A Brick in the Wall

Trigger: Cancer

I still remember that first day, eight years ago, like it was yesterday. It's difficult to describe, but it was as though I was gone one moment, and here the next. You see, dear reader, that I am none other than a painting. A rather fine one, at that.

My crafter, lovely Miss Chloe, was the ripe age of seven years when she brought me into being. I was made for an art contest at her school, Bidelspach Elementary. It's quite strange having hundreds of others gaze upon you and judge you on the skill of your creator. Luckily for me, I struck up a conversation with the painting next to me and had a fine chat about our creators. Mine, Miss Chloe, painted me with the finest of acrylics, whilst she was painted in cheap watercolor. Not to my surprise, I took first place.

I was taken home with a silk ribbon the color of the sea adorning me. Then, beaming, my dear Chloe hung me on her wall with her other masterpieces. Now, dear reader, you must understand that for a painting, being hung on the wall of your creator is the most valued achievement of all. So I happily took the place of some crayon scribbles made when Miss Chloe was six.

I hung on that wall for seven years, growing up with Miss Chloe. For example, my taste in art is much more refined that it was. I've watched dear Chloe grow up and go through all the struggles, all the wins. Her brushstrokes are more careful, her colors more vibrant. Soon, many more frames filled the walls, illuminating her rooms. But I wasn't forgotten. Whenever she brought home friends (which came to be quite often), she always pointed out none other than me. I was the first painting to mark the start her journey into the grand world of art.

My life was simple; I sat on her wall watching dear Chloe grow up, and I was the painting that started it all. Recently, however, I was no longer the painting she pointed out to her friends. Her art became more defined, and she developed her own style. Do not fret, dear reader-I still encouraged Chloe in my own way-but I could not ignore the feeling of being left behind.

Dust grew thick on my frame, and I was surrounded by other works of art that were admittedly better than myself. Miss Chloe was rarely home, and when she was, it was with people I had never seen before. Her old friends and old paintings alike were left behind and forgotten.

I sat on that wall for two years-never noticed and never admired. I finally accepted that I was no longer Miss Chloe's pride. I was merely a brick in the wall of her journey. Other paintings took my place, whereas I grew caked in dust and time. As her brushstrokes became more confident, I faded to a mere memory, as years quietly ticked by.

As the years passed, it was no longer just a room for Chloe and her paintings. There was now another young girl always by her side. They filled the room with a different kind of color. The late night conversation, the whispers, the secrets they thought no one would hear. But I saw it all.

Every day, the girl followed Chloe into her room. It's been two years, and now they have a different kind of warmth. The laughter, the reassuring words, the small moments I once though belonged to me. I now understand what it truly means to be cared for. If only Chloe still cared for me.

Chloe is changing, but maybe I am too. She cut her hair differently, her style is different too. Her art is vibrant, and has grown more abstract. Every piece is lovely, and I've started to understand that I'm not the loveliest anymore.

These happy days seemed to pass far too quickly. They always do.

Chloe's hands started shaking, tears rolling down her face. I didn't understand this change until it was much too late. The trash was stuffed with paper and paint, the pictures on her wall growing dust. Yet, through it all, the girl remained at her side.

The whispered dreams, the quiet confessions, the soft kisses. I saw every moment. But I couldn't understand why her life grew to be so bittersweet. Why was her beloved paintbrush caked with dust? Why were tears coming as easily as breath?

After months of this, Chloe shaved her beloved hair. When the other girl saw this, tears pricked at her eyes as she took the razor and shaved her own. Chloe stayed in her room and was plagued by a cough that seemed it would never leave.

It was then I finally began to understand that my dear creator was sick.

I wanted to help, but tell me, dear reader, how could a painting save a child from sickness? I sat upon that wall watching her slowly fade away. Yet even through this all, the girl still came.

The day of Miss Chloe's passing was tragic. It pains me to remember every time. She was sitting with the other girl, when she started coughing terribly. The girl jolted up, trying to help, but there was nothing she could have done. Chloe suddenly dropped into her lap, all movement ceased.

I remember it like yesterday-the screams, the wailing of sirens, the sobbing that followed. The ache within my heart still haunts me.

No matter how many times I replay the scene in my head, there's nothing I, a painting, could have done. I'm nothing more than a helpless picture watching my creator die.

After months of pure silence and time creeping by, the girl enters. She gazes around, tears filling her eyes, until her eyes land on me. It's as if she understands my pain, my regret, my being.

For what seems like hours, it's her and I, her piercing gaze staring into me. The door opens softly, and who I presume to be Chloe's mother comes in and hugs the girl. The girl shoots me one last glance before she walks out for the final time.

A month later, they came. I didn't recognize these adults, but I could guess why they were here. One of them spotted me, and took me down from my place on the wall for the first time in eight years.

I was elated to finally be free of the empty room, but my elation quickly disappeared. They lowered me into a cardboard box, alone and in the dark, and closed the lid.

Now, dear reader, I still lie in that box, darkness a curtain over my vision, collecting cobwebs and dust. I lay here and think of what I could have, should have done, if I had been able to. But through it all, I still remember that day, eight years ago, like it was yesterday.

Just another brick in the wall.