A Paint-Splattered Photobook

Hazel's chest clamped up, holding the dark photo beside the window it had once captured. “But there’s nothing to this,” the redhead complained. “Photos should be-”

“Alive, I know,” Drew muttered, ladder clanking. Hazel glimpsed over, watching her step down to re-whiten her paint roller. Her thin black hair hung from a ponytail, swinging like her baggy clothes. She challenged Hazel with a look through her bangs. “This one is alive.”

“No, it’s not,” Hazel judged, scrutinising the palm-sized picture. “It’s too dark to see anything around the window and the square that you can see is a gloomy fucking street. It’s got nothing to say.”

“Nothing you like,” Drew called over her shoulder, clambering up the ladder again. “There’s a difference.”

“Yeah- a difference so tiny that I still don’t want it in the book.” Hazel ditched the photo on the paint-splattered floor. The gallery had always stood on it and Drew intended to keep the vibrant chaos. ‘It’s got character,’ she’d mused. 

‘Why’re you redoing the walls then?’

‘Because I know some people who wouldn’t appreciate the paint around their photographs deteriorating .’

‘And they wouldn’t mind the floor?’

Drew had frowned at her. ‘You like the floor.’

Hazel loved the floor. She sat on it, cross-legged and bent over the photobook; The one she'd picked for the cover's similar paint-splatter pattern. She took another picture from their basket of memories. 

The rolling on the wall paused. The ladder rattled and paint sloshed as old mountaineering boots thudded over. Pale slim fingers picked the dark picture off the floor. 

“I’d like it in the book.”

Hazel looked up to pout at Drew’s inspired grey eyes, which amused in response as the picture was offered back. Hazel accepted to glower at its ugly, dark lifelessness. “Can I put it in the back at least? Then I just won’t look beyond this point.”

“But that’ll make it out of order.”

“It’ll make it pretty.”

“It’ll make it fake-” Drew cut off, scarlet. “Sorry.”

Hazel raised her eyebrows, disapproving of pointless politeness. The blush washed off as Drew chuckled at herself, acquiescing: “Okay.” She settled down by Hazel, holding her hand and leaning in. “How about this: I get my picture in the book and you get to choose the order?”

Hazel glimpsed at the lifeless photo again, disdain crawling up from her gut. Flickering her gaze to Drew, the dark twinge softened and smoothed. The offered compromise might be simple, but it was new and Hazel believed that alone made it perfect.

-

The Polaroid SX-70 required confidence and will to open. Hazel never struggled with either. She squeezed the metal bars beside the viewfinder to spring the instant camera from its brown leather rectangle. 

The old Polaroid had been harder to find in her father’s attic than it was to fix- Thanks to Ruth anyway. The gallery owner knew just the handyman who’d had it working and loaded that same day.

Arms curled around Hazel’s waist and a chin dipped on her shoulder. “Are you going to check if it works?” 

“No,” she soothed a hand over Drew’s, “I want him to take the first photo.” Hazel knew that nowadays film only had eight sheets, but she still wanted the counter to signify ten. It was part of her gift. She didn’t care if it was outdated or wrong; She didn’t care if it might not work; She didn’t care if his trembling hands struggled to press the camera open. All she wanted was for her father to wheel himself outside, bounce his eye line through the viewfinder, pick a frame, press the red button, and hear the rollers whir. 

“Sorry- Hazel?”

She folded the camera and looked up at the man balancing an open laptop in one hand.

“About the cleanup of the gallery after-”

“We told Ruth we’d do it ourselves.”

“It’s just that Ms. Princely has made an error with-”

“But we’re already here. My dad will be too- any moment now- so can’t this wait?”

“Is…” Drew’s arms dropped from Hazel’s waist. “Sorry,” she wondered timidly, “What kind of mistake?”

The man shut his laptop, grim. “A bit of confusion with the times.”

