I was about to press Record when I noticed my archived videos. Four years’ worth.
Not a good time.
My finger clicked play, and a younger me greeted myself, eyes raw from crying.
“I have a counsellor, and she said I should do this. She thinks it will help me. Help me what? Help me be a better person? A cooler person? Less of a freak? They don’t like me and they don’t like my art, none of them. I’m weird, that’s what they say. But I am weird. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. And nobody knows. Nobody knows how rotten I feel inside, how all this crazy shit wants to pour out of me, like I can’t contain it. I can’t contain all the feelings in my own body. I love him. They tell me I can’t, but I do. I really do.
And I’ll never have him.
He’s never going to love a freak like me...”
I pressed Stop. And then I pressed Delete.
Better days. These were much better days now.
I pressed Record.
“Hi. It’s Helen. Yes, I know that’s obvious.” I sighed to myself. “I should probably start over now, but I’m ready for bed, so just pretend I did start over.” I fiddled with my hair, then made myself still, staring straight into the camera like I knew what the hell I was doing. “So, this is my video log, my attempt at self-expression. If you’re watching this, then thank you. You were great today, and it helped. It helped more than you can know.”
I paused awhile. Trying to find words.
“The things I said were true, and I don’t think it’s transference, or whatever, but just suppose it is for a second. What difference would that make to how I feel? Would it really be any different? One person has feelings for another, then those feelings must be real, right? No matter where they came from. Feelings are real. They won’t be tamed, or bought, or discarded for some rational conclusion someone came up with once. Transference means nothing. Emotions… feelings… mean everything.”
I twisted my hair around my fingers.
“So, I’m going to give this a go. I’m going to try and harness whatever crazy energy zaps around my system and put it to good use. Who knows, maybe I could be the next Picasso, right?” I laughed to myself. “Maybe I could be.”
I stared at the camera, then I reached for the Off button. “I’m sorry again for the sketches, but I’m not sorry for how I feel about you. And I’m not sorry that you know.”
My heart was thumping and my hands were clammy, but I’d done alright.
I turned off my light and slipped into bed.
And then I masturbated over having Mr Roberts’ cigarette in my mouth.
***
Mark
Helen had a nervy little spring in her step, but she was on form in class next day. Her brushwork was impeccable, her fingers working magic on the canvas. She listened enthusiastically to a talk on Monet, and applied everything we’d discussed, as if she’d soaked my words through her skin and they’d come out through her fingers.
She was my pride in the classroom.
She was my muse outside of it.
Helen Palmer was no longer the only one with a private sketchpad.
A moment of frivolous fantasy after my canvas amendments, and I’d caught her so perfectly. The misted window with tracks of rain. Her nervous eyes as she prepared to confess all. Her delicate fingers twisting in her lap, the way the pleats in her skirt had ridden up, and blessed me with more of her creamy white thighs than I should have seen. The way her mouth parted as she listened to my words. The way she gulped and flustered. The way her eyes wanted me. The reverence in her expression.
She was beautiful on paper.
But not nearly so beautiful as in real life.
I kept my eyes on her as I wove around the other year thirteens. She was propped in her usual spot, her heel tapping the bar of the stool she was sitting on. Her lip was pinched at the side, gripped between her teeth, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
I recalled what she’d smelled like, so close to me in the car, like cherry and jasmine, fruity and oriental. Sweet and girly yet refined.
Her hair was soft, with just the slightest bounce in it. Her blazer nipped in at the waist and accentuated the gentle slope of her body.
Uniform was never designed to look as good as it did on that girl.
Helen wore black socks, not tights or trousers like so many of the other girls. Her socks showed off her ankles, and I’d never been much of a foot fetishist, but that girl’s ankles were obscenely erotic. They disappeared into black leather shoes, just an average design, with a buckle and strap instead of laces. Nothing special.