There was a broken canvas by the door, white linen torn from the wooden frame and with it, the destruction of the painting that was on it. Her art supplies were scattered on the ground, pencils snapped into half while her paintbrushes and empty wells of oil paint rolled by her off center study table. Her bed was stripped of its bedsheets, the cloth long stuffed into a black rubbish bag and placed in a corner of the room, banished due to its ability in helping Irene recall the memories.

Her hair had gone unwashed for days, the slick on her skin reminding her of the sweat that had dried over the hours and her torn, blood red stained lips that tugged and ached whenever she moved them told her of just how chewed up they were. If Irene was to look in the mirror, she’d see her stained face, the eye bags that were so dark, it gave her a haunted look, a look that told her nothing of despair, of soul shattering, cry-in-your-pillow heartbreak.

This was the opposite of orderly.

But in a corner of the room, by the banished sheets that smelt like Wendy and the broken canvas that spoke of nothing but heartbreak, was a row of finished paintings, an art series of shattered dreams that made sense to Irene’s broken heart. They were light and colourful, filled with the images of rose pink lips and the hope that one day she might wander around exhibitions with a hand in hers that fit perfectly, a hope that continued to plague her even as her silent room continued to mock her with echoing words that cut and bruised.

That was orderly.

Irene wiped at her cheeks uselessly and pushed her unkempt hair back, her paint stained fingers shaking from exhaustion. She closed her eyes and tried to just breathe, tried to ease the leaden weight in her chest that had been with her since Wendy walked out of the room and called them a mistake.

(She was not a mistake.

There was nothing wrong-

She was not a mistake.)

She had tried to forget about it, tried to push it out of her thoughts (out of sight, out of mind) by drowning herself in her work. She worked herself to the point of fainting during class and burned the midnight oil completing her set of artworks for her final assignment but it was harder than the movies, the books would suggest. Wendy would crawl into her drawings with her crooked smile and a quirk of an eyebrow, found doodled on the side of her notebooks with sleepy eyes and messy hair. Her body parts, from the creases her eyes would make when she smiled to the dimples by her spine at the bottom of her back would decorate her sketch paper, disjointed, separated, but still Wendy to Irene.

Wendy was still Irene’s muse.

(But this cannot go on.)

Irene clenched her fists and took a look around her room, letting the mess settle into her consciousness. She then took stock of what she needed to replace, mentally taking in the damage done and counting out how much of her measly pay from the library would be able to cover and she’d still be able to have enough to eat by the end of it. She compiled a list of chores to do for later, clothes to be washed, trash to be thrown, personal hygiene, grocery shopping, and nodded to herself, carefully maneuvering through the messy room to get to her mattress.

And then, because having lists were fine and attempting to forget was hard, because it was hard to forget someone who gave her so much to remember, Irene laid down onto the mattress, her face turned into the area where Wendy had slept. She inhaled deeply, her grief filled mind taking in the scent of the fabric cleaner and turning it into the scent of innocence, her body curling onto the spot where it had long cooled but felt like it was Wendy’s warmth burning her.

And not for the first time over the course of two days, Irene cried again.

(Forget about it.

Move on.

Two words.

Six letters.

Easy to say.

Hard to explain.

Impossible to do.)

***

You are a mistake.

These were the words her father had said to her coldly when he kicked her out of the house, her mother’s face averted as the young girl struggled to get her bags into the trunk of her aunt’s car.

We weren’t anything. You were my mistake.

Her girlfriend of three months had left her with these words, delivered expressionlessly while avoiding eye contact. Irene had stood there, eyes burning from the tears that refused to fall, the thump of her heart resonating together with the jeers and judgement from their peers.

You can see how this is a mistake on my part.

These were the words Wendy had thrown at her after their night together, after a night of sharing sweet, love filled words and the promises of a good morning that came with a goodnight. These were the words that framed the scoff of disbelief when she told Wendy that she wasn’t using the assignment as a stepping stone to sleep with her.

These were the words that sealed the lock around her heart, building walls as high as a mountain and as transparent as bubbles because while she wanted to show the world her heart, she didn’t want anybody to hurt her anymore.

Because Irene will never be anyone else’s mistake again.  