“Oh,” Drew inhaled. “Is she…” Hazel felt eyes tickle her temple. The man followed, glancing at Hazel’s steel before meeting the warmer grey again. Drew suggested: “Maybe we can look at it? Then Hazel can go greet her dad?” A hand curled around Hazel’s.

The man twitched a smile. “Sure, Drew.”

“Thank you,” Hazel glowed, squeezing Drew’s hand and pecking her on the cheek. She stayed for a second, watching the blush flutter. “You’re amazing,” Hazel vowed, pouring out the giddy surge tickling her chest.

She gripped the Polaroid and spun, dancing on her toes as she ran outside and searched for the old man in the silver chair.

“Now who the hell made that brilliant joy over there?”

Hazel whirled, met by white hair, a toothy grin, and pale skin. His light blue eyes twinkled, nudged up to demonstrate exactly how he’d gotten his many laugh lines. Though as blanched as the sheets they’d long covered him in, he was nowhere near as muted. 

He looked alive.

Hazel felt metal press against her will before the brown leather sprung open. The viewfinder reflected her father’s life as brightly as the sun and suddenly her ears tingled at the whirring of the rollers.

-

Hazel had stumbled upon the little gallery. It was only a couple blocks from her much-too-expensive studio, exciting her until she’d stepped inside. 

“This fucking sucks.” 

The spotlights and high wall placement were wasted on the gloom. The long shadows made the photograph nothing more than three tints of black. It was dull. It was shock-value prancing around as altruism. It showed Hazel nothing the news hadn’t and- though personal- it was lifeless.

“I know,” murmured a slim girl by her. She stood hunched, a black hoodie and torn jeans hanging from her limbs. Her dark hair lay flat, hiding an indistinguishable eye colour under messy bangs. Her nose ring nudged up with the girl’s subdued grimace. “It’s still hard to look at.”

Hazel barked a laugh in agreement, tearing the stranger’s narrowed gaze to her. “I don’t get how this always happens. We have everything we need to make something beautiful but end up with this instead.”

The girl hummed. “It’s very human though, isn’t it? We feel like all the resources and answers are right there, but we just can’t seem to get them into place.”

Hazel turned to the girl, searching the black hair and tattered hoodie for the thread she’d lost. She caught a glimpse of potential instead. The girl was well-spoken, though soft. She veiled her opinion with inoffensive idealism and generalisation like she did her curious eyes with bangs. Lipstick would've livened her.

“Sometimes I feel bad for how much all this can bore me.”

Hazel’s gaze flickered up. She’d watched the odd words tip-toe from pale pink lips but forgot all about that restrain the moment she understood them. “That’s dense,” she let out. The bangs fell back as the girl startled, shifting around. The spark spurred Hazel on: “We might be here, but we choose what to look at. No point in feeling guilty for choosing the good stuff.” 

“Isn’t that a bit…” The stranger grimaced again, eyes searching as if she didn’t already know what she was going to say. “Hedonistic?”

Hazel perked up. She loved being judged. It meant she was going against something and so must’ve made her own decisions. She scandalised with a grin: “Are you calling me selfish?”

The girl blanched. The restraint she’d hidden behind was the same that bulged her eyes and finally revealed their colour: Grey. “No- No, I just meant that-”

“You’re naive.”

Hazel twisted away from the grey eyes, finding an older lady in a flower dress standing behind them. She was petite and plump, a dyed blonde with expert roller curls. 

“Ruth-”

“Drew, dear,” the lady interrupted. “You do realise this young woman is trashing your photograph and not so much the genocide?”

Hazel’s stomach bubbled nauseatingly and her eyes widened along with the horrified grey ones. A guilty grin tried to worm onto the redhead’s face but seeing scarlet fluster over the girl’s quiet features suppressed it. 

“Yeah,” the girl insisted, voice hiding in her exhale. “Sure, yeah- and it’s fine. Critique’s always good, right?”

