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The sketchpad is a rich, blank canvas, its cover smooth and inviting, its clean, bright white pages just waiting to be filled with lines and shapes. The pencils range in shades, from the darkest black to the lightest grey and brightest white, each one ready to bring my ideas to life on the blank paper.
It's as if I am reuniting with a part of my soul that had long been forgotten. The cover of the sketchpad feels cool against my skin, promising endless possibilities. Lifting them closer, the smell of graphite fills my nostrils, transporting me back to my childhood days spent in art class, and the metallic tang from licking the tip of a pencil as a child. I'm reminded of the scent of freshly sharpened pencils mixes with the woodsy aroma of the sketchpad, both comforting and invigorating.
I make my purchase at the small art gallery, the owner's words lingering in my mind. "Art is not just a hobby. It's a way of seeing the world. It's healing." I know this to be true - for when I am creating, everything else fades away and I truly feel at peace.
Leaving the gallery, the sketchpad and pencils tucked securely under my arm, I am filled with a renewed sense of self. In the midst of chaos and danger that constantly surrounds me, this small act of rediscovering a part of myself feels like an act of quiet defiance. Despite everything, I am still Natalia Romano - with dreams and passions of my own.
The feel of the sketchpad against my side brings back memories of simpler times - days spent lost in creativity, without a care in the world. I’m visiting this haven of art because of a mundane task – a store owner nearby begged Jeanie, the motel owner to have one of her staff – me -- deliver a food order. But as I stepped into this gallery, surrounded by beautiful paintings and art supplies, for a brief moment I'm transported away from my reality.
But now, back on the busy street, the weight of my situation settles back on my shoulders. I am not just Natalia, an admirer of art and beauty. I am Talia - a girl living in hiding, always looking over her shoulder and trying not to draw attention to herself. But in this moment, holding on to my sketchpad and pencils, I allow myself to dream and hope for a better future.
The contradiction between the freedom and expression I felt in the gallery and the constrained, cautious life I lead now is real. But the brief encounter with art has reignited something within me, a spark of the person I used to be. It's a reminder that despite the fear and the hiding, I am still me. I clutch the sketchpad tighter, a symbol of hope and a piece of my old self that I can still hold onto.
The route back to the motel, the sketchpad feels like a bridge between two worlds – the one I lost and the one I'm forced to live in now. The urge to start drawing and painting again comes over me, a longing for a bit of peace in the chaos that is my life. I imagine each stroke on the canvas as a way to heal and release the pent-up emotions that I've been carrying around since those men took me.
In my mind, I see myself painting, each brushstroke a whisper of the life I used to have, each color a piece of my old reality. The thought is both comforting and heartbreaking. Drawing and painting were parts of my identity, ways I connected with my mother and expressed myself.
Now, they feel like distant memories, yet the desire to create, to immerse myself in the act of artistic expression, is overwhelming. It's a pull that goes beyond mere nostalgia; it's a deep, intrinsic part of who I am. Maybe, in the quiet moments I steal for myself, I can find peace in art, rediscovering pieces of Natalia that Talia had to disassociate from. To hide away.
As I walk back to the motel, a flyer being held under a windshield wiper on a parked car catches my eye. It's for self-defense classes at a local community center in Taos. Pausing, I reach out for the crinkled flyer, smoothing it out against the cool metal of the car. It's brightly colored, with bold letters announcing "Self-Defense Classes - Empower Yourself!" and a list of times and dates. There's a sense of immediacy in this simple piece of paper, a call to action that resonates deeply with my current vulnerable state.
The memory of my traumatic abduction still haunts me, sinking its teeth into my psyche with razor-sharp clarity, overwhelming me with a flood of emotions - fear as sharp as shards of broken glass, helplessness that surrounds me like thick smoke, anger thrumming in my pounding heart like a persistent drumbeat. When they held me captive, the walls of my prison seemed to close in on me as I desperately longed for the power and knowledge to protect myself. To find some sliver of hope in the darkness and find creative ways to free myself, fight back and escape. Yet steel-cold reality bit back in those grim seconds. In my most desperate moments, nobody came to save me. I was alone, left to navigate through the terror on my own. And now, this coincidental flyer appears before me, offering hope, a chance to regain some control over my safety and reclaim my power. My fingers tremble a bit as I reach for it, the paper transforming under my fingertips, feeling like a lifeline to avoid future trauma.
