I DIPPED MY FINGERS INTO THE RED PAINT and held them above the white canvas. Red droplets fell, one after the other and splattered, just like that terrible day with Mia. I dipped my fingers into the paint pot once again. Twenty splots of blood wasn’t enough. Twenty splots of blood would never be enough! I turned my head to the side, fighting the memory that came unbidden, but at the same time, desperately needing to remember. I gave in, and let it fill my internal vision. I frowned and shook my head while the scene replayed in my mind ...

‘Ugh!’ I moaned, as my breath was punched out of me when I became wedged on a tree jutting out from the cliff. I groaned when I felt a terrible, sharp pain every time I inhaled the salty air. It was impossibly hard to breathe.

Mia’s hand was still in mine. I could feel it. Gripping tightly. I looked down. Firstly, at the jagged rocks far below beside the sea, then at my hand holding on to Mia’s. It was covered in roads of blood. My blood.

Mia was dangling mid-air, and our terrified eyes connected.

My chest constricted. The pain in my ribs was unbearable and my shoulder was screaming at me to move. I couldn’t keep hold of her for much longer ...

I watched as a drop of my blood dripped onto her face. Right there, in the middle of her forehead, like she was marked. Another drop of blood fell. She turned her head and it landed on her cheek. Like the kiss of death.

She turned her eyes to mine. ‘I’m scared, Oliander,’ Mia said, using my childhood nickname. Her voice was filled with terror.

‘I’ve got you, Mamma Mia,’ I replied with her nickname.

‘Tell my parents I love them ... and my brother.’

‘You tell them yourself, Mee. Hear those sirens?’

Mia’s hand slipped a little more. A little closer to death.

There were shouts from above and hope bloomed. Just a little longer and we’ll be rescued.

Just a little longer ...

My chest tightened, and I began to suck in short, fast breaths. I wiggled my hands and feet as they started to tingle. An anxiety attack was coming on. Fast. I pinched my arm numerous times then concentrated on breathing in for a count of five, holding my breath for a count of seven, then exhaled for a count of nine—inhale-hold-exhale, inhale-hold-exhale, on repeat until I felt calm. I was a pro at it. And it worked. Every. Single. Time.

Dr Jones said my fixation for hands and fingers and blood and the colour red was understandable after the tragedy. She said it was related to my post-traumatic stress disorder. She said educating myself about PTSD was essential. I did that, and the three therapies.

She was also the one who introduced me to art. When words weren’t enough, or I had nothing but indescribable, devastating emotion, she always guided me to the paper and pencils, or crayons. And that was enough to release what I needed to express at that particular time. Even if it didn’t make sense to her, it made sense to me.

But now I had paint. And for two years I had been painting. Every. Single. Sunday. Hidden in my parents’ studio here at Tarrin, or in my room at the defence force base.

I touched my red fingertips to the paint splots on the canvas and closed my eyes. I lifted my chin and went inside my mind and heart to feel the depth of despair, of pain, of love, of loss of the ways things use to be. The past is done. You can’t change it. You must accept it. Mia would understand, wouldn’t she?  

Dr Jones said life was a journey. In the six months after the “tragedy”, as she called it, “that terrible day of the scars”, as I called it, I wanted my journey to end. Every waking moment was too painful to bear. I wanted my earth journey to end ...

Dr Jones said life was a story, and we were the main character of our book. Dr Jones said we could control the story of our life, and instead of letting things happen to us, we could take control. But I wasn’t convinced. You may be able to control yourself, but you can’t control others. So, in the end, you spend your time being proactive and reactive towards events and people.

I pushed my dripping red fingers onto the canvas and moved my hand, working with the emotion ... the darkness ... the anger ... the fear ... the hate ... the guilt ... the loss ... of myself ... my injured soul.

I slumped in the chair when emptiness consumed me. I wanted to change my memory. But I couldn’t. It would betray Mia. And besides, it would be a lie.

I dropped my head and squeezed my eyes shut. I had to do more red art work.

Red. Like blood.

I grabbed another canvas and dipped the paintbrush into the pot of red paint, then covered the entire surface. Done. I placed it next to the free form finger painting I had created and stepped back.

More. I needed more red. I pushed my hand into the red paint and placed my hand onto the canvas to leave a red handprint, like a hand covered in blood. I repeated it over and over again, until I had thirteen handprints.

Thirteen—the number of betrayal.

I leaned the canvas next to the previous two artworks and grabbed another canvas and a stick of charcoal. I sketched a bowie knife then added blobs of red paint. Like blood. My blood on that terrible day of the scars.

I let out a sob. Just one. Then held my breath before I released it heavily.

Another canvas. I needed another one. This time I drew my eye with pencil, and a trail of red down the canvas that ended in a pool of blood.

Done.

I drew two hands, gripping on to each other, the one above holding on to the one below. And trails of blood. Like on that terrible day of the scars.

Done.

And finally, in exhaustion, I painted a delicate blood red heart of love. For Mia ...

I stood back and looked at the seven complete canvases. They told a story. A violent story of two people. A story that ended in love; for my love for Mia would never end, and I would never forget.

I had one more painting I needed to do before the sun set. One for Gram. I was absolutely fascinated by the fact that the inner ear, the cochlear, was in the same formation as a shell—like a nautilus cut, or a snail shell. And if you followed the path of the shell formation, it was like spinning, round and round.

Vertigo.

I wanted to paint a spectacular spiral for Gram. One that would help her to associate something beautiful with her cochlear, and the vertigo. I blew out my cheeks. The word vertigo left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I needed to plan my artwork first, so I opened my sketch book and drew a spiral. And another and another. I opened my laptop and researched the inner ear and shells and spirals in nature and discovered the Fibonacci spiral. The more I researched the more captivated I became. It was then that I realised Gram’s painting was going to take quite a few Sundays of focussed artwork.

When the natural light in the studio dimmed, I closed my laptop and my sketch book. But that was okay. I knew the image I needed to create for Gram would come and draw in my mind in its own time. The brain is ingenious in the way it works.

I cast my eyes back over my red pieces of artwork. I was more than satisfied with what I had achieved. I pulled out my phone and photographed them. Dr Jones would love to analyse what I had done.

I could even imagine her almost breaking into a smile.