FALLON
With all these waking up at unhuman hours daily, I feel edgy and jittery. It was almost a miracle to fall asleep on the sofa.
"Oh, go fuck yourself!!!!" Hearing my phone ring, breaking up my surprising but short afternoon nap, I curse loudly. Jumping at my feet, I notice Greg's name popping on the screen. I pick it up, yawning at my phone.
"Only one thing is more irritating than feeling tense because you lack sleep, and it is waking up by a moron right after finally drifting to sleep," I shout at him.
"Did you hear from Melissa?" My cousin sounds strangely demanding, like being annoyed. Every evening, Melissa and I go for a walk or drink. And sometimes, we stay out until dawn. Greg knows it. Melissa likes clubbing, and I like her company, plus I don't get much sleep anyway.
"Not yet, no. Why?" I reply, knowing Melissa will probably call me soon. But this night, I should stay home, watch Netflix, and turn to bed earlier. Or if I must go out, take a short stroll through the park, tiring myself even more until it gets dark, which will be soon. I sure don't feel like leaving my home, not even for a drink.
"Oh, nothing, we got into the fight, and she left the work earlier. I just wanted to check on her. Call me if she calls you!" If Melissa fled the gallery during the working hours, I know the fault must be on this manwhore.
"What did you do? Hey, Greg!" I try asking further, shouting again over my phone, but he hangs up on me right away. Now, I am sure Melissa will call me. The bastard did something but didn't want to admit to me what it was that he did.
I shower and order pizza, exhausted like hell. My hands are stiff, and my back feels painful.
Working in my studio the whole bloody day, I forgot to drink and eat, all until I stopped. No wonder I fell asleep. I worked from before 4 am to after 4 pm, a real art maniac that I am. Even going to the bathroom was a pain in my ass, and I was delaying it as usual. I almost peed myself, not wanting to drop my brushes, spatulas, and palettes down from my hands.
Those not blessed by having creative madness disease running through their veins won't understand, so they shouldn't try to get it, either. You have it in you, or you don't. Just so simple.
These four canvases, covered in black and red, overlapping in vigorous strokes and strong brushes, it is a bliss. I feel fulfilled observing my work. Droplets, blots, speckles, and splotches of paint make my heart tick.
Every painting is different but still a part of the meaningful collection. I've been productive today. Greg plans my second solo exhibition next month, begging me to change my palette a little. As if that is easy.
Patting myself mentally for arranging that first session with the therapist tomorrow, I feel even better. I've been brave today too. Yeah, me!
Things have to get better for me once.
My hands are black and red, and knowing how I am, there is probably some on my face, too. I don't mind getting myself dirty as long as I feel free. There is nothing that little soap and water won't wash out.
Well, almost nothing. I wish it would remove the stains of my haunting dreams.
Creating art makes me happy and less lonely, or at least it did. Now it only helps me to keep my head over the water, maintaining my mental sanity half-checked.
There was also the fifth painting. I placed it aside from the other four, displayed against one of my painting easels.
I painted those unnaturally green eyes again, but now I imagined a face, that big black area above could be hair, and that red, thin line under eyes could be lips. Very abstract, but still, looking a lot like a face. I brought it down with me to the living room.
I couldn't help myself, wanting to keep it close. Inspecting and studying it is slowly becoming my obsession.
My phone beeps as I stare at it while biting into the third pizza slice, thinking whether the face is attractive or a scary one. Probably the both, so popular two in one deal.
We're going out tonight, only two of us, I have to get drunk, and you have to take care of me, preventing me from doing something stupid. I read Melissa's text. All my plans of having the quiet night drop in the shallow water. I can't turn my back on the only friend I have in this city.
"Greg called me. What the hell happened?" I hate texting, so I call her instead.
"Oh, did he? I turned him down again this morning. So he told me I'm a hypocrite for fucking Jerry and refusing him. So he is banging some Nicole tonight. And Jerry doesn't even exist." Hearing her yelling in anger, I move the phone away from my ear, not wanting to turn deaf. She is as loud as she is beautiful and fun.