But the harsh reality remains - the lasting scars of that awfully horrific kidnapping continue to haunt me, constantly reminding me that true safety may always be out of reach. That realization hits me hard. While pursuing my artistic passions is crucial for my well-being, I have to prioritize my survival.
In this pivotal moment, the urgency of what I need in my life becomes clear. I have to equip myself with the skills to defend against potential dangers instead of frivolous dreams of sketching.
The thought of attending these self-defense classes feels empowering. I'm going to take my power back. It's a practical step, a way to regain some control over my life, to not feel so fucking vulnerable and weak and scared all the time. If I'm to live in constant threat of being found, then I need to be prepared. I take the flyer with me, now clutched under my arm with the sketchpad. If I have to step out of the shadows, even in this small way, at least this is a good reason. I want to give this to myself. Some confidence. Some skills. A way to take back a piece of what those men tried to steal from me. But change is daunting and empowering.
I return to my room and carefully stash away my sketchpad and pencils before going back to my tasks at the motel diner. I take the flyer for the self-defense course with me, planning to call and register during my break later on. As I walk into the diner through the staff entrance, I quickly tuck the paper into my apron, hoping to avoid any questions. But my supervisor, Marlene, can sense when something is amiss and her sharp gaze catches the edge of the paper peeking out.
"What do you have there, Talia?" she asks in a cool but curious manner that gives away her interest.
I take a deep breath before responding, pulling out the colorful advertising flyer and showing it to her. "It's for some self-defense classes starting up, here in town. I was thinking about signing up."
Marlene studies the flyer briefly before turning her attention back to me, concern etched on her features. "Are you feeling alright? Is there anything going on that I should know about?"
I quickly shake my head. "No, nothing like that. Just thought it would be good to learn some self-defense skills."
“For sure,” she says and nods in support. "Well, if you need time off for this, just let me know."
Feeling grateful for her support, I gather my courage and make a request. "Actually, could I have the evenings off on these days?" My fingers trace over the class schedule listed on the flyer before handing it to her. "They tend to be slower nights anyways."
Marlene takes the flyer with her and walks over to the staff schedule pinned on the wall beside the register. It's a meticulously organized chart with neat handwriting and color-coded markers showing the different shifts and responsibilities. As she compares the date with the schedule, considering my request, my eyes scan over every detail on the posted schedule too - from the days of the week listed along the top to the names of each staff member down the side. Small notes are scribbled in the margins showcasing Marlene's meticulous attention to detail in managing the diner's operations.
After a few moments of consideration, Marlene nods in agreement and hands the flyer back to me. "Sure, Talia. We can handle it. It sounds like this will be good for you." Her words feel like a weight lifted off my shoulders, and I can't help but feel hopeful for something better in my future.
The rest of my shift flies by, filled with tasks and duties. I keep the flyer for the self-defense classes close to me, glancing at it whenever I have a free moment. The thought of taking control of my own safety gives me a strength that I haven't felt in a long time. But there are a few moments where doubts start creeping back in.
What if it happens again and I'm not strong enough to get away? What if I'm too small or too weak or too slow to learn these skills? What if I fail next time and they kill me? What if they use me as leverage against my father and then kill me anyway?
I push these thoughts aside and focus on my work, trying to keep my mind occupied. But they continue to nag at me, making it hard to feel at ease.
Before I leave the diner, I find myself pacing in the small pantry, unable to fully focus as I stock more supplies from today's grocer delivery. My nerves are getting the best of me and I can feel myself starting to doubt my decision. But then, the sound of someone approaching breaks me out of my thoughts.
I look back and see Marlene standing there with a gentle smile on her face. "Hey Talia, just wanted to check in on you before you leave."
I manage a small smile in response, grateful for her concern. "Thanks Marlene. That’s so thoughtful of you. It means a lot."
