Gaze (Incipit)

ADITI MILLER
American, 1979 – 2008

Let Them Believe That I Am Gone (self-portrait)                             2008
Oil on canvas

Gift of Dr. Patrick Miller, 2015

Inspiration: Camille Monet on Her Deathbed by Claude Monet (1879)

Anaya

Friday - May 3rd, 2019

I feel foolish. I hate this thing. I feel foolish. I hate this thing. I feel foolish. I hate this thing. I feel foolish. I hate this thing.

Anaya Miller’s favorite pastime as of late consisted of staring at her white-marbled bathroom counter and wondering if she possessed the strength to crack her skull open. She liked to imagine her blood snaking down its sides and pooling onto the tiled floor like a carelessly spilled glass of red wine.

For the entirety of her life, she had let others sculpt her into what they desired from her. She had mastered the art of being still, of being the blank canvas onto which people presented their hatred, jealousy, and fantasies. But today would be the day she shed her ivory for skin.

The familiar bathroom she had imagined in her reveries dissolved into a backstage room of the Shubert Theater. Anaya concentrated on the increased buzzing of the room as more and more students ushered in to slip into their costumes and their personalities, painting on new faces they would have to embody for the rest of the evening. The night where you can be anything.

Endless chatters, hurried footsteps, flying strands of candy-colored hair, spritzes of cheap hairspray, and dust danced in the air to the beat of a distant orchestra. Anaya begged the universe to freeze the picture, but her pleas were left unanswered.

She dragged the bullet of a crimson lipstick across her lips, wincing as it pressed against a stain of purple and blue. The gold tube rolled off the tips of her fingers and clattered on the vanity. For the first time in her life, Anaya began to realize the depths of her nervousness.

“You’ve got this,” She whispered to herself, only allowing her resolve to falter for the duration of a heartbeat. “You’ve got this.” She cleared her throat to rehearse her opening lines one more time.

“Anaya!” A man walked into the room, overwhelming what little space the other students had not conquered. He waved a leaflet à la Playbill enthusiastically before pressing his hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze in a feeble show of support.

“You really didn’t have to come, you know.”

“Nonsense! I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!” His enthusiasm rang false in Anaya’s ears. Despite the sight of his alabaster teeth, she could not help but focus on the darkness around his eyes, his wrinkled shirt, and blood-splattered sneakers.

“I didn’t mean the play. I meant being here early, in this room. You’re getting in the way.” She pointed at the other students hurrying to prepare, but they paid no mind to her or the man. Part of her resented him for pushing himself to the limits out of love. It made her feel like anything less than that on her end would not be enough for him. She hated the obligation of being grateful for the dark circles, instead of simply feeling sorry for them. She was desperate to make his smile fade away and have him disappear into the sea of nameless faces waiting for her just beyond the stage. “You should go find your seat.”

“Okay. As you wish,” he answered, defeated twice over in one evening, first by his life, then by his world. “But she’ll come see you shortly. She’s just running a bit late.”

“It’s hilarious how little she tries.” Anaya could not help but scoff.

“Come again?”

“The busy surgeon is on time, but the freelance artist is late. I wonder who she’s doing.” Her words even stung the bees as silence befell the room. Their bewildered eyes bit her back, but it was his face that hurt her most. Anaya resigned to meet his gaze through the mirror. It was the only way she could bear to look at him in the moment.

“Be nice when you see her.” He hurried out of the room.

Probably to cry, she thought. But she knew he would forgive her like he did all the women in his life.  Just a couple more hours of this charade and you can be free. And so, Anaya resumed her preparations with a hesitant smile.

Because despite it all, there was something about today that made her feel uneasy.

. . .

Anaya powdered her nose and shoulders like a crazy woman on her way to the Follies. In a staccato rhythm, she whispered, “George taught me all about concentration. The art of being still he sa–”

“Who are you talking to?” A slender figure slipped into the room and positioned itself behind her like a shadow.

A smile tugged at her lips. “Who else would I be talking to if you’re not there?” She finally turned around to look at his face. “You clean up nicely.”

He stared down at his button-up shirt and rubbed a piece of lint stuck on his shoulder. His piercing eyes met hers before traveling to her lips, then her neck, then all of her all at once. He tried to whistle but only ended up making a strangled noise laced with beads of spit. She held in her laughter as hard as she could and watched as he blushed in embarrassment. “You look beautiful, Nay.”

The simplicity of his words was enough to send Anaya’s mind spinning, and all she could answer was a sincere, “Thanks.”

His eyebrows creased in an exaggerated concern. “Oh no. Don’t get your tongue tied on stage, Nay.”

She shoved his shoulder playfully and he laughed. “I hate you.”

Despite her need to bask in his presence, he let his smile dim and he cocked an eyebrow in confusion. His fingers grazed her chin and gently lifted her head. “What’s that on your lips?”

Something you should have asked me about weeks ago.

“Kiss me.” She replied, coyly.

“What?”

Anaya stepped away from him and shook her head. “It’s the lipstick. It’s called ‘Kiss Me.’ I bought it at the drugstore this morning. You like?” She pursed her lips and made a loud kissing noise.

“Stupid.” He muttered to himself and smiled back at her. He closed the gap between them before his usually self-assured voice faded into a whisper as he said: “Do you want this too?”

“I do,” Anaya replied as easily as she breathed.

His right hand grabbed her cheek as his left hand pulled her in by the waist. He pressed his lips against hers and made the rest of the world disappear. He tasted of apples glazed in honey, giving her life like he had the ability to infuse her body with the nectar of the gods. His arms snaked around the small of her back, as he held on tighter.

