Strokes of You
written by: Kris Schnebelen
@myskriss
When you imagined this day, you envisioned yourself surrounded by your classmates in a victorious fete. Sobbing in your high school’s murky second-floor bathroom never crossed your mind. Yet there you stood, snot smeared across your sleeves as you bawled your swollen eyes out, cursing Sonia’s name.
Why did it turn out like this? Why did Sonia—who you trusted with your life—win, whisking away the triumph you’ve been waiting for all four years of high school?
It was the end of the year, which brought with it the annual school art showcase. You both, seniors with your last chances at a final hurrah, entered it—Sonia, because you entered, and you, because art defined your entire self. Your heart belonged to painting, always felt whole with crusted acrylics drying in your pores. It stood as the only thing you excelled at, the only thing others could count on you to do, and to do well.
Sonia was good at enough—academics, sports, dating, driving, cooking, breathing. Despite that, you didn’t think too much about her joining. She may have been good at everything, but you were good at painting. It was your identity, not hers. Your reason for living.
And you knew she respected that—respected you. She respected how hard you worked on your art, how much it meant to you. She was your biggest supporter, your biggest fan since you both were toddling on your chubby legs, your art nothing more than impressionist splotches on your living room wall. She encouraged you to join classes, enter community contests, showcase your art online for millions of digital eyes to witness. She wouldn’t take away ‘you.’ She knew you better than anyone.
All Sonia wanted to do was join you, to take part in the fun. That’s what you thought.
Then they announced the results.
Third: a junior, with his charcoal still-life of his grandmother, long passed. Her face but a memory in his twelve-year-old self’s eye, though he was still able to capture her soft features, her sad eyes. As though she still lived somewhere within him.
Second: you. You, with your oil painting of a grandiose forest filled with magic, fairies, and everything whimsical. Wisps of blues and greens blending into dark green canopies, shadowing an overgrown community of creatures living in red and white spotted mushrooms. Where you mixed texture with picture, some dots of paint stretching from the page to imitate the feeling of leaves flying through the breeze. The painting you started three years ago, spent all semester perfecting. You poured your entire self into that painting. The painting was you.
First: Sonia. Sonia! Sonia, with her pastel cityscape of the tiny town they lived in, the view captured from a famous hill everyone took their children for Independence Day fireworks. At the summit of that hill were two featureless shadows leaned against each other, gazing into the horizon.
Everyone congratulated her, called her a great artist.
Not you.
Her.
You hiccupped, watched your scrunched and red-faced self choke in the blurry bathroom mirror. Anger closed your throat, choked out the vestiges of your identity.
“Are you in there?” Sonia’s wavering voice echoed off the grimy tile walls. You didn’t respond; your tears wouldn’t let you. She stepped close, her perfect face and clothes and curls hovering by your pathetic self. She let you sob some before speaking again. “Do you want to talk?”
“No.” Your words had a sharp edge, filled with venom. You hoped they made her ill upon hearing them.
“Please.” She reached for your arm, but you tore it away. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
You scoffed. If that were so, she would apologize. She would validate your despair, understand that you’ve lost yourself. You lost what made you ‘you,’ and she gained yet another thing to make her Sonia. As if she didn’t have enough. As if you had any you to spare.
“This is all I have, you know.” You wiped one of your eyes, pressing a little too hard, feeling a sharp pinch under your eyelid. “I wanted this one thing—to prove to everyone who I am. What makes me…me.”
Sonia grabbed your hand—when you tried to wrestle it away, she held tighter. “You make great art. But what you are is my friend, and I wanted to make great art with you.”
When you peered into Sonia’s eyes, you saw no contempt nor arrogance—rather, there existed some pity, a tinge of guilt, and overflowing devotion. For a moment, she was no longer the Sonia who stole your mask. Who stole you, the artificial you that you wore proudly like a badge to define what that meant. Rather, she was Sonia, your friend who only wanted ‘you.’ You, who wasn’t defined only by your art, but also as her best friend. Just like she was yours.
You wiped away your tears. “I—I wanted to make great art with you, too.”
“Not anymore?”
You hesitated. “No—I mean, yes—I mean—” The correct words seemed far off, and what seemed correct to say felt wrong on the tongue.
She only giggled. “I know what you mean. I still want to make great art with you, too. But not because you’re an artist.” She smiled, a soft smile. Soft like the clouds in her cityscape, glazing through the sunny sky and bringing out the beauty of their town. Soft like the silhouettes which enjoyed it, an inseparable pair who seemed to blend together into one entity. One self. “Because you’re my friend, and so many other things. I wish you’d see yourself like I see you.”
You began to understand why her painting won. Why her authenticity won. No, not won—shined. And you realized: just as you were her friend, you wanted to be authentic too. Authentic rather than victorious.
- Strokes of You - September 27, 2024
