How to Paint Yourself Into a Corner by Emma-Marie Smith

She asks, If your past had a colour, what would it be?

You tell her it doesn’t have a colour. It’s just blank. A hole punched through a sheet of paper.

She tells you to draw yourself. Go on, there’s no right way or wrong way to do this, she says.

You don’t really like doing this stuff, even though you know it probably helps. She smiles in a way that you’re sure is supposed to be encouraging and folds her body over so she can reach the suede shoulder bag slouched against her chair leg.

She sweeps her grey hair to one side and uses her other hand to pull a sketchbook from the bag, then fishes out a pouch that sounds like it is filled with pencils – that clatter and rustle you remember from your school days. The screeching chairs and canteen chatter seem so far away from you now, so long ago.

Go on, she says. Why don’t you draw it for me?

What? you blink.

Your past. What happened to you.

She’ll only scrutinise what you draw, try to find meaning in it. You know this, and you are going to make it easy for her. You unzip the canvas pouch and pull out a pink pencil. Then you draw an outline of a girl. Plaited hair, a fanned skirt. You’ve never been very good at drawing.

Flicking your gaze up to watch her – hands clasped in her lap, trying to look as though she isn’t watching you – you pick up the black pencil and scribble all over the girl.

There, you say. You turn the pad to face her. You’re glad it’s over.

It’s interesting that you’d use the colour black, she says. What does that signify for you?

You want to get better. More than anything you want to be like the normal people with their shiny cheeks and anoraks and walking boots for the weekends. A dog on a lead, a coffee in a white-bricked café, a hug you can feel in your bones. But it’s so hard to go along with this. You feel like a child again, which is exactly what you wanted to avoid.

I guess it’s my depression, you say, because you think it’s the right answer. Or sadness, or something like that. Nothingness. Your voice trails off.

Is that all you are? she says. She leans over and pushes the pouch of pencils across the side table so they are closer to you. What about all the other colours?

You stare at her, fatigue clinging to your brain like a plastic film. You always feel as though a part of you is being plucked out during these sessions. Dropped into a carrier bag, tied at the handles and shaken up. You want to leave. You want to crawl back into your cold, white bed and feel the press of fabric under your cheek. Instead, you drag yourself back to the moment.

What do you mean? you ask, although you don’t want to know.

Well, what do you do when you’re sad?

I drink, you say. A reflex.

Okay. So what colour is that?

It’s like a bright orange, you say. A sort of explosion of colour. I feel like I can do anything, be anyone. It quiets the noise but somehow makes everything louder, more intense.

Ah, she says, watching the smile creep over your face. She reaches down into the bag again, this time pulling out a tin of watercolours. The box is battered at the corners and covered in little flicks of paint, like the one your grandmother used to let you play with at the weekends.

You open the tin and there you are, sitting at her kitchen table, the contents of her art box scattered all around you. The thick, flaky rubber shaped like a pebble. Fat, oily wax crayons and stiff magnolia paper. So much nicer to paint on than the thin sheets you had at home.

You swallow and smile as you open the watercolour palette. There is a thin brush lying in the centre groove. I don’t have any water, you say, but she is already passing you a glass from the side table.

Slowly, you paint streaks of garish orange over your drawing. The colour doesn’t quite take because of the crayon underneath, and you get watery streaks on your page, but you like the effect. You dip the paintbrush back in the water.

What next? she says, watching you.

Sex, you say.

What kind of sex?

You press the brush into the red paint and make harsh lines on your drawing. You choose not to answer, and she doesn’t push you on it. The red merges with the orange and looks like fire. Acid washes up in your throat but then you swallow it. You feel okay, for a moment.

And then there’s… you press your paintbrush against the bottom of the glass, watch the water turn red like blood in a puddle… smoking. You dip into the green, add more strokes of colour. And the other stuff... white. You look up from your painting, embarrassed. Am I doing this right? you ask.

There isn’t a right or a wrong way, she says. Like I said at the start, this is just about you expressing yourself. She senses your hesitation and smiles. But yes, she says with a small wink. You’re doing it right.

You can’t think of anything else now. Blue? you ask. For insomnia? No, that’s a symptom, surely. I’m not doing that. I can’t help that.

Your head buzzes. You are a swarm of flies. Your mouth is dry.

She is watching you, silent. She uncrosses her legs and looks around the room. You furrow your brow, staring into the paint. You close the lid.

This is stupid, you say.

There are hot tears and you don't know where they came from. Soon your face is wet and you taste the salt on your lip. You are frightened and helpless, and she does nothing but stare. Observe.

You grab your coat from the back of the chair and put it on, ball your hands into fists and knead them into your eyes. You pull out your purse and hand her a fifty-pound note. She doesn’t take it, so you leave it on the side table, next to the painting, then move towards the door.

Thank you, you say. Sorry, I just... can't.

She is still watching you, saying nothing. Your hand closes around the doorknob but then you stop, turn back. You take the painting. Carefully, at its corner. It’s still wet. You close the door, descend the stairs and walk out into the cold January air.

………………..

Emma-Marie is a memoir and fiction writer from Bath, UK. She is a recent graduate of Bath Spa University, where she studied an MA in Creative Writing. She spends her time reading and writing about the weird and uncomfortable afflictions of modern life and romance. She drinks too much tea and watches lots of movies.

Twitter: @emmamariewriter