“You bitch.” A girl hissed.

The room materialized around Anaya once more as she noticed a tomboy-ish girl with her arms crossed leaning against the doorway. It took all her willpower to prevent herself from smiling.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” she replied, visibly blasé.

“I better go and let you two talk,” the boy finally said to liberate himself from the situation. He untangled his arms from Anaya’s and made his way towards the door. He kept his head down to avoid the stares coming from every corner of the room.

Coward. No matter what, they always end up disappointing me.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Anaya spat.

“Well, I have a lot to say to you. In fact, I have a lot to say about you.”

Anaya crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Can you stop being annoyingly cryptic? That’s my brand. Be direct or get out.”

The girl grinned. “I’m surprised you’re even doing the play. I figured you’d want to get your business over with and leave right away.”

“What business are you talking about?”

“Getting rid of us.”

Anaya thanked God for the makeup, preventing the girl from seeing her face paling into a blank canvas. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean.” A minute of silence as Anaya watched the girl’s demeanor darkening into a shade of the blackest blue. “I thought we had become friends. I thought this was real.”

Anaya mirrored her melancholy. “It is real.”

“Then what were you doing with him? And why would you write all that stuff in your diary?”

“I was just angry. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Whatever, dude. Break a leg.” She swiveled on her heels to leave.

Despite Anaya’s calmness, a sudden panic burgeoned in her chest. She turned towards the other students in the room, who had gone back to their original positions. But Anaya could not bring herself to meet anyone’s eye or join their conversations.

“Anaya? Are you okay?” A choir of voices kept on asking the same thing. But she knew this wasn’t what they were actually curious about. They did not care about how she felt, they only wanted to be in on the drama. She closed her eyes to shut them out, as the squeak of sneakers against the tiles broke her trance and the familiar voice that used to warm up her insides spoke clearly again.

“Everyone, get out! Give her room to breathe!”

Footsteps shuffled into the corridor as the theater teacher announced that the play would begin shortly. He paid no mind to his distressed student on the floor and merely exchanged an exasperated sigh with the only boy who was trying to comfort her.

“Nay, are you okay?”

Little do you know. “Why did you leave?”

“I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around her and placed a trail of kisses on her shoulder. “I won’t leave you. Ever again. I promise.”

“You won’t. But I will.” She placed her hand against his chest and pushed him as far from her as she could. She picked herself up and sat down on the stool in front of the mirror. “You’ve ruined it,” she muttered. “You ruined everything.”

“Ruined what? What are you talking about?”

“Get out, please.” She pretended to fix her hair in an effort to ignore him. In reality, she could no longer bear to look at him. “I need to finish getting ready.”

“I didn’t mean t—” His protests died out as Anaya offered him a feeble smile. He took it, unbeknownst that it was all he would ever get from her ever again. “I’m so sorry, Nay.” He whispered as he walked out of the room.

“I know.” she paused. “But I’m not.”

. . .

Anaya stumbled into the room backstage as soon as the intermission started. While others hurriedly fixed their makeup and donned their new costumes, she had a difficult time keeping her balance. She obsessively blotted away the sweat drops rolling off the sides of her face, in vain.

Get your shit together, Anaya.

A female voice called her out from the doorway, and her body immediately tensed. Nevertheless, she followed it like a drunkard drawn to the smell of alcohol. “What do you want?” Anaya’s tone bore its usual hostility, but the voice carried on with her usual flowery tune.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come see you before. Are you okay?” it asked, concerned. “You look sick.” Anaya knew the melody was off. That’s the way it always sounded to her. And that is the way it would remain in Anya’s world.

“I’m fine! Could you just leave? Please?” The world blurred around Anaya as the person standing before her turned into an unremarkable figure indistinguishable from the silhouettes on the backdrop on stage. Her legs finally gave out as Anaya collapsed on the cold tiled floor.

“Anaya!” The voice screamed. “Get up! Get up!”

“I’m fine.” She muttered as she pushed herself up from the floor. The voice handed her a bottle of water and urged her to drink. Anaya begrudgingly followed the woman’s directives but ended up gagging at the bitter taste of the liquid. Her entire body was on fire and screamed at her to get up and finish what she started. She crawled towards the emergency door at the end of the empty corridor, but she was pulled her to her feet instead.

“Here let me help you. You need some fresh air.” Anaya tried to find support but merely rested her hand on a bulletin board before it eventually slipped on a glossy poster, ripping it off and falling to the floor once more. “You’re almost there, Anaya. Come on! Get up!” The two young women stumbled together towards the door. As the harsh lights of the streetlamps hit her face, Anaya’s eyes snapped as the final blow rendered her body limp on the stone pavement.

They say your body feels everything on the day you are meant to die. Her mother used to repeat this adage whenever she caught a whiff of cold air or was bothered by a distant noise she had never noticed before. Anaya never understood why her mother said such things. Was she telling her daughter to be on the lookout for the day she died? Or was she planting the seeds for when the time came and she would finally decide to disappear?

Alone on the pavement, she tried to feel the ants beginning to nibble at her skin. She tried to listen to the quieting chatter inside the theater as the intermission came to an end. She even tried to concentrate on the foul smells that emanated from the dumpsters next to her. But there was absolutely nothing. The heavy door metallically clanged shut as her world faded to the purest shade of black.

There was something about today that made Anaya feel uneasy.