Finger Painting

*Story contains references to self harm.

The velvet curtains swing open heavily. I stand on a pedestal of light, alone in a sea of dark. I look out, searching for faces that may or may not be there. Someone coughs; someone always coughs. The sound echoes through the silence. I breathe deeply, chest fluttering, stomach flopping. It could be nerves, but I tell myself it is excitement. This is where I am meant to be. Centre stage.

“What will you do for us?” the voice slides through the darkness.

I take a step forward, swallowing the ball of nervous excitement trying to force its way up my throat.

“Finger painting.” I say.

Silence that contains an eye-roll, then, “Contestant 3527, ‘Finger Painting’, clock starts now. Begin.”

The giant timer flashes above me, golden numbers counting down more quickly than seconds should. My music whispers into life. I bow, turn my back on the spectators hiding in the dark to face my canvas where it fills the stage.

I take a deep breath as I float forward in time to the music. I squeeze and release my fists, feeling the tight pull where scar tissue stretches over bone. I move my arms up and down, up and down, in rhythm to the gentle build of the music. The movement sets my blood flowing and calms the tremble coursing through me as I face every artist’s greatest fear – the blank page.

My knife waits, sharp tip glistening under the heat of the stage lights. I pick it up, the familiar weight steadies my nerves. Just a prick to start. I dip the finely curved blade between the scar tissue. The red bead blossoms on the tip of my finger as the music trickles around me. The first stroke is the hardest.  I press the bead into the rough fabric, shivering at the sensation of skin against canvas.

I am slow at first, cautious. I begin with tiny strokes, small blots of red against white that dry quickly to brown. My confidence grows in time with the music as it swells around me. I prick finger after finger, dragging each new digit across the white backdrop to the rising and falling rhythm that carries me across the stage, that lifts me to each corner of the giant canvas. My pace quickens as I race the clock and the increasing lightness in my head. I squeeze and squish until these tiny brushes can no longer provide what I need.

As the music builds to its rising crescendo, I slash each palm, releasing new wells. I dip finger brushes into the pools of fresh paint, smearing thick, gorgeous red over drying deep crimsons and browns. My head swims as I push through the nausea that swirls my stomach. Have to finish. That’s the rule. Always finish. I sway, I dip, I dive into the final beats, tracing my hands over familiar patterns, recreated at this massive scale. I use the burn of open flesh and sinew grating over harsh canvas to focus my swirling thoughts. I fling my arms wide, splattering the final fireworks. I step back, appraising; it is done.

I fall to my knees as the music quiets back to a whisper. I reach for the basin of water that sits to the side of my piece. The temperature is neutral, as if the air in the theatre has turned liquid. I dip my mangled hands, watching as the water blossoms red. The swirling patterns are beautiful. I wonder if I could capture them, freeze them in their perfection for display. Another tiny bit of myself I could give. I take my raw hands, dripping red, and dry them on my bleach white towel. My vision blurs dark and when I blink my eyes open I am falling sideways. I catch myself before I faint. I wipe my hands again, grabbing my tube of Second Skin in trembling red fingers. I smear the thick substance over mangled flesh, sighing as I feel skin fuse and seal. My stomach turns, nauseous at the thought of what I’ve given. I worry that, this time, it is too much; I hope it will be enough. Somewhere far away, sirens blare as the timer reaches zero.

I drag myself to my feet, breathing deep and slowly. The clock with its golden numbers disappears, replaced by a screen. On it, I see myself, skin the color of fog, slick beneath a layer of sweat and fatigue; I look tiny, a shadow of the piece that towers behind me.

“Audience Vote.” the voice cascades through the silence of the theatre.

The tiny me disappears as the screen flickers white and the anonymous dark mass of the audience flares to life.

Tiny pools of light appear as faceless spectators react. My heart pounds as the darkness fills with blue thumbs up; red hearts; so many blazing white thumbs down; each shimmering above a face that seems less tangible than the symbols. They appear too fast to count. The theatre glows. I turn to the screen where messages whiz upward:

“WTF did I just watch?!”

“So gross! Trying not to vomit…”

“Really beautiful. Thank you for sharing…”

“Too bad they didn’t die at the end... ”

“Stunning. You are so brave…”

“You’re disgusting… get off the stage!”

“Gorgeous! Embodiment of sacrificing self for art…”

“That was sickening…”

I close my eyes, the deafening sound of a thousand tiny ‘pings’ cutting deeper than my blade ever could. Lava congeals in the pit of my stomach. I focus on the burn throbbing through my healing palms, on the dry heat of my sandpaper tongue, on the airy disconnect between my brain and body. I wait.

“Results.” the voice rolls thunderous, silence fills the theatre.

I open my eyes as the screen flashes above me:

51% Hate it

42% Love it

7% Feel Nothing

OVERALL ENGAGEMENT: 93%.

The ball in my stomach rises, bursting like a sparkling soap bubble in my chest, as a grin slashes itself across my face.

“Contestant 3527 will progress to the Finals for their piece ’Finger Painting’.”

The theatre erupts in a chorus of boos and cheers.

I throw my mangled hands wide as I take my bow. This is where I belong; center stage. I stand on my pedestal of light as the velvet curtains close.