Chapter 1-

“Well, shit. That doesn’t look anything like I pictured. I don’t… feel it.” I sighed looking over the ‘finished’ painting on the easel. I was suddenly overwhelmed by frustration. Fuck, another wasted canvas and wasted paint. I felt the tears brim in my eyes and swallowed them down.

“Where has all my creative chaos gone? What is wrong with me that I can’t even accomplish this?” I have questioned this to myself for the hundredth time.

First the failure, then the anger and finally, yeah, more depression. I hate it when the therapist is right. I’m just a waste. Wasted talent, wasted beauty – Whatever. Wasted time…… wasted so much time. The tears never fell but I could feel my face turning red as my mind began racing. Maybe if those hoity-toity rich assholes at the gallery gave me half a chance, I would blow their minds. I could be something. When I was in touch with myself, painting felt like magic. I’ve always had a deeply personal, almost sensual relationship with art. I would lose myself for hours or even days in creating and the results were breathtaking. It didn’t always have form, but it pulled emotion from the person looking at it and everyone got something different. No one was ever able to put their finger on it. The therapist called it ‘emotional painting.’

Whatever……. It was me. Every single one had a piece of me in it. No one I confided to understood. Hell, I don’t understand but that’s the best I can describe it. It’s been a long time since I truly felt that release. I was craving it and this piece of crap in front of me isn’t doing it. Everyone wanted my art, but no one could afford to pay the artist. So, most pieces were just given away. Or stashed in my ever growing pile of canvases behind the tiny TV. All pieces of me, just given away for nothing or stashed away. Never appreciated.

Now the anger. I went to take the piece off the easel to dry and knocked over my coffee. Biscuit, my dog, a small pit mix I rescued from a group of kids a year ago, left the room. The kids all had sticks and surrounded the poor terrified dog. I took him away before they got the chance to do anything stupid. I knew what they had planned. Tormenting at the least. Killing at the worst – nope not on my watch. He was watching me now from the far end of the messy trailer. He knew to give me my space when I was this way. I shoved my sketches to the side, flinging them all around to the ground. I grabbed my half done laundry and launched the full basket at the ceiling sending socks and panties all over the tiny room.

I wasn’t a small woman and never was. I need to lose weight but what’s the point. Biscuit didn’t care that I was hefty.  Then the unwanted truth popped into my head. It’s that I know I can do better. I could do more.

I stomped and kicked the couch pillows that are now on the ground, until I was out of breath. Hot tears streaming down my face. Then dropped to my knees and pounded the seat cushions with all my strength. I could feel the anger in my belly like magma, burning. My ears were ringing, and I could feel my heart racing. Tiny black dots appeared at the corner of my vision. I knew not to scream; someone would call the cops and Gods know I don’t need that hassle. 

It feels like fighting against tar, the anger weighs more and more, pressing against my body. Pulling me down until I blackout. I hit a few more times before I registered that there was a searing pain in my right hand. I stopped and suddenly realized that there was a spray of sticky blood all over and a metallic smell in the air. Blood all over me, all over the couch and wall.

“Fuuuuuck, what the…?” I leaned in to look at the blood coated couch. “Son of a bitch”, my pocketknife. I thought I had lost it a month ago. It must have fallen into the couch cushions and my punches hit the lever just right to spring open the blade. I turned my bloody hand over to look at the damage. Blood was everywhere, dripping down my arm and fingers. On the underside was a perfect oval puncture straight through the middle and a jagged-ass rip along my palm.

Well, that was one way to stop a tantrum, I scolded myself. I snatched up a stray sock and wrapped it around my hand and angrily wiped my tears aways. I cautiously wiggled all my fingers, making sure I didn’t sever anything important.

Nope, still working. I slowly got up to start the cleaning process. The anger dissipated swiftly as my hand continued to throb. I was no stranger to pain. In fact, I don’t mind a little pain now and again, but this hurt.

I worked my way to the bathroom and flicked on the dim light. Stuff was everywhere, shampoo, toothpaste, brush, scrunchies and make up littered my tiny counter. Everything in this damn trailer is too small. Except me, I’m too big. I sighed and opened the medicine cabinet. My eyes fell to the pathetic tower of pill bottles. Pills for aches and pains, pills for depression, pills to sleep, pills to diet, pills to stay awake. Ah, finally the squished box of bandages.

“Shit!” The box was empty. I guess that means a trip to the store. I shut the cabinet door and took a quick peek in the mirror. I was a train wreck. Purplish bags under my baby-blue eyes that are still red from my tantrum. My mousey brown hair with red highlights and a few silver strands was up in a messy bun. No bra, Gods knows I need a bra. I had on an old paint stained t-shirt, ragged jeans and fluffy socks. “Ugh, who cares.”

I walked back to my bed and slipped out of my bloodied shirt and pulled a baggy sweatshirt over my head. It was old and faded. One of my favorites. It had rainbow tie-dye and words CANCUN Mexico barely visible across the front. That was a lifetime ago and though the memories made me sad, this old sweater was like the hug I needed. “Mmm, comfy,” I mumbled. Biscuit looked up at me and whined. He deserved better. I carefully smooshed his drooly face in my hands and he sniffed at my bloody sock.