"What? Are you sure? I bet there is also no Nicole." Greg is an idiot, only doing it to make her jealous, probably since he heard of her date last night. The one she didn't have at all. I am to blame, reason more to go out with Melissa, and stand by her side. I doubt he would do anything with Nicole, though. He didn't tell me anything, dodging my scolding him.
"Oh, fuck, yes! I heard him on the phone. I picked up my things and left work an hour and a half earlier. I told him I'm quitting the stupid job." Wow! She is so into him if she reacted this way. My cousin is an A-class asshole.
"You did? He told me nothing about you quitting. Haha, well done! Did he say anything?" Melissa is the goddess for doing this. He is probably pissed off. And I hope regretful.
"You can't quit, he told me. I replied with screaming; watch me, fucker! Anyhow, be at 10 pm in front of my building, we're taking the cab. I won't be driving tonight!" We live four minutes by foot from each other, with her condo closer to the underground, 77 Street Station.
"Oh, can the cab pick me up first, so I don't need to walk?" I usually walk alone those four minutes, but not alone and at night.
"Oh, yes, your alleged stalker. Sure!" Melissa agrees.
So, after finishing the whole damn pizza with four kinds of cheese on top, I pour myself some red wine and watch one episode of Stranger Things. It goes perfectly with my life. For some reason, I stare more at the red liquid than at the TV.
I put skinny black jeans on, a grey simple sleeveless top, throwing a thin, black leather jacket over one shoulder. With my fingers coated with a bit of hair oil, I ruffle my wavy, half-long black hair into the more or less decent hairstyle. With a touch of lip gloss on my lips, a bit of mascara over my lashes, and my comfy black shoes on my feet, I am all ready to go.
Nobody will notice me anyway, no need to look better. Plus, I feel like crap, only helping Melissa kill the heartbreak with alcohol abuse, without other consequences than drunkenness.
First, we visit a bar nearby, me continuing with wine. Melissa sticks with her fave Strawberry Daiquiri poison of the cocktail. Then we hit three more bars. At the third, I exchange wine with orange juice, but Melissa doesn't change a thing. She is already tanked, slurring her words out.
The words she uses the most: Greg, sex, bastard, manwhore, bitch, whore, fuck, and kill.
But, when we finally enter that club down in Chelsea, and she starts to sway her hips and smile seductively to all men around, I realize that keeping her safe from herself won't be an easy task. After saying she had to go to the ladies' room and seeing her kiss a guy on her way there, I decided I had enough.
"Where are you?" I threw in the towel, calling my cousin for help. If this works out, I can go home and get some sleep I so desperately need. Ever since I left my apartment, I have had that creepy feeling of someone following and watching me. But not seeing anyone, I attributed that to my wracking nerves and my sleep-deprived mind as usual.
"In the gallery. Why?" His voice indicates my cousin's bad mood. He deserves that and much more, that male pig.
"Are you alone?" I whisper into my phone.
"Yeah, why?"
"Where is Nicole? Ooh, there isn't one! I thought so. Listen, Melissa is with me, drunk. I won't be able to keep all these horny males away from her. And since I invented all about that Jerry guy and her date last night, you should come. So, get your stupid ass here, you idiot! Electric Room, now!" I yell at Greg, watching out that Melissa doesn't hear me.
"I'm coming!" Of course that you are! I smile mentally, hoping he'll come to his senses and stop acting like a jerk.
It took Greg exactly thirty-eight minutes to arrive. Being drunk as she was, Melissa wrapped her arms around his neck, and his hands did the same maneuver around her waist, painting the picture any good-hearted painter likes to paint.
"I won't touch her. I'll only tuck her inside the covers, I promise!" Greg promised after hearing my threats of the dick amputation if taking advantage of my wasted friend. And so, we parted our ways.
Greg took Melissa with him to his place, and I took a cab back to mine.