Violently Blissful

The back of her body seemed like a silhouette in the foreground of the painting. If someone glanced in her direction from afar, they could easily assume her part of the art, caught between the four corners of the frame. A crease formed between Dahlia’s eyes as she studied the burst of colors confined by deep black strokes.

Violently Blissful, that’s an unfitting title, she thought. The colors appeared at full liberty, yet they were trapped. The artist just decided to freeze the narrative right before the colors’ unavoidable defeat. Were the art alive, the black would swirl, move and mix, and finally consume all the colors, leaving nothing but darkness on the canvas. Leaving nothing to reflect the light. No color would be able to salvage the remaining chaos, as the darkness would merely absorb whatever it encountered. Nothing blissful about it whatsoever.

A Sudden burst of laughter pulled Dahlia’s eyes from the hypnotizing painting. A few artworks down stood a small group of people drinking champagne and talking and laughing… and doing it too comfortably. The entire group was dressed in elegant black. The woman with her back to Dahlia was wearing a figure-hugging knee-length dress with her blond hair in a high ponytail, she looked good.

When Dahlia just arrived, the swift presence of others made her breath catch in her throat which made her feel like she was going to throw up. She felt too open, too vulnerable. She wanted to leave right away. When she exited through the back door, the crisp early evening air didn’t provide any relief. She didn’t smoke, but in that moment, she wished she had a cigarette. The streetlights flickered on and reflected on a discarded notice board in the dumpster: “Please wear your mask at all times and practice social distancing. Thank You.”

Dahlia took a deep breath, a surgical mask no longer covering half of her face. “Okay, I can do this. Dammit, I put on jeans for this!”

Dahlia went back inside. She was aware of her black jeans being overly tight, she had gained weight, but when she wore sweatpants every day for months on end there was no indication of the extra weight. It wasn’t until her friend invited her to this art gallery opening and she had to scavenge in her closet for something half decent to wear.

Her watch told her that she’d only been there for 20 minutes. It would be rude to leave this early.  

When she was confined by the four corners of her apartment for 252 days, she wanted nothing but to be outside, somewhere else: going to the movies, grabbing pizza with friends, having her thrice-weekly run at the park, going to the Farmer’s market on Saturday mornings, church on Sundays. Heck, there was very little she wouldn’t have given to talk about art at an art gallery while sipping champagne with new acquaintances. Yet, when the restrictions lifted and she received a fancy envelope in her mail, inviting her to this event, she wanted to crawl under her sheets and perhaps stay there for another eight months.

She lived alone and the only conversations she had were with herself, and sometimes she eavesdropped on her neighbors’ conversations... They were a young couple in their early twenties and often she would hear their raised voices. The first argument (possibly a result of being trapped together), she tried not to intrude on their privacy. But as the days became weeks, she started to look forward to their little quarrels. Whenever Dahlia would hear them, she would quickly turn down the fifth rerun of The Office and run to the window nearest to their apartment and listen. She’d often laugh at their irrational arguments, which were mainly about whose turn it was to do the dishes, or about what to name their dog if they ever got one – which they wouldn’t because he was allergic (which would be yelled, because how dare he be allergic to dogs, what was wrong with him!), or about the ending of Inception, or about what Meat Loaf meant when he said he’d do anything for love, but he won’t do that, or about the rules of Blackjack. She’d laugh only to become aware that she envied them profusely. They were also trapped, but at least they were trapped together.

The meaning of alone developed and grew until it became an entirely new concept. Before, it was a word in the dictionary meaning “having no one else present”. And as easy and as sad as that statement sounded, it didn’t even begin to cover endless days of loneliness she faced when she started to question the fact of her own existence. The weather and the seasons changed, and she’d sit and stare out of her window – like that scene in New Moon after Edward dumped Bella… except, this was real and Lykke Li was singing in the background. The darkness had swirled and moved and mixed and caused chaos.

Dahlia looked at her watch again, 20 minutes might be considered rude, but 26 minutes could almost count as half an hour. That would be polite… enough. She could probably leave through the back, and besides, nobody has even noticed that she was there-

“Dahlia,” she turned towards the sound of her name (which sounded strange coming from someone other than herself – as if she had forgotten that is what people used to call her).  It was Ruby. Before Dahlia could respond with a counterfeit smile, Ruby embraced her, “it’s so good to see you.”

Dahlia immediately wanted to break free from the unexpected contact. But instead, she caught herself holding on to her friend, grabbing onto what felt like the first breath of air after being submerged for too long. Fighting for an escape, breaking through the surface.

“I know,” Ruby whispered, “It’s been too long,” every word was filled up to the brim with understanding.  

Over her friend’s shoulder, Dahlia saw, again, the painting. Were the painting alive, yes, the deep black strokes would cover and consume all the color.

But that wouldn’t be the end. From the middle of it, the color would start to break through, to repel the layers of black paint, making it curl and peel off, until the bright, free-flowing colors emerged, fighting violently to be seen. And then blissfully overwhelm the narrative. It wasn’t an unavoidable defeat; it was a violently blissful journey to triumph.