“It’s ok buddy, I’m better. It doesn’t even hurt much.” I whispered, trying to convince him as much as myself. “But I do need to get some stuff to clean it up and care for it. Wanna go for a ride!” Biscuit jumped up and nearly knocked me over.

Biscuit was small but was solid like a rock. He was a good dog, loyal and a great protector. Anytime someone was near my trailer he would bark up a storm alerting me and making them think twice. He looked like a standard pit, thick shoulders, no neck, and a big block head that was always smiling. A sloppy wet pink tongue lolling out of his mouth was the perfect accessory. He was a runt even now, smaller than a standard pit. He had short fur that was half brown and half white in splotches and one perfectly black spot on his rump. He was great with the kids in the lot next to mine and they loved playing chase and fetch with him. They could do anything to him and he’d just come back for more. Tail always wagging, I looked into those unconditional loving chocolate brown eyes. “You’re a good boy.” I told him.

The family, one lot over were a sad bunch. It was a family of 4 that lost everything when the dad lost his job. The company he worked for went bankrupt and after working at the same lumber yard for 20 years the only jobs he could get in the area weren’t enough to pay the bills. Unfortunately, the mom Maria, was a walking anxiety attack with health issues. She couldn’t handle even a simple job and barely looked after the two kids. They had barely enough after selling everything left to buy their small trailer, that was even smaller than mine and a beat up minivan that barely pulled it. Welcome to the fabulous world of the traveling gypsy. I smirked.

The father, Brian was almost never there. He just kept trying to get them back on their feet and was working 3 jobs. Maria was sick in bed most days which left the two kids, Brandon and Jenny, unattended.  They were good people, not perfect, but good. They just needed a break to get a decent fresh start again. Huh, don’t we all.

For the most part the other residents of the trailer park stuck to themselves, I rarely saw them and that was fine. Except the park prick, John. Everyone hated him, my other neighbor two lots down. He was always dirty with greasy hair and yellow teeth. In his late-forties he was a foul man. Always had a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other and some perverted joke to tell. But the worst part was his smell. Stale beer, cigarettes, and stale, VERY male body odor. He creeped me out and I sorely wished he would move along down the road. He would leer at the other ladies and lurked around corners. I think his new joy was yelling at the kids for no reason.

This is where Biscuit comes in. A month ago, John was drunk as usual, when the kids accidently kicked a ball onto Johns lot. When Brandon when to get it, John started yelling at him. They don’t have many toys, Brandon dashed over the paving line and snatched up his ball. He then turned to dash back for the safety of home. John was quick for an old man and ran up to the kid. I thought he was going to punch the small boy. I was going to yell out, but Biscuit was faster. He charged John and grabbed his sleeve before he could land the hit. The boy continued home scared out of his mind.

The force of the bite landed John on his drunk ass. Kinda funny in the moment and I let out a small snicker. He was angry and got up sputtering and cursing. He kicked at Biscuit. Biscuit is a tough little guy and smoothly dodged it. I called my dog back to me and he trotted over. John threatened to kill my dog, I threatened to call the police and everyone in the trailer park just went back inside their trailers and locked up tight. Now John yells and curses every time he sees Biscuit. Oh well.

I’ve never been one to start fights but I always felt I could hold my own. I’ve faced down more than a few bullies while standing up for weaker people. I hate bullies. I was always picked on as a kid because I was different and there was no one there for me. As an intern, as an apprentice, as a girlfriend, as a wife……. But that was a lifetime ago. Now that all meant nothing. I meant nothing to no one. Except my Biscuit. I carefully pulled on my painted Converse shoes, there was no tying them with this hand right now. I grabbed my phone, wallet and keys. My hand still hurt. The stickiness of the sock told me it was still bleeding. Biscuit and I bumped together in the tiny hall to get out the front door of the trailer.

I locked up and we jumped in my beat up old Ford. It wasn’t much to look at, a sun bleached-red, but hey it worked. I never lived a luxurious life but I always had a roof and food. Sometimes it was noodle soup and a small trailer, but it was mine and I was safe.

After my husband, Bill, died I got enough from the insurance to clear our debts and buy my truck and trailer. The only thing of value that I have anymore is my motorcycle. It was his motorcycle. I’m sure that he loved it more than me. It meant everything to him. So, I kept it. My therapist said I should sell it so I can move on with my life but I’m fairly sure he was thinking more of my bill then my mental health. I love the outdoors and I taught myself to ride it. It’s magical on warm summer afternoons, riding along the coast with the salty sea air or winding through the shady logging roads with the earthy smell of forest filling my senses.

That was on good days and that’s been awhile. Living in the Pacific Northwest there aren’t too many sunny days either. It just sits there now. I make just enough from my pension and selling my art to pay for my few bills and the occasional extras like clothes and more art supplies. It was simple. I was fine with simple.

