hwango

(fiction)

It is said that confession is good for the soul. Sometimes I believe wise sayings, sometimes I don't, but here, in this diary, I guess I'm going to give it a try.

My parents always found me to be rather useless, or at least not quite good enough, or fast enough, or careful enough ... you get the idea. I could add plenty of other adjectives, but some of my parents' words aren't the kind I want to write down. We only write what we want to keep, or at least this is my plan.

I think it is.

Or maybe I'll burn this diary. I don't know. Either way, the desire to tell my secrets seems to get stronger the older I get.

I've thought about telling a person, but, again, the older I get, the more I know how wrong that could go.

It all started, well, looking back, I think I was about six years old.

Mom and Dad trading angry insults again. I could hear them downstairs, through my floor. Or maybe the sound was drifting through the heating vents. It's always hard to tell where sounds truly come from.

They were furious, as often happened. And I was tired, tired of listening. Tired of feeling I needed to somehow make it better. I figured it was probably about me again, but honestly the fighting was pretty constant, and it rarely had to be about anything important. The only constant was rage.

I was trying to sleep, hoping they would get over it. But between their noise and my nagging, worrying thoughts, I wasn't able to sleep. I rolled over again.

I turned my little bedside lamp on. I loved that lamp. The base was a cartoonish looking shepherdess who always looked happy. We needed something happy in that house.

Suddenly I wondered if my parents might notice my lamp was on. I snapped it off. What could I do? I rolled over again and accidently kicked a blanket off the foot of my bed. Of course!

I quietly rolled up the blanket and tiptoed very, very slowly to my door. I laid the rolled up blanket across the bottom of the door and moved slowly, slowly back to my bed. Perfect! Now I could have my lamp on!

I clicked the lamp back on. Somehow the angry voices of my parents didn't scare me as much if it wasn't completely dark.

I stared at my wall. I loved the painting there. It wasn't perfect, but it was a little nature scene, with mountains and a pond. It was probably only 8x10, but I loved looking at it and imagining I was there. Sometimes I imagined a picnic there, with my parents. Surely in such a pretty place they would be happy.

But sometimes, sometimes I imagined it was just a place for me. Quiet, safe. Maybe I could wade in that pond. I always loved the feel of water on my skin. My parents weren't the hugging type ("You're not a baby, Emma, come on"), but water, water always hugs you, all over. It never asks if you are worthy or leans away when you are dirty. Water ... just accepts.

This story is all over the place, but it's my diary, so I guess it doesn't matter. I just want to remember how and why my life has turned out this way.

The painting, as I said, wasn't high quality. I wasn't sure who painted it. I know it came from my grandma's house, but when I remarked on it, she said, "You like it? You can have it. I have too much stuff in this old house anyways."

I wanted to ask more about it, but, honestly, I was worried she might reconsider giving it to me so I just said, "Thanks, Grandma" and tucked it into my little back pack.

I never even told my parents about it that day. I just took a push pin out of the little bulletin board in the kitchen, and hung the painting by my bed.

My parents must have seen it, but never mentioned it. It's like it wasn't special to anyone but me. I don't know why only I could feel how wonderful it was. I couldn't define any quality that made it special, other than, I felt peaceful looking at it.

That night, as my parents' voice continued in their endless argument, I started to think how magical my painting was. What if, what if I could paint like that one day? I looked over at my little watercolor set by my lamp. It had 8 colors and a red handled paint brush.

What if, what if one day I could make magical little creations like whoever did the picture on my wall?

I loved the idea. I could make people happy. That's all I ever wanted, a way to make people smile. I'd already had enough unhappiness for the rest of my life! Maybe the key to joy was in paint?

I grabbed my brush. It was dry, but hey, this was make believe.

I gentle touched my painting with my little brush, and....what? I didn't feel the brush hitting a stretchy canvas, it was more like I had plunged my brush into a glass of water, an endless glass of water in that matter. It's like it was going straight through?!

I held on tight and pulled it back. I turned my brush around and around.

Still a brush. Still the "strings" at the top, that you rub into the paint.

What was going on?

I thought about just turning off my light, trying to sleep again. Maybe I was imagining things because I was tired.

But... I was curious.

I looked at my painting. I didn't see a hole or a blemish.

I looked back at the brush in my hand. I had to know. Would it happen again?

I gently aimed the brush at the canvas again. It slipped in again, slow and steady. And honestly, I didn't care. This time I pushed and still no resistance. Now, a bit of my hand was slipping it. It didn't hurt or anything. If anything it felt like water.

I continued. And suddenly, I was leaning in, it was like... like a bubble might feel, best way I could describe it, and all of me was in there, in that scene.

I was standing by that pond. Me. As I was. With my bed-mussed hair wearing my Strawberry Shortcake night gown.

I don't understand how it happened, but I could feel the soft clover under my feet. Clover? I bent down to look and yes, it was clover. I couldn't tell before, when looking at my painting, the ground just looked green.

I didn't understand where I was. But it was nice and I finally couldn't hear my parents' voices at all.

I looked and there were three grey rocks, all grouped together on the ground next to my feet. I thought about picking one up, but decided I'd rather go to the pond.

The edges of the pond were a bit muddy, but I didn't care. I'd wanted to wade in it for so long.

I ran up and stuck a toe in. It was cold, but not terribly. More like a refreshing puddle after a summer rain.

I waded around. Thankfully, there were no little fish in the water, to nibble at my toes like they did at the lake.

It was fun, but suddenly I realized, if I was in the painting, how would I know when morning came?

And even more important, could I go back?

What was going on? Why did this work?

I reluctantly got out of the water and tried to retrace my steps. Finally I saw the red handle of my paintbrush, next to the three grey rocks I noticed before. So I must be back where I started. Now what?

I picked up my paintbrush. There weren't any paintings here. I was outside. No other people either.

Finally, I crouched down and began to run my brush over one of the rocks. It...again, it didn't seem to "hit" the rock. I felt that "give" I had felt before. I took a breath and kept pushing and suddenly it was like I had fallen into my soft bed. I threw my hands out, worried I was going to roll off and land on the floor.

Somehow I caught myself.

My little lamp was still on.

And this next part sounds really odd, but I just rolled over, clicked off my lamp, and settled under the covers.

The next thing I remember was waking up the next morning.

I think the experience was so overwhelming or maybe it was the water and the fresh air, I don't know why I just went to sleep without question.

It's an odd memory. But the reasons I'm writing about it here is that well, it was only the beginning.