rings 'round roses // sycamore

Once upon a time, I picked up a paintbrush. In my frail hands, it felt foreign, strange, heavy, like it didn’t belong there. I think that it’s within that first moment of contact that your life changes drastically. In that moment, you have two choices. You can either abandon the paintbrush forever, deciding that it would be too difficult to hold, too heavy in your hand. Or, you can imagine the brush, as light as a feather, and keep it there, learning how to make beautiful masterpieces as you grow older, stronger, wiser.

Luckily for me, I kept the paintbrush. Without it, I’m not too sure who I would be today. For, you see, the paintbrush is my only friend. It’s just taken me this long to truly realise that. After living in a fantasy world for fifteen years, believing that people did like me, finally something has snapped, and my mind has been completely rewired in a way that scares me more than my first encounter with that paintbrush terrified me.

What if I was losing grip of the Ruth I used to be?

What if Blaire was right? Could he have always been right? His words, echoing in my head – ‘People aren’t nice, Ruth! They aren’t like you, not everyone’s like you!’

Because even if he was right, I refused my heart the ability to turn cold and black, like Blaire’s had already become. My paintbrush would not wipe away the dancing rainbow blazing inside of me, no matter how much I changed.

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The desolate children of Sycamore House gather around the living room, making themselves as comfortable as they could be in a house that is slowly falling apart. Lilith is there, directing the conversation as usual, for even old Miss Aggie has grown too frail to truly be our mother. Lilith wasn’t an awful substitute, though. I sit on the rough floorboards, trying to make myself as small as possible in the hopes that nobody will notice me in my huddled state of confusion, so easily mistaken for timidness by those surrounding me, those who don’t care anymore. As Lilith talks, I slowly look around the room, searching for Blaire. My eyes rest on his hunched figure, leaning against the hallway wall, and it is clear to see from his attitude that to him, Lilith’s brilliant idea is simply a waste of time to him. It’s not a shock to me, yet I find my heartbeat racing in surprise all the same. As Lilith finishes her speech and the kids rapidly disappear – Blaire storming past us all, exiting the room as quickly as he appeared; Laila following in an all too similar fashion; Arwen, Silas, Septimus, all leaving the little room until the only people who remain are Lilith, Edgar and myself. The sympathy for our make-shift mother slowly rising inside is quickly capped, allowing no emotion to spew out as I find my way through the run-down shack, searching for my room. The only place I could think properly.

Amidst my thoughts, I wonder what could possibly be causing me this anxiety – what could be the cause of such a racing heart, such sweaty palms, such swift footsteps – a sensation so unpleasant I would give almost anything for it to disappear immediately.

I can’t even remember the last birthday I had. The dates have all become jumbled in a mess of angry numbers, swirling sickeningly around my mind, mixing together so that all sense of time and day has abandoned me. For when it is time for bed, I can’t help but stay awake in bed, thinking of what went wrong, why this happened, how I could eve build a better life for Blaire and I. The jumbled mess of my mind makes it impossible to distinguish time in my meaningless life, yet never worrying about silly dates that are flimsy and unreliable just gave way to my ever-growing imagination.

It did make it dreadfully hard to remember who I am (or maybe the correct term is who I was because each day that I remain trapped here the anxieties and fears grow and as everything spins wildly out of my reach I lose hold of the old Ruth.) And maybe that was why I felt so shaky in this moment. The beautiful idea Lilith had conjured in her mind for us all was merely … boring.

Boring.

Boring.

How can you say something so heartfelt and meaningful is boring, Ruth? Why are you so afraid of it? Are you shocked – surprised? – because you’ve never felt hatred and a lack of appreciation?

Doesn’t it feel good?

(No, stop! Because it doesn’t feel good, it feels dreadful and awful and maybe I am turning into father, the only person I’d ever hated though that was a lie because nobody deserves to be hated no matter what they’ve done and maybe I’ll just turn out like Blaire, and it scares me to think that if I’m feeling like this then where is the hope for everyone else?)

For the first time in my life, I’d found a way to warp something so magnificent into a misfortune, and amidst the shock and terror, it was comforting all the same.

It’s something the old Ruth would have jumped at the thought of, running around the house collecting and creating gifts with the joy and enchantment of a 5 year old. Yet all I feel at the glorious idea is dread, sadness and worry.

It’s something the old Ruth would have set to work with straight away, creating drawings and paintings of the most wonderful kind, mixing the colours together to create something so new, something nobody had seen before. Yet as I sit on my rattly bed, I don’t begin work, for my drawings are no good anyway, and they never will be. Nobody would care for a painting in our materialistic world – even the residents of Sycamore House, who already have nothing, crave for more than a picture. Even I do.

It’s something the old Ruth would have found so much beauty and wonder in such a simple thought, dreaming of possibilities to make the event twenty times more wonderful than it already was. She would jot her ideas down on paper excitedly and prepare to show them to Lilith, before crumpling the paper and throwing it away before anyone could see how airheaded she had been. It had always been so hard to fit in, in the place where everyone was so despairing, yet as Lilith made her announcement to us all, I found myself stifling a small, silent sigh of sadness, realising that maybe I wasn’t so different to them after all.

Did that old Ruth even exist anymore?

Maybe not to me, but to everyone else, it had to. And it would. It mustn’t be so hard to lie through your teeth, right? There was no doubt everyone here did it already, (but I’m not like everyone else, I’m not! I’m Ruth and I’m shy and I draw a lot and I don’t talk very often because people wouldn’t want to talk to me even if they had the time and I’m Ruth and that will never change!) so I would, too.

