When Droplets Collide

One

My parents have always told me that my destiny is a canvas, that I can paint whatever future I want.

But I don’t believe that.

The most I can agree with is that the paint doesn’t magically land on the canvas. Other than that the whole idea that you’re the one in charge of your life is the same thing as breathing life into a myth: a complete waste of your energy and time.

In reality, the image the brush creates on the canvas is determined by the movements of the hand controlling it.
Much like that brush, I never had a say in the painting I wanted to appear on my canvas.

I can however, mix the colours. I can make my primary colour as dark as I want it to be. There will no doubt be consequences for messing with the painting they already invested their energy into creating, but for now, for this moment, it's the paintbrush's turn to take charge.

As the seconds leading to the big reveal draw near, my breathing becomes shallow. Feeling a bit light headed, I lean slightly forward until my hands have a better grip on the edge of the tainted surface of the sink in front of me. The ceramic is tainted with spots of black dye mixing with the stationary droplets of water.

I need to remember to clear up the mess as soon as I can catch my breath.

Having never done something like this before, I'm terrified of the results. I can't seem to find it in myself to look her in the eye. I know that modifying my colour won't change everything I stand for or everything I want to become in future, but I do know that there is a high chance I won't like the image the looking glass has to offer.

A single thought at the back of my mind whispers loud and clear, reminding me why this needed to do be done. My arms begin to tremble for a different reason as pure determination makes its way through my veins. Without a second thought, I raise my eyes to challenge that of the girl reflected back at me.

Her now thickly lined eyes provide me with the same challenge: look away from the reality I created or accept it. I don’t look away and neither does she. Her mahogany coloured eyes hold mine captive for a second longer until they continue their ascent with mine to the top of our head.

My heart skips a beat at the sight of obsidian. The long tendrils admittedly frame my face better than the natural chestnut ever could but due to my pale complexion, the limp pitch black curtains on either side of my face only emphasise my desperate need for a tan.

My heart rate goes back to its normal beat the more my eyes take in my appearance, and I find the corner of my mouth lifting in a small smile. A feeling of ease starts spreading throughout my body from my chest outwards.

Satisfied, I grab hold of the fluffy towel beside me and gingerly wrap it around the dripping strands of my dark hair.

“It's not much,” I tell the equally happy girl reflected back at me, “but it's a start.”

Slightly overjoyed by how things turned out, I clear up the inky mess while basking in the much needed euphoria my decision brought me. I hear the sounds of a door down below slamming shut just as I lift the metallic lid of the bin in the corner of the room.

Hurriedly stashing everything into the trashcan, I grab the material around my head and start furiously rubbing at the collective strands just as the devil makes her presence known. Her voice echoes throughout the whole house until it reaches its target, causing an involuntary shiver to creep up my spine.

Flinging the towel out of sight, I exit the one room and directly enter my joined safe haven. Her footsteps get louder and louder as she makes a direct beeline for my location. My eyes dart around the spacious living area for any imperfection while my pulsating heart increases its speed with every booming step she takes. I hastily cross the room and shove my drawing pad out of sight.

I barely have time to straighten up before the looming shadow of the heeled tips of her shoes seep through the opening under the door. She wastes no time in yanking open the door and barging into the one place she has no control over.

Her eyes don't immediately fixate on me. Just like this morning, they stray to the paper clad crossbeam above my head as her nose scrunches up amidst the contempt she doesn't even bother to hide.

“My God, Mara,” she says, letting out a little laugh of disbelief. Her freshly manicured hand rests on the handle as her feet stay on the verge of the threshold, the edges of her shiny stilettos refusing to make contact with the naturally dusty wooden tiling. Her eyes move restlessly the more they absorb the images I worked hard to portray. “You still haven’t taken down those God awful posters yet?”

“They aren't posters,” I reply softly, “they’re artworks.”
Her features distort even further, the lines around her nose deepening as she keeps her eyes trained on the dark themes intensified behind me. “That's definitely not art. That's your excuse for acting out like the little attention seeker you are.”

Her unblemished arms intertwine themselves in front of her chest. Cocking her hip to one side, she starts to tsk. “You need to take this down. If my friends see this—”
“I already told you I'm not taking them down,” I say, ignoring every fibre of my being warning me to proceed with caution. “Besides,” I add quickly, seeing her annoyance starting to seep through the cracks in her already crumbling façade, “you would never bring your friends up here anyway.”

“True, but what about mom and dad?” she asks, finally removing her eyes off the artworks behind me to look me in the eye. But she forgets our conversation and her eyes widen as they take in my appearance. The annoyed lines around her eyes soften in amusement as they flitter up and down my face. A second later, they crinkle as she leans backward and bursts out into a laughter so loud it could wake the dead. Inclining my head slightly downward, I grab hold of my elbow and rub the skin above it as I wait for her to finish.

