1.1 | Lost & Found

iv. ezra

I N D I G O

Hiding is how I cope. It's how my logical mind deals with unwanted emotions such as the one I was feeling right now: Pure Panic. So here I was hiding in the police station's bathroom, not wanting to go out and face the reality. My mind has been my support and place of hiding most of the time. If we ever play hide and seek, and you are the seeker, look for me in the darkest places of my mind, or the small crevices fixating within its enigmatic aura.

My breaths are coming out in short raspy gasps.

The terrifying onset of a panic attack.

So instead I think about what I'll paint the next time I get my hands on a paintbrush.

I long for such escapism.

According to me, painting is not done by the hand.

It's done with the mind.

With the soul.

So it's not a secret that I don't have many friends...well, just the imaginary ones in my head. I used to have a friend a long time ago, he left after two years too. We used to be close. As thick as thieves, joint at the hip, partners in crime. But now he's forgotten me and I've forgotten him. And then there is the issue with my hands and face and clothes always being splashed on with paint.

Truth is that I like it like that.

The paint covers up my scars. They're not physical scars. Thankfully Mom still had her morals intact strongly bound enough even in her dizzy drunkenness so she didn't touch me. The worst I've had is one especially cold December when she threw a bottle at me and chased me out of the house.

Not all scars are visible. My scars are deeper, carved out into my heart and soul by my mother. And so my mind is my only refuge.

But it doesn't matter.

I like the paint.

It's a part of me now.

I take a glance at my hands, desperately trying to calm myself down.

Emerald. Azure. Aquamarine.

Bits of flaked white paint and grey across my worn-out palms.

I was painting the ocean.

A sort of soothing lull takes over my head as my head pulls me back into itself, it shows me a memory I've almost forgotten. It's one of Mom and I spending lazy Sundays on the beach. Those were the fun days when the world was still mine. Mom would drive me to the beach in her bent up loud scooter and we'd run in the sand till our feet hurt and played in the waves till the salt stung our skin. And then we'd spend the evenings singing old southern country songs and dancing underneath the stars in wild, dizzy circles and screams of excitement. Mom used to say it was the mountain girl in me, who'd climb any mountain, any hurdle at all to get closer to the stars. But that was when the world was mine.

And then just like Marcus Brutus came along and traitorously killed Ceasar, the high rents, due debt, beer bottles, and death took away my happy days.

The frozen feeling was thawing. But in its place flared and agony much too fiery for me to handle. I gripped the edge of the sink and splashed some water on myself in cold fast motions.

And then I avoided my eyes in the mirror as I wiped my face with the disposable tissues and threw them in the bin. I would've rather had the icy cold feeling over this pain. Because it is better to feel nothing than to feel the agony of a loss. That's what my experience has taught me.

I quickly move out of the bathroom after changing my clothes and slip on a jacket. Even though it's hot and humid all around, I'm still chilled to the bone. With my small backpack slung around my shoulder I walk out of the bathroom and put up a smile on my face as I walk up to Jeffery.

"Indie?"

My eyes gloss over once again.

And I don't cry in front of anybody. But it's been years since I've been called that name. Only two people on this Earth know my nickname: The Old Mom and my best friend who moved away.

"Indie is that really you?"

I look up into the eyes of the person who spoke. It's the boy who grew up too fast. The stranger with the steel grey eyes. The tall lean stranger with the polo shirt. I realize I've given him many bizarre nicknames but I still don't know his real one.

"Hello...?"

"It's Ezra. Ezra Clarkson."

My eyes widen further. Mom told me that was the last name of my father. She was very secretive about Dad or her life before she had me. I look in alarm at Jeffery. Jeffery must've sensed my confusion because he decided to speak up.

"Indigo, I tried to contact or find traces of any relatives you had-"

"I don't have any family left," I state calmly.

Ezra flinches a bit when I say that.

One would think that a girl like me, who spends most of her time daydreaming and taking refuge in her head would be oblivious to the world around her. But that's where most of us get fooled. The moment you loosen up your strings by a bit have some fun, let go for a little, life strikes then, sending death, chaos, or despair.

But people forget that it's usually the daydreamer who are cursed with their own imagination. People forget that doubters are just dreamers with broken souls. They call us dreamers, but we're the ones who don't sleep at night.

"Indigo, this is your oldest brother, Ezra Clarkson."

I wasn't sure what happened in the intensity of the moment but for the second time in twenty-four hours, I froze over. Like a deer in headlights. Like a movie with a pause button that forgot to work. I looked up into Ezra's eyes. His steel eyes were clouded with so much hurt and agony that I just wanted to go up to him, hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

You see this is the problem with people who are ghosts like me is that we let people walk all over us. And we aren't able to help the good people either because we're too shy to. So we're just a waste of space.

Deep breaths, Indigo, deep breaths.

In the real world, shadows like me only have two feelings: Numbness or despair. That's just the way the world goes round. In my mind I am the ruler, I am in charge. In the real world, I'm the girl who thinks too much. And then there are good people who have bad things happen to them. But my mom's case was not life. Consuming the intoxicating alcohol was her choice.

But it broke my heart nevertheless.

For every one thing you do, a thousand people's lives are affected.

Like when Jeffery actually treated me like I wasn't invisible for once, in my mind he became the father figure I never had. And when Ezra showed up in my life at my lowest and darkest abyss, a small flutter of hope illuminated the tiniest fraction of the darkest parts of my mind.

All I could hope was that it wasn't a risky bargain to keep that small glow alive.

But then and again life made sure that spark in me was blown out years ago.

* * *