At least until this all fades away, and I wake up out of my daydream and realise how foolish I’ve been to think that Blaire – of all people! – was right for once in his life.

The old bed creaks as I slowly peel myself away from the soft sheet, relocating a few steps away to the corner of the room that held my tools in a single drawer that was all mine. Everyone would expect drawings, I knew that much. A small part of me wished that I had a useful talent, yet that moment of longing lasted a mere second, for if I did not have my drawings, I had nothing. Yet it didn’t stop the sadness that welled up inside of me at the knowledge that I could never afford anything beautiful for the others. I couldn’t give them a painting, or a drawing, however. I knew how it would work –

They would take their gifts in their hands, slowly bend their heads to look down at the simple piece of paper, and smile sadly as they murmured their thanks – for what could a drawing really do? What could a drawing really bring to a dead soul’s life?

I didn’t want to be the same predictable, under recognised, unacknowledged Ruth (old Ruth would have never said that.)

Yet when my former self – the Ruth who was shy, timid, creative, determined to find beauty in everything – was already slipping away, what difference would it make if I gave up yet another piece of myself?

Slowly but surely, I set to work in my corner, cutting small pieces of paper and laying them out in front of me. The grey pencil in my hand is light, not heavy like the paintbrush, and upon each piece of paper I slowly trace the names of the people who mean so much to me, much more than they will ever know. It takes me a long time to decide what to draw upon each square, and when I do decide, it still doesn’t seem like enough for the most wonderful people I’ll ever know.

Edgar – A lion, a symbol of bravery, for staying strong when we were all falling apart.


Lilith – A flower, a symbol of beauty, for uplifting our spirits whenever we were sad.


Arwen – A flame, shaded the most brilliant of reds and yellows, a symbol of the ferocity you display, yet also a symbol of your hidden warmth that keeps us together.


Silas – A jigsaw piece, so that one day you and Arwen can fit together perfectly like you so deserve.


Blaire – A bird, so that one day, we can fly away from here together, forever free.


Septimus – A dragon, to represent the intensity of the fire that blazes inside of you.


Laila – A compass, so you’ll never forget where you came from when you make it out of here.

And a present for me, for it would be so dreadfully embarrassing to not receive one – a very real possibility when I’m already a shadow in this crumbling place. I folded my own piece of paper in half before cutting out the simple outline of one, two, three, fourfivesixseven eight people, before unfolding the paper that now held the shadows of the inhabitants of Sycamore House. Yet the white paper they were engraved upon was too dull for such colourful children, because when I looked at my housemates, I saw colours.

An idea blooms inside of my mind, and without a second thought, I am flying from my room, out to the garden, searching for what I need.

I’d never made paint before, but it surely couldn’t be too difficult? It wouldn’t even matter if it wasn’t real paint – but why colour in, when you can do something completely different? The fields outside of the sanctuary of the House proves to be a treasure trove of wondrous objects, and as I set about collecting various items – the purple flowers of a lavender shrub, fine golden pollen gathering like specks of dust atop the leaves of plants, rich soil pulverized into the ground like powder, a small handful of blueberries, soft, gentle white petals from a dying orchid, fallen Autumn leaves, rich red rose petals, fresh blades of grass carefully clipped with scissors, a reminder of home before Sycamore the grass blades, or the scissors? – for the first time in a long time, I felt like the old Ruth again. Hurrying back to the house with my arms full, I went to my room, closed the door quietly, and began work.

The rich colours of the garden objects mingled together, creating marvellous colours that made the paint turn out much better than I’d originally expected it would. After I’d mixed and crushed and crafted until there was nothing left but rich liquid, I slowly looked down at the eight jars I’d taken from the kitchen. I’ll find more for Lilith, I swear. Each bottle held a gleaming liquid, and although there was not enough to paint the entire house, the mesmerising colour made up for what was lacking in quantity. Purple, gold, black, blue, white, yellow, red, green. The jars remained open, their lids laid gently to the side, as I picked up my paintbrush that was as light as a feather.

Small, swift movements worked their magic on the paper dolls, each one being designated a different colour. As I left the paint to dry, I was surprised to see there was still paint left over. It would be a shame to let it all go to waste. And so, taking the small pieces of paper that I had drawn upon earlier and turning them over, I wrote yet another note to my family,

Edgar – purple paint, the colour of royalty, because to me, you are our King.


Lilith – golden paint, for you deserve nothing but the best.


Arwen – black paint – but not completely black – for the coals of the fire, slight white streaks reminding of the hope you keep contained inside.


Silas – blue paint, for your heartache that washes over you like the lapping ocean waves slowly coming in, slowly falling back.


Blaire – yellow paint, for you still manage to brighten my day, even when you cannot brighten your own.


Septimus – red paint, for your love of fire.


Laila – green paint, for how your youth still symbolises the possibility of growth, and the opportunity you have to make a better life away from here and not be led down the same sad path those before you have followed.

and attached the papers to the lid of each partially-filled jar, keeping a mental note of

Ruth – white paint, for the innocence, the purity, the simplicity you still possess.

The beautiful paint, meant to represent the grace in each of their souls.

It will never be enough to tell them how much I love them. Yet it was different to a mere drawing, and that was all I’d wanted to achieve. Perhaps the old Ruth may have gone, but it didn’t mean the new Ruth had to be bitter and cruel.

I smiled gently to myself as I looked at my paper cut-out, which truly represented the beauty of each and every member of my broken dysfunctional crazy family, and realised I’d proved something else.

That everyone deserved to be beautiful.

And everyone was beautiful.

{OOC - oh oops, almost forgot! Thank you chelsey for helping me with colours and for being so magnificent and wonderful ty <333}