She finally does, ending on a drawn out sigh. Clapping her hands, she quirks her perfectly arched eyebrow at me.
“This is priceless,” she drawls in her usual patronising tone. “Just when I think you can't be any more of a freak than you already are, you continue to prove me wrong.”

“Most people dye their hair, Kelsey,” I mutter back weakly, keeping my eyes cast down at the small grey carpeted area below my feet. “That doesn’t make them a freak.”

“Yes, but then again most people dye their hair colours that suit them,” she remarks, flicking a strand of her honey streaked hair behind her ear. Cocking her hip and folding her arms, she adds, “You should have stuck with that lousy mousy brown colour you were born with, but since you didn't I suggest not coming down to dinner tonight. My friends are coming over and the last thing I need is a freak like you to embarrass me again.”

I’m too ashamed to meet her eyes. I keep them on the flooring under her stilettos, clenching my teeth together to prevent accidentally saying anything that will fuel her hostility further. I give two quick consecutive nods as a response instead.
“I'm so glad we're on the same page about something,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

Flashing me the most artificial smile known to man, she adds, “I'll just let mom know not to bother making anything for you.”

Still keeping the amused smile on her face, Kelsey turns and grabs hold of the handle on her way out. My evaporated calm slowly returns the more the door gets closer and closer to connecting with its frame, but shatters as soon as she flings open the door once more before it could even close. She pops her head into the open space to find me standing rooted right where she left me. I break eye contact to look at her honey blonde streaks instead as the uneasy feeling in my gut caused by her re-entry intensifies.

“Oh, and one more thing,” she says, her signature shrewd smile back in place. “I changed my mind. Keep the weird posters up.”

My curiosity winning out yet again, I warily lift my gaze to meet hers. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
Her smile spreads as she gives an innocent shrug, the action causing strands of her hair to cascade down over her shoulder to frame her face. “If you're lucky mom or dad might come across it. They'll be so worried they'll think the only solution will be to send you off to a mental asylum where you belong. Then all my problems will be solved.”

My chest constricts at her words. “They won't believe you,” I insist.
Kelsey scoffs. Even I have to admit, hearing the foreign words spoken aloud from my mouth, even I don’t believe myself.

“Mom will,” she retorts, “and with a little creative truth telling dad will too, especially since your crazy new hairdo will be all the ammunition I need to seal the deal. Who knew your worthless pieces of junk would actually come to my advantage?”

She gives one last laugh before departing. I rush after her and quickly turn the key under the handle, feeling some relief in the sound of the lock clicking into place. Her laughter is still fresh in my ears, but I protect them from any more noises she makes and press my back against the door. I can still hear her parting words ringing around in my head and my legs give way, causing me to slide down onto the floor.

I look up at the ceiling to help me blink back the moisture in my eyes before running a shaky hand through my hair. I barely register the pain the knotted tendrils bring as her words from our encounter worm their way into my brain like the virus they are.

When the cold tremors wracking my body finally cease, when my heart stops beating a frantic tattoo against my chest, my eyes gravitate of their own accord to one of the papers covering the wall above my headrest. They scan the illustrations past a watery blur, only coming into focus once the tear slides down my cheek to a freedom I've only ever dreamed of.

The more I take them in, the more I'm determined not to tear them into shreds and part with them forever. I can’t let her take away the part of my soul the drawings reflect across every support beam, every cross beam, that forms the pinnacle of my home. Each sheet hanging from a thin piece of adhesive contributes to a moment in my life, forming the history of the horrors that took place in this homey environment behind closed doors. From the images of a daisy wilting in the shade while a rose flourishes in the rays of the sun to a girl with chestnut curls reaching out to a darker version of herself reflected back in a mirror, the oldest of them all dominating the space in the centre of my headrest: a girl staying hunched over in the monstrous shadow provided by the manicured hand of a puppeteer.

As long as these are secretly proudly on display, I feel comfortable venturing out of this locked door and down into the great unknown.

And she knows that. Which is why she's so adamant on enforcing this decision on me.

Feeling torn between the two options her ultimatum presents, I bury my face into my whitening hands, letting my helpless frustration dissolve into the wet droplets pooling in my palms.

My parents used to tell me that my destiny is a canvas, that I can paint whatever future I want. But I don't believe that anymore and neither should they.

The tears streaming down my face are a testimony to that.

Because while the brush may paint the strokes, the hand holding the brush will always control the painting.