White

Ranyechi Udemezue

Written in preparation for the Creative Writing section of the GCSE English Language Paper, in Year 10.

Question: "Write about a time when you or someone you know had to work hard on something"


White paint, white glitter, white paper... white.

I scream in frustration and land on my bed in despair.

Everything around me keeps going although all I want to do is stop and breathe and be still.

Tick- Tock, Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.

My attention shifts to my alarm clock.

19:31

19:32

19:33

It just keeps on going.

“No this will not happen, you need this scholarship Keziah” I mutter to myself as I run my dry hands over my damp face.

Then it hits me.  

Just like that I frantically bolt into my brother's room as if in any second my idea could be robbed from me and my dream could disappear. I hastily break open his toy box and gather as many fluorescent, acrylic paints that I can. “Sorry Zeke” I whisper, as I for the first time in a long time engage in a race against time.

When I re-enter my enticingly chaotic cove the laugh that escapes my mouth is both of menace and pure ecstasy as I gingerly stroke the white canvas and start to attack it. I splatter the dastardly thing with vignettes of turquoise, mauve and opal; sobbing I translate the disaster that is my life onto a white square, which means absolutely everything.

The heartbreak of my mother's death is swirled in a bottomless pit of scarlet paint and the uncertainty of my future is cast in black. My hands seem to know how to move even though the rest of my body is paralysed with trepidation. I can vaguely see a smiling face amongst the sticky mess that is my piece of art.

I keep going however, because if there's one thing that my dad taught me (apart from how to drown your sorrows down a bottle) is never to give in to the will to let go.

“Look towards the light!” he used to drunkenly shout. With that thought a splash of yellow hits the canvas. I continue to think of my dad grey paint being all that I can see, a part of me wishes that he was still here, that he didn't leave, that he loved Amber, Zeke and I enough to well... stay. Instead he kissed each of us on the forehead and boarded a plane with her to Nevada. That was last year and I haven't heard from him since. Something else clouds my vision, it burns and tastes salty. I sniff and smile to myself, hurling a jar of glitter at the painting, most of it falling but some glimmering specks stay behind.

21:00

The clock blasts the only song that can drag me out of my bed in the morning: ‘Scenario' by A Tribe Called Quest. What else would one expect from a black art student?
Amber as if on cue burst into my bedroom shrieking "Turn this up I haven’t heard it in ages!". Amber's 20, two years older than me and yet I'm so much more mature. She reminds strangers of Hilary from ‘The Fresh Prince of Bel Air”... it’s ironic because she’s more of a Carlton, she’s a leader, uptight and never settles for less than she deserves. I’m nothing like her.

“Don't you have an essay to write?” I ask her in fits of laughter as I turn back to my canvas.
“I finished that weeks ago. Why are you up anyway? Its like 1am?” Amber asks me.

“No it's not” I breathe.
“No no no no no” I mumble as I vigorously shake my clock. I freeze and realise in sheer horror that I set the alarm to 1am and not 21:00 in the evening.

“How am I so stupid!?” I scream and turn to Amber who is staring at my painting, shoulders hunched and shaking. “It's terrible isn't it?” I choke.

“No!” she exclaims, “Its incredible. You paint just like mum did it's so real, so raw and full of ineffable beauty!”

I sigh at her choice of words and turn to look at my painting, fully basking in the presence of my own creation. I painted silhouettes of my parents. My mother's body is outlined in a trail of golden glitter and my dad's grey figure is fading into the darkness; the silhouettes are a feature of the story but they're not the focus. I am, and so is the building behind me: ‘The Eleanor Addington School of Art and Design’.

“Please be good enough” I say to the tale of who I am as I anxiously bite my lip.

“Please.”

I tentatively step away and Amber engulfs me into a hug as we fall onto my bed in each other's arms.

“‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery but today is a gift, that's why it is called the present.’

I got that from Kung Fu Panda you know.” Amber whispers proudly.

We both giggle and I breathe in the scent of her cocoa shampoo, smiling, and ceasing to care about the time.