My room appears ransacked as I hunt for them, and when I find them, they tremble in my hand.
With Elvis on repeat, I collectedly walk into the bathroom and sweep everything off the vanity. Staring at my reflection, I laugh maniacally, certain I’ve lost what small shred of sanity I’ve clung to.
Reaching for the container, I unscrew the lid, humming in happiness because I’ve come home. Picking up the brush, I dip the bristles into the makeup—appropriately named clown white—and commence spreading the paint across my face.
Before long, my face is slathered in white paint. The starkness concealing the red and purple bruises allows me to be someone else. But this is just a blank canvas, just like my mum needed to create the paintings which transported her away from this cruel thing they call
