April 26, 2018
By victoriatan GOLD, Novi, Michigan
victoriatan GOLD, Novi, Michigan
13 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Write hard and clear about what hurts" - Ernest Hemingway

Anne-Marie loves to draw. After her mother left, her father would draw for hours in front of her. But that was before.

Now, Anne-Marie draws every day. She’ll use anything--charcoal, pencil, ink, chalk. But charcoal is her favorite and her body is her canvas.

Starting every morning, she draws directly on her skin; and before sunset, she passes out with a pencil in her hand. When she draws, she’s transported into another dimension that deadens her worries in a way that her doctor’s prescriptions cannot. Anne-Marie can’t afford to see them anymore, anyway. But it doesn’t matter. As long as she can draw, she knows she’ll be all right. Almost happy. Almost.
On Tuesday, Anne-Marie travels to the local market to buy more charcoal. The stall is tucked away at the end of the street. Most people would miss it but Anne-Marie knows exactly where it is. Stopping by every couple of days, she’s a frequent customer. Exchanges are quick. She’s anxious to get home and draw. Soon, she’s on her way.

She rushes up the cracked, concrete stairs of her building to her room. Stepping over the broken glass and crevices in the ground, she arrives at her door. There’s a wrinkled note posted on it. “EVICTION NOTICE,” it reads. Anne-Marie stares at it, tilts her head to the left, purses her chapped lips and tears it down to bring into her room to draw with.

After wiggling the door open and stepping into the dreary space, she immediately sinks down onto her tattered mattress and begins to draw. The voices join her, as they always do, and Anne-Marie begins to see vibrant colors wisp through the air in flashes. Bursts of light erupt with pings and crackles. A feeling of relaxation envelopes her toes and travels up her legs, past her sides and her arms and up, up, up, until she feels her eyes begin to flutter close.

“Stop banging and scratching on the walls or I’ll call the police! I’m not joking this time!” she hears in the distance.

The world starts to fade and blur beginning around the edges until Anne-Marie falls into a deep sleep with an untroubled expression on her face.
Rifling through her room on another day, Anne-Marie noticed that her supply of charcoal was beginning to dwindle. She quickly tucked the remnants back into the burrowed-out hiding spot in the wall underneath the window, grabbed all the crumpled bills from her kitchen drawer, and headed down to the market.

They didn’t have charcoal that day. All the vendor could offer her was pastels. It wasn’t ideal but it would get her through the night. She bought everything he had. She would be fine.

Rushing back to her apartment, Anne-Marie took the stairs up two at a time and fumbled with her keys for a minute before swinging the door open. She didn’t even bother to take down the notice posted on her door. It had been there for over a week.

She hastily plopped down on the hardwood floor and began to draw. Once again, the sensations took over and she laid there with a twinkle in her eye until she passed out. She had sold her mattress days ago to pay for drawing materials, but it was a small thing to her.
A sense of dread wafts through Anne-Marie when the sun’s rays pry her eyes open the next morning. She knows she only has enough money for one more market run. This would be it. It would be over soon. No more drawing. She didn’t know what would come next, and she forced those thoughts out of her head for now.

Stumbling onto the cracked pavement, Anne-Marie searches frantically for the familiar man she relies on to numb her suffering. He’s nowhere to be found. Panic begins to submerge her.

She staggers aimlessly around the city looking for the man. Time passes quickly until the sky is dark and stars peek out of the gloom. The voices get louder and make her head pound. She has picked the skin off her fingers until blood covers the tips. Anne-Marie hobbles around for hours until her head aches and her frail body is quivering. Even though it’s the middle of summer, the breeze feels icy as it nips at her red nose and peeling lips. She feels as though someone is banging on a large drum next to her ears and she winces as the piercing wail of sirens pass by. She is cold, so very cold. At yet another street corner, somewhere, she finds him, at last.

When he sees the desperation and weariness in her eyes, he smirks, baring his yellow, chipped teeth at her. “I knew you crazies would find me eventually,” he rasps.

Anne-Marie purchases her drawing materials eagerly. Relief floods her body, but at the same time, her pain increases tenfold. The urge to draw intensifies until her vision swims and her hands shake uncontrollably.

The journey back to her room passes in a blur. Night has fallen and the fluorescent street lights flicker on. She doesn’t know how she managed to find her way back so quickly but thinks little of it. There are more pressing issues at hand. Soon, she’s on her knees on the floor doing her favorite thing--the only thing she knows how to do without messing up. Tonight, Anne-Marie draws longer than she has ever done before, longer than she knew she could. She just keeps going, and going, and going until the room spins around her and the stench of her own clothes go away. Her aching body cannot hold her up anymore and she leans against the wall for support until it all hits her. Anne-Marie breathes shakily in and out, and groans aloud as pleasure invades her body.

Then, the chaos of nightlife in the city fades away into nothingness. The world goes blank.

She doesn’t wake up the next morning. Anne-Marie never wakes up again.

Her body is found a month later.
“Approximate time of death: 3:00 a.m., August 19th. Cause of death: drug overdose,” the medical examiner drones on like in any other report. “Anne-Marie Winters, one MIA mother and a deceased father who also died from an overdose--practically an orphan.”

The cleaners moved swiftly to rid the apartment of needles and rolled-up flyers scattered all over the floor. They finished after 10 minutes. After all, there wasn’t really much to clean up. The room was ready to be rented out again later that same day. It was just another overdose case in the part of town where people had multiple sets of locks on their doors and slept with one eye open at night. It was far too common.
The vendor doesn’t even notice Anne-Marie’s absence. Why would he? He has plenty of other junkies to sell to and an endless stream of new customers. She means nothing to him.

The neighbors do notice the psychotic girl’s absence. They notice that the clanging and clawing and screaming have stopped, but they assume that she has either been arrested or finally kicked out onto the streets. They will use Anne-Marie as a cautionary example for their own daughter, but she won’t listen to them. Her life will end the same way as Anne-Marie’s did. Other than that, Anne-Marie means nothing to them.

As for her mother, the day Anne-Marie met her end will simply be another Tuesday. Anne-Marie is merely another reckless teenager to her. Anne-Marie means nothing to her.

Anne-Marie’s spirit is finally free. Though her exit was quiet, the outcome is exuberant. She’s refreshed like a phoenix reborn from its ashes. She forgives her parents. She forgives her former employer who betrayed her body. But most of all, she’s learning to forgive herself. For the first time in her life, Anne-Marie is happy. Radiant. Carefree.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Speaks

Smith Summer

Wellesley Summer