James Mandarin

Large Gum Tree

Chloe stands by the large gum tree. A paintbrush is in her hand and her lips are pursed together. Her hand trembles as she dips the paintbrush into the paint pallet.

I watch as the first stroke is made on the worn canvas.

She sighs. She stops. She frowns.

She wishes she could wipe out the mistakes like she does with her poetry. She wishes she could tear down the canvas as she does with the soft sheets of her journal.

"It's not bad," I say. "You've only just started."

Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is wrong. It's all wrong."

"You've only made one stroke on the canvas." I reply. "You can always fix it later."

"How?"

"You wait for it to dry and then you paint over it."

"What if it doesn't work out?"

"It will."

Chloe turns to me, aspirated. "What if it doesn't work out, James?" I don't reply. "Not everything works out the way you want it to."

I recoil at the sting in her words. We stand together, two bodies, two bags of skin, meat and bones, staring past our faces into an empty void. Chloe drops the paintbrush and walks away.

"Painting is not my thing."

I don't say anything as she walks away. What is the point? What do I say?

Stop! Don't leave! Sorry! Let's try again!

I wait in silence thinking of nothing, wondering about everything.

I watch as the seagulls land on the ground. Their red webbed feet, a stark contrast to the green grass. I turn away from them and stare at Chloe's canvas. It's blank except for the faint graphite outlines. I move closer and squint. I gently trace the tip of my finger across the faint grey trails.

The air escapes from my lungs like the rushing wind.

I'm suffocating.

It's a boy with wide eyes, standing by the beach. The boy is me: James Mandarin.

Chloe was drawing me.

I look at Chloe's mistake once more. It's red paint, mistakenly placed on my bare arm.

I roll up the sleeve of my shirt where the bandages lay damp. I cut a little too deep last night.

The blood does not stop falling. The scars on my arms continue to burn.