Paint By Numbers

A Story of Self-Reflection

I place the cup of hot coffee on the counter. Its green sippy-cup lid stares up at me, and I watch the steam dancing out of the oval opening.

"Buck fifty," the cashier says emotionlessly, pushing the buttons on the cash register and looking at me. I can see my reflection in the sunglasses he's left on despite the fact that he's inside.

I glare at my mirrored image. Everyone says I look like Courtney Love, and I hate them for it. I've covered myself in tattoos and black eyeliner to escape from resembling anyone. My hair has been bleached so many times it's lifeless and I'll never get the paint stains out of my pants. The cashier is frowning, and it's then I realize he must think I'm glaring at him.

I read his nametag: Tim.

"Can I have a pack of Marlboros too?"

"Ooookay". Tim turns around and grabs a pack of cigarettes from the guarded wall behind the counter. Coffee and ciggarettes- 'Breakfast of champions' I think dryly. As I think it, I find myself wishing that I was musing in a more cultured fashion on the writings of Vonnegut, rather then reflecting on my typical morning 'meal'.

I normally smoke Parliament Lights; I heard they're the kind that Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen smoke, so that they can stick coke in the little space between where the paper starts and the filter ends. However, today there is a sign outside that says Marlboros are on sale, and I haven't been doing what you would call 'well' with cash lately.

"Six forty-nine is your total."

"Six forty-nine? But the sign outside says that Marlboros are three ninety-nine."

Great. I'm really not in the mood to have an argument with the cashier at 7-11.

"Oh that? Yeah, that ended yesterday," Tim informs me.

"Then you should take it down," I protest, "and until you do, you should be charging what that sign says you're charging".

"Can't do that, miss. You're a day late."

A*****e.

"Fine," I give in. The line is building up behind me, and the woman who is next in line is starting to look impatient. I pull out a five, a one, and fifty cents from my wallet, and drop them on the counter. I pick up my coffee and cigarettes, and with one last attempt at righteousness, I spit out, "But I'll be damned if I come back here again".

I charge out the door, knowing that I'll be back in a week, as it's the only liquor store within walking distance of school.

*

I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, not sure what time it is. The lights are off but sunshine is lighting up the curtained window and giving my room a soft glow. I can feel my half-drunken cup of coffee staring at me from my bedside table. I close my eyes and wonder what day it is. Wednesday? No, it can't be Wednesday, because I had two classes yesterday. Thursday, I decide. Yes, it's definitely Thursday.

I open my eyes. I shove my hand in my left pocket and feel my cell phone. Taking it out of my pocket, I flip the phone open and hold it in front of my face- no new calls. No new messages. I close the phone.

I place my hand in my right pocket and feel its contents: keys, lip balm, lighter. I take the lighter out of my pocket. I like to pretend I keep it with me because there is always the possibility a friend of mine could be singing a slow, sad song and I'll have it to wave in the air. But I don't have any friends. I like to think though, that if I did, they would be the type to sing slow, sad songs.

The lighter is for cigarettes. I close my eyes again.

*

When I wake up, the lighter is still in my hand. I hold it up and flick it on. I sway the little flame back and forth in the air for a moment before I bring it back down to my side. I hear voices outside- that must have been what woke me up. I pull back the window's curtains and look outside. Several kids are walking together, when one of them looks at her watch. Suddenly, they all start running in the same direction, concerned they'll be late to class.

I flick the lighter on again, and let it go out. Then I flick the lighter on again, and let it go out. I repeat this motion several times, listening to the scratch of the small metal wheel as it ignites small blazes. I marvel at the lighter's consistency in it's actions- every time I click the wheel, a light is produced. Every time I let go of the button, the flame goes out. The lighter does exactly what it is told when it is told to do it, and does not even entertain thoughts of venturing outside its designated task. If the lighter was a person, we would not be friends.

I look at my watch- class started fifteen minutes ago. I wonder when I stopped caring.

*

I stand in front my easel in the middle of my apartment's living room/kitchen. I tell myself that tonight I will put my heart and soul on canvas. I place my mostly completed Painting 101 assignment on the easel.

My professor stated she wanted her student's self portraits to be a true likeness to their subjects. Since art classes are the only ones I take seriously, and my Painting 101 professor is the only one I respect, I've been working on this project every night for nearly a week. Looking closer now, I conclude that I've done an admirable job. The likeness is certainly there, the features proportionate. The colors are well mixed and the background not too overwhelming. And yet, I'm not happy.

Instead of moving closer again, I step back. The girl in the painting is certainly me. At least, she looks like me. She doesn't feel like me, though.

Proportionate? No, I'm not.

Well mixed? No I'm not.

Underwhelmed and uncomplicated? No, I'm not.

This girl is not me. This girl does not have trouble being on time for class. This girl is not lonely. This girl does not wear pants with paint on them. This girl does not have problems in the 7-11 with cigarette prices.

This girl is a paint-by-numbers version of someone entirely different. I am a lighter in someone else's pocket.

I grab a paintbrush.

Reviews

[AG]

the story is very poetic and emotionally charged! love it!

for an amateur writer, this is very good!keep it up!

[Fidheallir]

You have good delivery and a very readable style which immediately grabs the reader. However, your character comes off as "stereotypical angst-ridden broke art student"-- and it's more difficult for a reader to sympathize with a stock character. It would make a more compelling story if you develop the character more, give her a specific conflict, and have a realization of some kind at the end.

[Suzanne Sherif]

This is very good writing! You capture her character very quickly.

Hmmm, I'm just wondering what exactly the "take away message is". I think you're nearly there. It seems that the insight she gained from doing the self-portrait did not change anything inside of her. Maybe if she had a revelation, or moment of clarity of some kind, it would be a really strong piece.

I'd also like a couple of hints as to how she got to be the person she is now.

Very strong start!