One Frame or Another
Hannah Vliet
I stared at the painting. Well, I stared at the area where the painting exists. The apathy of the vague lines and meandering shadows angered me. A representation of a woman stared past me, that much I could tell. There always seems to be one of those around, at least in places like this. A portly man sat at the opposite end of the bench, thumbing a brochure.
Facing forward, I was looking somewhere else.
I was looking at the sound of my mother’s voice the last time she called me; I was looking at the nothing taste of the communion cracker sucking all moisture from my throat; I was looking at my inability to scream; I was looking at my reflection in the medicine cabinet, cut apart by the jars that won’t be able to save me; I was looking at the smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies; I was looking at the nerve endings when he led me home; I was looking at the dark dark dark and the bright bright bright.
And then, I guess, I was looking at the thing in the frame. Sometimes I think I can only look at things if they are within frames.
So, I tried to make her more. I tried to give texture to her blue hat and nuance to her expression. But she started to morph into a cacophony of nothingness. Patterns unwound themselves, and straight edges bent every time I blinked. She was me, my aunt Daphne, my microwave, my Iphone camera, and every blank page I ever lost to.
This was dumb. It was all so dumb. Why is it always dumb?! I slipped my arm through the holes of my cardigan and began to shove all my shit into my bag.
“It might be easier if you let her have you,” he said. “I don’t think it really matters much in the end. She does look like Daphne, though, so I understand the aversion.”
“Right, thanks,” I replied as I slung my bag over my shoulder and brushed past him.
The water fountain machine turned on, sending a buzz throughout the otherwise dead space as I opened the glass door and left. I couldn’t see anything, but somehow knew my way home. I had soup dumplings for dinner that night, and guessed the prize puzzle correctly on Wheel of Fortune. It was too late before I realized what the teapot of a man had said.
It always seems to be too late, in one frame or another. That’s fine. I bought another vowel and went to bed.
Hannah Vliet (she/they) is a senior Honors College Scholar double majoring in Theatre Arts and Cinema Studies, minoring in Creative Writing. She is heavily involved with Cabaret Theater, where she starred in the Fall 2021 main-stage play, “Gruesome Playground Injuries,” and with the Office for Violence Prevention and Victim Assistance, where she volunteers as a hotline worker and survivor advocate. Her other recent writing includes reviews for the New Jersey International Film Festival, short plays for Stream On! Productions and Cabaret Theater, and a forthcoming article in Film Matters Magazine.