***

“There are designated crates for each of your assignments! Find the ones with your name on them and place your projects in. No excuses!”

Nana snapped at them sternly, a finger pointed towards the boxes lined up nicely at the back of the tutorial room. There was a flurry of activity around Irene as her peers moved towards the area, lugging canvases wrapped up in bubble wrap clumsily. Remaining in her seat quietly, Irene thumbed her set of paintings absentmindedly, her other hand playing with the wet ends of her hair, the drying lock soft and silky, finding no rush to hand in her assignment in the midst of the flustered crowd.

“Once you’re done, you may leave! I’ll be posting the names of the paintings which would be exhibited by the end of the week so keep an eye out.”

Murmurs of assent were heard before the students shuffled out of class. Irene waited until the last student stepped past the threshold before getting up slowly, her chair scraping against cement floor loudly. The screech caught the attention of her mentor, Nana raising a brow at her as Irene lugged the heavy load towards her own crate, stopping when Nana called out to her.

“Irene, hold up.”

She turned around dutifully, fingers still gripping the edges of her bound up canvases tightly.

“Yes?”

“Bring yours up here. I’ll evaluate now.”

There was a part of her that wanted to drop her paintings into the box just a couple of steps behind her. Nana’s tone, however, made clear that it was an order, not a suggestion. Sighing, Irene flipped her still wet hair over her shoulder and carried her pieces over to Nana, the blonde gesturing towards the table. With a grunt, she heaved the squares onto the table before helping Nana remove the bubble wrapping.

One by one, her “masterpieces” were revealed, Nana’s expression slipping into one that Irene often dubbed as her “art critic” face, the tutor’s eyes flicking up, down and sideways, examining each of the four paintings that Irene was supposed to submit. She supposed this was the time where she should be nervous about the assessment, a bubbling pit of dread in her stomach and shivers running down her spine. But Irene felt nothing, merely staring blankly at Nana whilst the blonde nodded and murmured inaudibly to herself.

There was a flurry of something twisting in her stomach when Nana reached the last painting, her mentor’s eyebrows flying up to her hairline at the sight. There was a quirk of a smile, a dash of pride behind dark eyes and Nana looked up, Irene unclenching her hands when the blonde started speaking.

“Well. It looks like you really went out of your comfort zone, Irene. These are beautiful, especially this one.”

Nana had, predictably, given praise to the one painting that had taken literal tears from Irene to complete.

It was the picture of Wendy on the bed, in the position that she had started off with, with her mussed up hair and half lidded eyes, seductive and alluring while being the picture of innocence at the same time. It was the memory of Wendy’s lips, quirking into a smile with a story that Irene longed to read, with twinkling stars behind dark eyes that drew people in. It was the image of Wendy bathed in the glow of a barely rising sun, the soft colours of yellow and orange, hair almost bright in comparison and face turned away slightly to stop the light from reaching her eyes.

It was the painting of the physical embodiment of living desire.

It was the Wendy Irene saw, soft and pliant under her fingers, with a smile that spoke of the heart behind high walls and lips that promised a good morning from a goodnight.

(There was another painting, done in a fit of anger with dark colours, angry colours, splashes of red and blue that was almost black, where Wendy looked like she was drowning in self-doubt and unspeakable guilt, almost as though she was pulling herself from the brink of negativity.

It was on her floor, torn and tattered, swept to a corner where she would never have to see it again.

Because that was not how she wanted Wendy to see herself.)

“This set has to be the best work you’ve presented to me yet. Do you have a name for it?”

Irene didn’t.

But the words rolled off her tongue almost immediately, her eyes glancing down at the paintings spreaded out on the desk.

“Mornings with you.”

Nana nodded approvingly, her fingers lingering over the painting of a simple breakfast and intertwined fingers, brushing past the misted mirror where two shadows could be seen brushing their teeth, to the third picture where a joint silhouettes of two girls walking through a park. They finally hovered over the picture of the girl waking up on the bed (Wendy), Nana’s smile growing soft as she regarded Irene.

“These are really good. You probably already guessed but I will be presenting this during the exhibition. You have your subject permission, right?”

Irene nodded blankly, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper that Wendy had signed when she was happy and squishy.

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