Hazel felt a groan rising. She’d finally gotten something genuine from the girl, only to squash it with her own bluntness. “Shit, sorry- I didn’t mean to be an asshole. It’s well-made and all, but it’s just…”

“Not there yet,” Ruth finished with a nod.

The red-faced girl spun on her, voice still airy: “Then why did you let me hang it up?”

The lady studied the girl. She brushed back the dark bangs and smiled kindly- not joyfully the way Hazel did. “To thicken your skin, dear. Someday, you’ll put up something you love and I don’t want anyone taking that away from you.”

She skimmed Hazel and walked off. 

“Oh God,” the girl’s head dropped. The bangs stuck to the side, refusing to hide her blush. She brought her hands up to do the job instead. “Oh God,” muffled through. She twisted around, peeking through her fingers at her picture. “Oh God.”

“If you want,” Hazel offered, embracing the endearing panic while trying to cheer the girl up, “I can help you heist it out of here?” 

The girl turned, revealing the caves she’d made between her fingers. Shadowed and small, the tunnels shook as the pupils roamed over the redhead. 

It was hard to tell if the attempt at banter had gone unappreciated, but Hazel figured there was an easy way to find out: “Or I can take you somewhere else? Make up for being such a dick?” 

The caves shut. “Oh God.”

-

The counter on the back of the Polaroid SX-70 still read nine. 

It was a lie. There would only be seven sheets left. 

Floating through the gallery- stuffed with condolences and black dresses- Hazel withdrew. She’d wanted to hold the service outside, but when the rain clattered down everyone worried for their brittle relatives, so they’d organised to use the gallery instead.

Hazel wanted to care more than she did. 

As she wandered to the window, she fought with the brown leather camera that refused to spring open. They didn’t have a flash and due to the Polaroid’s settings, any picture taken inside would be little more than three tints of black. Hazel wondered if her father had even noticed because of how he adored the outdoors.

But this time, the counter had stuttered at nine.

There was nothing to see outside. A drenched black car, gloomy roads, a dull streetlight, and all of it hazy through the streaks of rain. Still Hazel felt something coiled, gnawing in her chest and longing for the view. As she reached it- and its inevitable disappointment- the longing jammed. It shot down, irritated to her hands and she yanked on the metal, jerking the camera open.

Releasing her clenched breath, Hazel brought up the viewfinder, looking through and expecting darkness. She found stinging blurriness instead. She toggled the focus up and down but everything only got blurrier. 

It didn’t matter. It wasn’t about the picture- Not about the street or the rain or the car or the window. 

It was about the lying counter.

The rollers whirred. Hazel flinched, sending the printed photograph twirling to her feet and something wet trickling down her cheek. She swiped it off and held the camera away, peering at the counter.

8

Still a lie, but one only she could see through and so one she could pretend to forget. She felt Drew pick the picture off the floor. Hazel wished she’d make a joke, burst a laugh- start a dance- but she didn’t. She aimed her sad grey eyes and for the first time, Hazel didn’t find them interesting or warm. She found them grating: As meaningless and dull as the rain-slicked streets outside.

-

“We haven’t even painted the walls.”

Hazel went ignored as Drew turned the plant by the doorway again.

“And it’s still a mess from the funeral,” Hazel murmured, toeing a tissue on the floor.

Drew took a step back to study her work.

“Drew?” Hazel frustrated. “There’s nothing here to show her.”

“Will you stop?” Drew burst, whipping around. Her eyes were wide and glassy. “Please?”

Hazel’s sternum wrenched, trying to throw itself up. What was she doing here? Drew had tip-toed all week and now she wanted to throw a fit? Hazel snatched her coat off the table. “I’m gonna go.”

Drew deflated. “Hazel…” 

The redhead marched by.

“Really?” 

Hazel clamped around the door knob.

“Can’t you just be here for me this one time?”

Hazel stumped, scoffing. She twisted back to face Drew. “Like you’ve been there for me this past week?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t done shit, Drew.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t need you to look at me sadly or do the groceries or pity-invite me to whatever the hell this is!” Hazel shot. “I just need you to cheer me up.”

