The Past…
The Chaos is My Calm
“YOU SUCK,” I TELL MY little sister as I take a hit of my joint.
She huffs and tosses the spray can into the dumpster. “I don’t see your dumb ass doing any better. It’s a pretty heart.”
I pass her the roach and pick up the untouched black spray can. She used the red one until it ran out. Ugliest fucking heart I’ve ever seen. “Watch and learn, loser.”
She punches me, and I laugh. Truth is, she’s not the loser. I am. Well, was. When Mom married Roger, and Andrea came to live with us, the ever-present ache in my chest seemed to loosen its grip. Andrea didn’t look at me as though I was a fucked-up teenager like my teachers and parents did. She saw through to me. Became my friend and loved me in spite of the fact I had no future in front of me.
I shake the can and toss the cap at her. She grunts, which makes me chuckle. My sister is a mean ass. Gives my step-dad Roger a helluva time. It’s funny as shit. “Five bucks says my heart will be better.”
“If your heart looks better than mine, I’ll buy you a Big Mac and a chocolate shake,” she agrees, but her tone is smug. She’s pretty fucking proud of her ugly ass heart.
I start tagging the back wall of the old abandoned grocery store and zone out. When I paint or draw, I get lost in the moment of it all. My bedroom is littered with dark drawings. Portraits of myself, two people in one. Smiles and fucking sunny on the outside. Broken and messed up on the inside. And just like those drawings, I put my own heart on this wall.
Smooth and strong on the outside.
But the tear in the middle of my heart reveals the twisted wreckage within.
The heart is huge, just like my own, and takes up nearly a six foot by six-foot space. It’s giant, anatomically correct, and tries desperately to do its job correctly. But the peek of the inside is enough to see that it’s a mess. It is broken. It doesn’t understand how to be healthy and whole.
When I finish, I drop the can to the concrete. With my fingers, I steal some of the blood red runoff from Andrea’s heart and smear it along the outer curve of my black one. It’s poetic, really. A direct parallel to my real life. I desperately take from others what I hope to somehow restore within me. Andrea is hardened and sad but within she is good and loving. If I could have one ounce of her goodness, maybe my own heart wouldn’t be so fucked-up.
“Linc.” My sister’s voice is shaky with emotion.
I step back and blink away my daze. When I dart my eyes to hers, she’s crying. This is what I do. I make them cry. My mother. My step-sister. My teachers. I’m not whole like they want me to be. I’m a shattered mess inside, barely tied together in a shiny package. Those sharp edges bleed through, and everyone sees my imperfections. Late at night, I vow I’ll be a better person the next day. But when the next day rolls around, I’m back to stealing or lying or fighting. The chaos is my calm.
“You win,” I say gruffly and kick the can toward the dumpster. “Your heart is better than mine.”
I stalk off toward McDonald’s, which is a half-mile up the road. Andrea’s footsteps can be heard behind me as she runs to catch up. I’m stopped dead in my tracks when her skinny arms hug me from behind. Her cheek rests against my back.
“You’re wrong, big brother,” she whispers tearfully. “Your heart is beautiful and strong and the only thing that keeps me alive most days.”
My chest pounds with her words which are no longer about the artwork. “My heart is dirty and ugly.”
“You’re wrong,” she murmurs again. “So wrong.”
I scowl but make no moves to break from her hug. I love Andrea more than anyone in this world. One day she’s going to go off and do great things. She’ll meet some cool guy and have awesome kids. I’ll be the dumb uncle that can’t keep his shit straight.
“You’re wrong, Linc.”
Her words keep echoing inside of me, giving me the slightest inkling of hope. Hope isn’t an emotion I’m familiar with. Hope is fucking stupid. And yet…here it is, blossoming inside of me, like a contagious disease. I’m infected by it. Andrea seems to love me despite my shortcomings. Maybe one day I’ll find a girl who sees straight inside me to my jagged little heart and thinks it’s beautiful and strong, just like my sister says.
“So what you’re saying,” I say, my voice tight with unshed emotion, “is I’m the best motherfucking artist you know and you’ll be glad to buy me a Big Mac.”
She chuckles and sniffles. “I’m saying,” she teases back “that I let you win sometimes. I can’t always be the best at everything. Don’t want my big brother to go home and cry to his momma.”
I reach back and tickle her until she squeals, running away.
“Asshole!”
I grin at her and take a bow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She’s beaming at me. My sister isn’t one for smiling much since she’s come to live with us. When she does smile, she lights up a room. I may not be good for much but I am sure as fuck good at making her laugh. And that’s something I can be proud of.
“Let’s go, punk,” she orders as she starts marching down the road to the restaurant.
I trot to catch up to her and sling an arm over her shoulders. “Thanks, Andrea.”
“I meant every word,” she says, her tone solemn once again. “You were wrong. One day you’ll realize that.”
Fucking hope multiplies inside of me again.
God, how I want to believe you’re right, little sister.