Change

Once I throw out the other three canvases I had taken out of my boot, I head back to my car straight away. It’s been oddly fulfilling watching my meaningless paintings soar through the air and land on the pile of other discarded items; thrown away and left to rot. Each painting I toss, I feel that just one more small part of me, my old life, is disappearing, ready to be broken down among the rest of the stuff at the dump.

I climb into the boot of my car to grab some of the canvases that slid to the back while I was driving. I pile three on top of one another and easily pull them out with me as I back out of the boot. It’s as my feet touch the ground and I pull the rest of myself out that I notice the little blue car parked next to mine. It looks new, and it even has personalised number plates: LIZ21E. I snort at how incredibly lame it is. I’ve never understood why people get personalised number plates. I guess it’s just to show off that they can afford it. Fucking rich bastards. Bitter? Me? You bet.

I wander back to the big rubbish pile with my canvases and, like before, ceremoniously chuck my paintings one by one like Frisbees, trying to get each of them to land past the last one, like I was playing a game, not changing my life.

Just a couple more trips, I think to myself as I head back to my car and climb back in straight away. As I do so, I notice that the owner of the little blue Barina still hadn’t got out. Not that I really care though. It’s none of my business. I collect a few more paintings, and stop to look at one in particular; the blood had long dried up and it looked kind of disgusting. I wrinkle my nose and then look down at the long jagged scar from the broken bottle on my forearm and sigh. I was so trashed that night. I don’t even remember how I managed to cut myself there in the first place, since you would expect to get cut either on your foot from treading on broken glass, or your hand from picking it up… Oh well.

I wriggle out of the car and I’m about to grab the canvases that I’d brought forward with me when I stop. The owner of the Barina finally decided to get out and is standing at the boot of her car. From what I can see, she’s a pretty plain looking girl. She has longish medium brown hair, medium height and build, plain t-shirt and jeans. There’s nothing interesting or outstanding about her, yet the look on her face as she yanks a large plank of wood out of her boot shows fierce determination and it intrigues me. I chuckle as I see her struggle to lift the plank above her head and decide to put her out of her misery and walk up to her.

“Do you need a hand?”