Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “How did I know you were going to say that?” My mind immediately goes to Jude. Stop. I need to stop. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“Just saying, if Evans can no longer provide his services in account he’s an idiot and gone, there are other options.” Don’t say Jude, don’t say Jude.
“Take the best friend—Jude or cousin, whatever, rich as hell, adjunct professor, artist in his own right, and very well dressed.”
“Money does that.” I add. “Makes it easier to dress.”
“Not true, I know loads of rich people who dress like they got ready in the dark.” She pushes to her feet. “My point is, hiding out in your room is not the answer to your stress.”
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
I pat her on the head. “Good talk, I’m going to head to the studio.”
“That’s more work,” she points out. “Not banging. Not fun.”
I manage a small smile. “I know, but it will keep my head in a better space. Plus, my new professor was weirdly specific about frogs.” I smile at the memory.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. I’m gonna head out.”
It doesn’t take me long to get to the studio. I need the clay in my hands immediately.
Need something that listens when I tell it what to do.
Something that doesn't come back from the dead.
Something that doesn't stare at me with familiar eyes and a stranger's face.
The Fine Arts building is nearly empty by the time I unlock the side door. The scent of wet earth and plaster hits me first, instantly calming some of the frantic energy buzzing beneath my skin. I can be myself here, I can be anything I want to be. I house some of my best works here, my dreams, my future, now, I can’t lie, things have shifted, it’s still.
Home.
Or at least the closest thing I have to one. My mom is busy forgetting the divorce at the bottom of a bottle. And Dad, well Dad conveniently forgot all the reasons I needed therapy. It’s like the minute my life freaking ended, his started, with his new job, vacations, all the things, checking in. He no longer has the burden of a family, he’s finally happy and it just feels like it’s me, alone on this weird island trying to figure out how one life choice left me so unhappy when it was supposed to save the world. I wonder if that’s how mom feels too but she’d have to be sober enough to have that conversation. The very dad I was protecting, the very mom I was protecting are totally fine meanwhile I still deal with the emotional aftermath.
Maybe because in my version he walked free instead of died and now? Now I don’t even know what to think anymore.
I toss my bag onto a stool and make my way to my station.
A half-finished figure waits for me.
I mean at least it’s somewhat human.
Broken.
Missing an arm.
Appropriate for now I guess.
I stare at it for a long moment before sinking my hands into a fresh block of clay.
It feels cold and solid beneath my fingertips and I find myself letting out a long, much-needed exhale.
No memories exist in fresh clay, no ghosts, no Jude, especially no Jude, just new creations free of lies, new creations I make with my hands, I can’t count out memories but right now, I can at least rest in the fresh clay. God, maybe I am losing it.
My fingers dig harder into it. The rough shape I've been building caves under the pressure, slumping to one side. I let it.
Perfection is for grades.
Art is allowed to be ugly first and I love that it can be the worst looking slob of dirt on this planet and somehow still turn into something that matters, something beautiful, something dangerous, daring, something that makes you think. It reminds me that when I look in the mirror and all I see are my sins, there’s still something beneath the surface that the universe sees as perfect as if it doesn’t make mistakes. As a sculptor everything has a purpose, I’d like to think humanity does too. And on my darkest days it’s one of the only things that got me through.
I spin the banding wheel and smooth my thumb over the damaged section, adding clay where I took too much away.
I don't know what I'm making yet or where I’m even starting. It’s pure chaos. All I know is that I have something brewing beneath the surface trying to claw its way out and it’s my job to make it happen.
Good enough. Good enough.
The pressure in my temples eases with every scrape of my sculpting tool. Every push. Every carve. Every imperfection.
For once, I'm not thinking about Jude.
Or prison.
Or funerals.
Or lies.
Just clay.
My fingers dig harder as I manipulate it over and over again, it collapses beneath the pressure of what I’m doing.