ages. I try to eavesdrop, but I can’t hear a sound. Then the chief and Mr. Sheldon come back in and tell me that I’m free to go. But I don’t want to go. So, I stand there.

Mr. Sheldon is also reluctant to leave. As the room clears once again, he takes me to the back corner of the basement. He looks me so deep into my eyes, that I fear that he can see my shame. The marks that have faded from my body, but are tethered to my soul. He speaks at a level that only I can hear, and his words come out shaky and unbalanced.

“Is that your mother, young man?”

             I nob my head yes, and his face appears to settle into some sort of resolve. Without another word, he walks over to my parents and tells them something that I’m not able to hear; but the disheveled look on their faces tell me that he knows. He knows and he’s going to put them away for a very long time. As they walk away in fits of anger, he comes to me once again and tells me to sit.

“Would you like to stay with me and my friend Larry over there?”

I glance at the other tiny man across the room, clad in flannel pajamas. I ponder in my head where else I would go, and realize that I have no one else. I’ve talked to Mr. Sheldon when I’d come here with Aunt Mary, and he doesn’t seem like the shady type.

“I guess so.” I respond in answer.

“I must say that your work is brilliant for a 15-year-old boy. I would much appreciate it if you would recreate the sign for the shop.”

“I would love to.” I say. But one question nags at the back of my head, fighting its way out.

“How could you possible know what was going on with my parents?”

Standing, he gives me one look, smirks, and walks towards the door.

“Mary.” Is all he says.