James Mandarin

Painting

Life is uneventful.

At least that is what it has been like for the past seven days. The painting lies in the corner of my bedroom, beside my old, termite infested wardrobe, waiting to see the light of day. The mould on my bedroom ceiling continues to spread like the plague, across the cream walls and I can't help but shudder.

Exams are fast approaching, but my mind is too preoccupied to give it a second thought, I'm sure I'll be fine for my maths and history exams, but I am definitely screwed for the literature exam. I can barely remember anything from The Handmaid's Tale, apart from the ceremony, sex scenes and Birth Day. I also remember they wore coloured clothing, but that's it.

It's even worse for No Sugar. The only thing I remember is the fact Aboriginals were marginalised and treated as second class, by the whites.

I go on the Internet to find notes to re-jog my memory, but can't subject myself to read through fifteen pages of notes. Instead, I spend my time reading the math book Hollie bought me. At times, I stare out my window into the empty trees, covered in red Pilbara dirt and surrounded by dry, brown and dusty bushland.

The mornings have been getting colder. The flies are slowly disappearing. Spring is coming.

Chloe doesn't come over. She's too busy studying for exams, and I don't mind. She's my friend, not my shadow. I shouldn't be a hindrance to her dreams. That wouldn't be exactly fair.

I sometimes go to the beach and throw myself beneath the waves, in hopes of drowning within the crystal clear blue encasement of the rushing water.

I haven't cut in seven days.

Maybe that's a good thing.

I try not to think about it: cutting.

I try not to think of the scissors in my school bag, the kidnapping of Razor, or the notes in my locker, addressed to CUT BOY. I do not think about cutting because when you think of something highly addictive, there is a ninety nine per cent chance you'll likely do it.

When my appointment with An Li comes again, I make sure to take the painting with me. Dad sneers as I place it beside me in the backseat. I don't sit in the front passenger's seat anymore. Sitting there, beside him, sucks the air out of my lungs. Sitting in the back seat gives me some sense of freedom. I can move. I can take shallow breaths, but I can never escape him. The rare-view mirror sees all.

I'm glad dad says nothing as I place the large canvas beside me. I would have burst out crying if he had. That's something new that has been happening. At times, I burst out crying for no good reason. I think it's a side effect from not cutting.

But here's a thing. I'm not sad. I'm calm, but troubled. My cuts are healing and I want to pry them open again.

I shouldn't be thinking about it. I'll be lucky if I don't slit my arms tonight.

One hour later, dad drops me outside An Li's office in Karratha and rolls his eyes as I pull the canvas out of the car. He says something about paying a shrink to fix me, not for a girl's art program. I ignore him and walk away. Chloe would have kicked him in the balls and called him a sexist pig. But I'm not Chloe.

An Li smiles when he sees me, and invites me in. He's wearing the same suit he wore the week before, but instead of the purple ties he wore the week before, he wears a leopard print tie. It's a mess.

"Afternoon, James." He says when I enter the room.

"Hi," Is my pathetic response. I take a seat on one of those posh and expensive black sofas that I swear cost over ten thousand dollars, and wait for him to join me.

"So how was your week, James?" he asks as he takes his seat opposite me.

"Uneventful," is my reply.

"Well," he crosses his legs and claps both hands on his knees. "Is that a good thing?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I suppose so."

He smiles, "Good." He then pauses for a brief moment before adding, "I see you did as I asked."

I nod in response.

"So how are you feeling?" He inquires as he opens his notebook and clicks his pen.

"Why do you do that?" I ask.

An Li looks up from his notebook. "Do what?"

I point to his notebook. "Take notes."

He smiles. "It's to document your progress, James."

Progress? I've been with him for two weeks and he's already documenting my progress.

An Li continues. "Maybe one day, if you get better, I'll be able to see how far you've come."

I notice how he uses the world, if, not when. If I get better... what if I never get better? What if I remain the same?

I blink twice and rub my eyes. This is tiring. "Do you want to see my painting?"

As An Li takes the painting from my arms and removes the covering, the same question reverberates in my head. What if I never want to get better?

People learn to love their chains and once the chains are gone, they become nothing.