The Boston’s adopted me as an infant but they never really bonded with me. I was found by a pair of backpackers near the US and Canadian border. My parents didn’t even leave a note. I was always the weird one. I made a few friends through the years but after Bill died, I learned the hard way that they were more his friends than mine.

After that, things got bad, really bad. I quit everything. The blackouts started again and now uncontrollable rages. Was I crazy or a monster? I suppose it just depends on the day. The court ordered therapy, which was the highlight of the midlife crisis I was living, was a joke. Someone paid to ask you questions without listening for answers and then they give you advise on something they have no idea how to understand. The only thing that matters is they get paid and you come back on time. Thank the Gods that I don’t have to go through that hell anymore.

I just didn’t care about anyone anymore and slowly they all forgot about me. That’s fine. I may be a broken mess but I’m still here. Still painting my heart out. But in my gut, I know I could and should do better. I always feel like there is more. Like I am only seeing the cover of my own book. I just don’t know how to open it.

Whatever- my dog loves me. Me and my Biscuit, that’s all I need. And bandages. I pulled myself from my cloudy thoughts and fired up my obnoxiously loud red truck. I put it in reverse and before I even lifted my foot off the brake, I heard a loud ‘bang’ on the truck bed. Biscuit immediately started growling and barking. I turned around wondering what made the sound since my break was still on and I saw John. “Fuck!” I put the truck in park and opened the door.

“What the hell?” I demanded angrily stepping out of the truck. I wrinkled up my nose as the wind blew his stench in my direction.

“What do you mean, you bitch” he slurred “you nearly ran me over. Ha, ha, ha!” He staggered a little and pushed himself up from leaning on the bed of my truck.

“Get out of the driveway asshole, I didn’t hit you. You’re drunk. Go crawl home.” I said and turned to get back in the truck.

I suddenly felt his shaky but strong hand grip my shirt as he staggered into me. Holding back the urge to vomit as his breath hit me. He said, “Maybe you wouldn’t be such a bitch if you got a little. Maybe I won’t tell the cops you ran me over if you give ME a little,” and he put his hand inside his pants and nudged a little closer. Still shocked and disgusted at his audacity while trying not to puke, I pushed him away as Biscuit lunged. I caught Biscuit by his collar just as his teeth snapped in front of Johns face. My protective little hero.

John’s face went white, and he staggered backward yelling slurred curses at me. I was grateful for Biscuit, but I had grabbed him with my cut hand and tore the gash further. “Shit.” I hauled Biscuit back into the truck and took off. If I run that bastard over, I’ll just bury the body when I get back. I growled to myself. What a shitty day. I felt gross that he had touched me. That pervert probably jacked off every time he saw a woman. My hand was throbbing as I clenched it tight.

I clicked on the radio to lighten my mood and willed myself not to think about my hand or that gross encounter. Good grief, since when are the Rolling Stones and Tom Petty on the oldies station. We rolled down the 101 Coast Highway to the nearest grocery store. It was about 45 minutes away in a little seaside town.

I liked this place. I loved the beach and sprawling forests. The sea air always made me feel better. I breathed it in. I know why a dog hangs his head out the window of a car speeding down the road. It’s fresh. It’s like life jumps right down your throat and you can’t help but smile. It also scared the crap out of me.

I was always a contradiction. I don’t want to be hurt but I like a little pain, I want to lose weight AND eat my cake too. I wanted to be treasured but not placed on a pedestal. While I yearned to be elegant I’m usually a mess and consistently chose clothes straight out of the 80’s. I have a drawer full of life planners with good intentions and zero achieved goals.

Art is chaos and that’s what I do. Structure always made me feel claustrophobic. I want to follow the rules, I just can’t help pushing the buttons and touching the glass. I don’t do well when I must stay within the lines, especially when they just don’t make sense.

Nothing seemed to make sense anymore, the world has gone crazy and I want out.  I want to be away from people, T.V.’s and drama. Away from stupid expectations and rationalizations meant to keep dumb people safe. All they really do is prolong a slow and painful death by boredom. I craved life but at what seemed every turn, I just fucked it up.

Just me and nature, simple. Ironic, I’m also too scared to be out there on my own. As much as I hated to admit it, Biscuit means so much to me because I really am lonely. I needed my safe little trailer that I could hide in and that was just fine now that I had him. With all that is said and done, my life is OK. Or at least that’s what my therapist says I should tell myself. It is what it is. I’m OK. I’m enough.

I pulled into the parking lot. Great, Frank is here. I mumbled to myself.

I’ve been living in the area for about a year now and was finally remembering where things are and got to know a bit of who’s who around town. Not that I cared but it did make things easier sometimes. Frank made sure everyone knows he is the store owner and that he knows everyone that goes to his store. Biscuit huffed at me and licked my hand. Right, bandages.

“You stay here, keep the seagulls off the truck, ok?” Just as I looked into his adoring brown eyes a seagull landed on the hood of the truck. Biscuit didn’t even turn. I let out a sigh. He’s still a good boy. I stepped out and went in.