Hannah sat, eyes closed, leaning up against the freshly painted white door. The sun, still rising, shined small rays into the little cube room where she sat. Birds chirped happily through the window, promising a beautiful day ahead. Hannah sighed and clutched onto the thin fabric of her old worn jacket’s sleeve. Cottony and warm against her fingers. Slowly, she tugged, eyes still closed, she pulled her old worn jacket’s sleeve up to her elbow. Exposing her fragile and delicate skin to the dewy morning air. Hesitant at first, Hannah opened her eyes.

Her wrist was pink.

Hannah blinked, focusing her eyes on the perfectly cut lines in her wrist. She traced them, one by one with the tip of her finger. Some were scabbing. A little white, creeping in at the edges. Ready to heal. Others still shone a deep red, and stung like little needles as she touched them. 

Eyes still intently focused on the crisply cut lines, Hannah reached for her makeup bag and slowly pulled out a small black glossy container. It was foundation. A perfect ‘sandy beach beige’ powder. She smiled, recalling the first time she had wanted to wear makeup. Hannah was in her freshman year of highschool when she begged her parents to let her wear makeup to school like all the other girls. Her parents gushed over how grown up she was. “A teenager already, can you believe it?” The two held each other close and laughed. Reminiscing over the old memories they shared. Like when Hannah would insist on wearing a tutu everyday to pre-school, or the times she’d draw cat whiskers on her nose and meow in the car. They’d laugh and pull each other close and kiss and smile. At the time, Hannah would roll her eyes and venture off to her bedroom to read, but now, Hannah wished for nothing more, but to see her parents together like they were before. Happy. Smiling. Laughing.

Now Hannah sat, lonely and tired, in her newly painted room. Despite the nicely painted door and walls, the small house had many scratches and bruises. The floorboards would creak anytime Hannah walked, the window had a web of cracks and electricity turned on and off on it’s own accord.

It was all her father could afford right now. He was in no mood to work while his wife was off with another man.

So after fighting with his wife for weeks on end, he and Hannah packed their belongings and secured a small house on the outskirts of their town. 

Hannah never wanted the two to split, and begged her mother to leave her new man, but her mother blankly refused.

So here Hannah sat with her freshly healing wounds in her new dreary home and a small container of ‘sandy beach beige’ powder foundation gripped in her hand.

Hesitantly, she drew out the small black handled brush and dipped the brush slowly into the powder.

Cautiously she began to paint her wrist. The pink, slowly, but surely turning a ‘sandy beach beige’. She continued painting, steadily concealing the memories of sadness. The crying, and screaming. The hatred and hurt. The pain of losing, and the pain of healing.

She continued painting until the lines were no longer visible. Her wrist looked as normal as ever.

Pawing at her eyes, she rubbed the salty tears across her face.

Sluggishly, Hannah stood up. Laying her hand on the the freshly painted door’s handle and slowly made her way down the small single set of stairs.

At a small table in the center of unopened boxes and cans of paint, her father sat. Slumped in the gray fold out chair he hummed to himself, a slow monotone sound escaping from his lips. As the floorboards creaked announcing Hannah’s entrance. His face quickly perked up. Eyes, bright and alert. Smiling, he looked over his shoulder.

“Hannah! Good morning, how’d you sleep?”

Wringing her wrist in her hand, Hannah felt the thick layer of dry soft powder and smiled.

“Good.”