Always Broken

• Kayin Van Nelson, Grade 10, Mater Maria College
• Short Story
• 2019

1st in the 'Inspired 2019' competition

All my life, I’ve been broken. It’s like a part of me is missing. But when I paint, I’m finding that part of myself again. I’m healing, however slowly. And now, I don’t know what to paint. I stare at the blank canvas before me. At my dry paintbrush. Yet my mind remains empty.
I slide off the stool, onto the tiled floor of my picture-perfect living room. The walls loom around me, tall and foreboding. Hanging from them are oil paintings of men with piercing eyes, watching me, expectantly. I cry out, yearning for the world to speak and tell me what to do. It remains silent.
At long last I crawl back to the canvas. My face crinkles like paper as I force the cogs of my brain to turn. I search deep within myself for a hidden answer. Finally, I see something; a memory, long-forgotten. Until now.
I’m playing with a cheap action figure my dad gave me. It’s my most treasured possession. At the age of five, I haven’t learned to filter my imagination through a paintbrush. Instead I use toys. Right now, I’m pretending my action figure is fighting a horde of goblins. With one swift kick, he sends a billion imaginary enemies scattering into the wind. I laugh with hysterical glee.
Harsh shouts from downstairs interrupt my playtime. I press my ear to the bedroom door and listen to the screaming contest. Both opponents are evenly matched, the man has a ferocious roar, but the woman's shrieking is deafening. Curious, I leave my room to investigate.
The first thing I see is my dad, a bottle of whiskey glued to his hand. His vest is covered with stains and his sweaty hair sticks to his forehead. He towers over my cowering Mom, swinging his fists at her, but he sways and struggles to land a clean hit.
I begin to cry, trying to get their attention to stop their needless fighting. It doesn’t work. Dad manages to clout Mum’s jaw. She crumbles to the floor, body shaking as she bawls with pain.
I cry louder, but Dad doesn’t care. He glances my way, eyes unfocused, and burps. The stench of whiskey wafts from his mouth. I cling to my action figure, but my palms are sweaty and the toy slips from between my fingers. It tumbles to the floor, halting beside Dad’s foot. With one swift step, his boot crushes its tiny leg. A parting gift. I tear my eyes away from the broken toy and try to forget the grin Dad gives before he walks out that door, forever.
Breathing heavily, struggling to come to terms with a memory I’d long kept buried, I pick up my brush and begin to paint. Even as I’m splattering colours together, I know how the final form will look. Tears fill my eyes as the once blank canvas transforms into the one-legged action figure, but it’s not goblins he’s fighting now. It’s my father.