Cassie

Commitment phobia. That's what they called it. I had my reasons.

            

My mum was a pregnant teenager. She married my dad (and not out of love) then tried desperately to keep us all together.

 

He went out, every night and didn't come back till the early hours. I watched him toss money around like litter, then eventually, he left.

 

All her effort for nothing. She tried hard to pay rent whilst he took as much as he could and splashed out. He left us with no money. Seeing mum miserable all the time, I vowed never to marry, never to get pregnant, so I could never be hurt. 

 

Those years were mostly a blur, a struggle. I tried to forget; to put my efforts into my work.     

                                    

Isolated, with nothing but the sound of the paint brush for company, I made another masterpiece.

 

In the day, only the natural light from the window would be my exposure to the outdoors. It made me calmer, made me keep my focus, as I stuck out my tongue and let the paint drip down the canvas, leaving a thin line like blood down the page.    

        

It was Picasso's work; done by my hand. It enabled me to let out the depression, the anger, using pastel colours for the softness of the blues to exaggerate the tears of my person. He wasn't a painting - he was alive. 

 

My art spoke to me, lived, breathed. Every so often, something magical happened. An idea. It would come along, whisper in my ear, "Paint me." It'd echo the obsession. It began as a whisper...then escalated. Within a day it would shout and screeeam at me to paint it. This man, this blue man, was no different. He shouted louder and louder, making me paint faster, furiously, then all of a sudden; he stopped. He was silent. It was done.           

    

I stepped back. There was something funny about this one.

 

I laughed. He looked like Brad. Who's Brad? My boyfriend. I didn't want to move in. He asked me to. I kept saying no, coming up with excuses. One day, I had no choice. I couldn't pay rent.

 

I quit my job, you see, to do my artwork. It inspired me, gave me meaning in life. I became a different person, consumed by the brush. It really gave me that, that feeling.

 

But that office job, ooh that office job - it was incomparable. Working 9-5 in an office environment with 50 people? There was no passion, no excitement - the only thing good about that job - it paid well. But I quit. And I knew someday, my art business was going to get off the ground. 

                                    

My paintings were getting better. I was getting faster. The room filled with them. Filled with my intoxication. The brush was my drug, my addiction. My creativity overflowed and exploded into bursting colours on paper, portraits, you name it. I'd lie awake at night and get another idea, whispering at me. It told me to draw. I sketched the ideas, my hand aching. After being fully rested, I'd jump out of bed propelled by energy, by my drug. Whenever I was painting, I was in the zone, passion pulsing through my veins.

   

It was my last one of the day - a red blood painting of a screeching vampire. Spiked teeth were almost jumping out at me. I made them the biggest thing on the page. I added strokes on it and then the Easel shook in correlation to the vibrations caused by the sound of glass smashing. It was a blur - time slowed down.

           

It was a few split seconds, but it felt longer. I could hear myself screaming, shards of glass twirling, flying, racing toward me. I ducked. The paintbrush I held flew into the air, spun round and fell to the floor. It smattered the room - and my clothes - with a few flecks of red paint.    

                                   

The shards of glass flew; the points sticking in the walls, on the wooden floors, even in my painting. I turned round, gasping. All my hard work and there it was. My painting sliced down the middle.

                               

I noticed a red rusty brick in the middle of the floor. It fell several feet from the window, and was surrounded by glass. I got up, stepped around it. Leant down to the brick. I thought I'd seen something attached to it. I did - a note;

 

I told you I knew where you lived! She’s gonna find out...this won’t be the first warning!         

             

My hand slapped to my lips. The shock. I bit down on my lip, the nerves, the worry.

 

I licked them. They felt wet. They bled. I pulled my hand away, a strip of blood on it. I inhaled deeply. Time went back to normal, but I knelt down, reread the note. Why would someone do this? Wasn't it a bit dramatic to throw a brick through a window? I was panting. All I could hear was my breath. A thought occurred to me - was it about Brad?! I didn't want it to be. But maybe, just maybe, this was what I needed. To find the truth. To get out of my relationship. I didn't want to think about it. All I knew was, it was either; a) he was cheating b) he owed money.  

    

Once I was calmer, I called the police. I sat, hands on my lap, staring down at the floor. The depression started to creep back in. The shock, it took away my passion. Left me almost motionless. Let my feelings crawl back up into my body. They couldn't be put on a blank page, couldn't be shifted and refocused into positive energy.

 

I tried to push down the feeling, squeezing my eyes shut; trying to force it away. It wasn't going away. But, as I opened my eyes, I noticed the shards scattered everywhere. 

 

There was that note. It kept bugging me. My relationship. It was probably over. Unless. Unless he owed money. He'd cut down on what he bought but... I pushed the thought away, but it nagged at me. Nagged like my mum did. No, he's good. He'd always been good. Brad didn't want anyone else. I was special.

           

The doorbell rang. I looked down at my attire. Presentable. I dusted my clothes off with my hand, before opening the door. The red paint on my leg was dry; it wasn't coming off. They'd got the wrong end of the stick; thought the crime was violent. Before they wrote anything down, I told them I painted. 

    

The questions began. One officer spoke slowly, clearly, as he sat on my leather sofa. He shifted on the cushions; pulling faces, before pulling out a piece of glass.

 

He held it up in front of his face, inspected it. As he did so, he asked, “Any suspicious behaviour normally occur around here, Ms..."   

                                    

“Just call me Cassie. And no.”

 

His speech slowly became a whisper. His voice was background noise. I didn't care about the smashed glass - yes, it was traumatic. But there was something else.

   

That note.       

       

My mind was consumed by that note. The more I thought about it, the more I fidgetted. Each tick of the clock echoed, got louder. I came to my conclusion. After 3 years, he'd thrown it all away.        

                 

He was obviously cheating.