Short Story: art work

By Freddie L. Haberfellner

Photography via Pexels

MISSING

HEART AND DIGNITY

IF FOUND RETURN TO

–     –

She frames these words, written in black ink on her sternum, with a rectangle to make them look like the flyers stuck to lamp posts and trees.

Mere minutes ago she’d gotten out of bed to grab some chocolate from the kitchen, but instead she’s taken all her clothes off and dug her fountain pen out of her handbag.

She’s learned over the past two days that trying to fill the hole in her chest with food is only a temporary solution. One might say she’s a barrel without bottom, though others might argue that her bottom has gotten so big calling her bottomless would be a nasty joke.

Instead of hiding under warm covers and waiting for food to numb the pain, she must find her heart again and lock it inside her chest where it belongs. How? She doesn’t know. All she knows is how her heart escaped. It was at the bus stop on a Thursday night, after a trip to the theatre. She sat down – dizzy – and he leaned towards her to pick some fuzz off her coat. His tipsy fingers lingered on her shoulder, and she noticed for the first time how long his eyelashes were. He smiled, and she wished to kiss the dimples on his cheeks.

She watched her heart jump right out of her chest and into his arms and suddenly felt so light she thought she could fly. It wasn’t until much later that she realised the reason for this was the gaping hole inside her.

“It wasn’t until much later that she realised the reason for this was the gaping hole inside her.”

Thinking she must be prepared for her heart’s return, she starts drawing a door over her left breast. Wooden, with round edges, her nipple the doorknocker and the lock a little beneath it on the right. This way she can make sure it doesn’t escape again. She hesitates, remembering the first time she took the bus home with him, still holding his hand while trying to fish her oyster card out of her bag, the bus driver frowning, the two of them giggling –

He never let go of her that night. They melted into each other, and he seemed to be everywhere, everything, and still she wanted more.

Her thumb grazing the green pendant hanging from her navel, she draws a key ring around it. Pausing, she realises that her arm is hurting from drawing in such an unusual position. She lets go of the pen and it lands on the mattress, leaving a tiny black dot on the white sheets. She smiles.

So many nights he spent lying right next to her, on his side, his hand resting on her hip — it seems to her their whispered conversations are still hiding under the sheets. In the dimly lit room, she can still see his clothes lying on her carpet, his shoes in front of her door.

Averting her gaze from the empty room, she imagines the drawings on her body as actual tattoos; a picturesque timeline, a metaphorical retelling of this fairytale romance.

With her index finger she grazes the keys on her lower belly, but instead of metal she feels the trail of hair leading down from her navel. Is this the reason he’s gone? Her reluctance to shave? Her hand travels further down, fingers gliding through the thicket of hair, so sturdy the idea of shaving it off seems ridiculous.

She shakes off the blanket covering her lower body and her fingers start to caress the soft, wet petals between her legs. A slow breath escapes her lips – but she stops herself. She has to finish her drawings first.

She picks up the pen again, the target her lower belly. Where the hairline stops fresh lines spread around her navel, reaching towards the keys dangling from her piercing. The lines become branches and branches end in thorns, multiply and spread until they’re majestic as the thicket guarding Sleeping Beauty’s tower.

He wouldn’t try to fight his way through such a barrier, she knows that. Still, she likes the idea of his clothes caught by the branches, a thorn scratching his cheek, sinking into his skin, tearing him apart. As she imagines him struggling against the thorn bushes that are her body, the pressure of pen against skin becomes urgent. What was just a playful tickle transforms into carving, and the innocent black lines mix with red.

Her left hand caresses the inside of her thighs – similar to the thorn bushes on her belly the skin on her legs is covered by a white maze. Did he not like the stretchmarks? Would he have preferred a girl like the ones that only existed in magazines? A girl that never snuck into the kitchen at night to eat everything she could find? A girl that never worried about her weight because she was naturally skinny?

She pokes a chewed-down fingernail into one of the white lines on her left thigh. Could she cover them up? Could she cover her whole body in ink, make it into a piece of art, or – rather – a novel he could read in his bed at night? She could be a picture book – could be more than a picture book. Could be a tale of two worlds colliding, two minds clashing, two bodies uniting. She could stand naked by the Thames – like those golden statues – and serve as a warning to young girls.

But would he ever know? Would it not be wiser to tear off her skin – every last bit of it – wrap it up and send it to him, so he could look at her art in private? He might find the right words then, to match her illustrations. He might pin her onto his wall, right above his bed, as a warning for future lovers. This is what I will do to you.