Drew’s brow furrowed as her glassy gaze jumped between Hazel’s eyes. “How was I supposed to-”

The door knob pulled at Hazel’s hand. She hopped back as it swung open. 

“...see, mum. The gallery, remember?”

Hazel sniffed her heart down, stepping around to help hold the door.

“Thanks,” Ruth’s son greeted as he tilted the wheelchair over the threshold.

“Hey, Ben,” Drew walked up, polite smile tight and hurt eyes lingering on Hazel. They shifted away as the dark-haired girl knelt and reached for Ruth’s hand. “Hey, Ruth.” The old lady’s hair was grey and frizzy, curl-less. She wore no flower-patterns, only three tints of black. Her eyes were without make-up and dull, deadening the empty gaze that flowed right through Drew.

“See, mum?” Ruth’s son squeezed the blank woman’s shoulder. “It’s Drew.”

Drew dragged her smile up under glinting eyes. “D’you remember me, Ruth?”

Hazel’s hand stiffened around the door. Her skin itched at the silence and her knees jumped, restless to leave.

“Sorry,” the son grieved, “I don’t think she’s speaking today.”

“Yeah- No, that’s okay,” Drew whispered, smile not nearly as bright as her eyes. Climbing up dislodged the well of tears and she wiped at them, pretending to fix her hair. “Let’s show her around then, huh?”

Ben twitched a smile. He pushed Ruth into the room, making Hazel’s hold on the door futile. She kept it open, longing at the sun that flowed through, stopping just short of her feet. 

“I told her yesterday that you’d bought the place,” Ben conversed, voice crashing into the empty walls. “I think she smiled.”

Hazel closed her eyes. The sun shone brighter, casting an orange glow against the grain embedded in her eyelids. It must be beautiful outside.

Drew’s shy hum was taut and shaky. “I just hope she’ll like what I do with it.”

‘Someday,’ the orange glow against Hazel’s eyelids weaved like expert roller curls. ‘You’ll put up something you love and I don’t want anyone taking that away from you.’

She let the door fall shut.

-

Hazel smiled at her father, held in the white glow. 

A thud pulled her away from the photobook to Drew who had taken a picture off the gallery wall. Hazel watched from the corner she’d settled in as her girlfriend switched two photos around and stepped back, analysing them.

Hazel offered: “I liked them better the other way around.”

“I know,” Drew murmured, too focused on her work. “But that’s so optimistic and it’s not supposed to be framed like that.”

“The piece is optimistic though.”

“But it’s not supposed to be framed like that.” Drew let the photos hang, moving to put another one of her works up.

Hazel couldn’t help herself from beaming nor the adoration sprinkling with her gaze. She thought Drew would surely feel it against her back, but the artist just kept at her work, unaware. Hazel didn’t mind it, feeling like her pouring love was secretive- as exciting as a crush.

She looked back to her father in one of the plastic envelopes that thickened the book. Leafing through, Hazel watched the many times she’d smiled, the many people she loved, the many places she’d been. She felt her lungs expand with her breath. Her hair tickled her neck. The page edges dipped her finger pads. She was so alive, sitting in that corner of the gallery, hearing Drew’s brilliance being readied for the world, and peeking at the captures of their memories.

She turned a page and paused, smile dwindling. The bright grins had gone. She looked at a hospital bed. She looked at graves. She looked at wheelchairs and vets and offices and moving trucks. She looked at a dark picture of a window.

She looked until she couldn’t see through the blur and sting of her eyes anymore. In the wash of colours, somehow she melted. The sting that clattered from her eyes through her mind and down her throat was met with a warm tickle blossoming up from her stomach. They danced, twirling and weaving, somewhere near her heart.

She blinked the blur away- letting the mellow tears flow down her cheeks- and tugged the dark picture from its plastic. She leafed through the pages, back to the white photo of her dad. Three tints of white, really.

Maybe they weren’t so different.