Identity Lost

With her first step into to the campus, she could feel the change coming her way. The cool breeze carried the scents of pines and oaks and various other trees that she didn’t know the names of, merged into a cocktail of fresh autumn morning. She made her way to the enrolment office as instructed by the email she had been reading over and over again for weeks. Many other students were walking past her. She started imagining all of the future friendships, romances and victories. She was feeling like she had conquered her own country with her talent and now it was time to conquer this one. Her mother’s voice echoed at the back of her head “My cube of talent”. She had seen a phone booth on a corner she walked past, she thought she would call her mum soon.

Enrolment process was swift and well organised. In about thirty minutes she was in her dorm room. A clean space within four brick walls with a fresh lick of white paint. The window looked out to other dorm buildings, circling a small green patch. She decided to keep her curtains drawn open - she wanted to let the world know that she was here.

She emptied the contents of her suitcases and one by one found a place to dwell for every item. She placed her sketchbooks and sharpened pencils on the white, small desk.

Afterwards she left the dorms to have a look around the campus. Through the corridors of the main building, she noticed various paintings on the walls. Selected student works. It was a done deal. It was only a matter of time that her work would shine through. She straightened her back and walked as if she was gliding on ice. She wanted to get back to her dorm and start sketching. She didn’t want to lose any time. She had already walked a long way into the building, so it would be quicker to walk through further and find an exit from the other side.

She kept walking whilst browsing the paintings on the wall. One made her stop at her tracks. A portrait divided into pieces, repositioned only slightly off to make it look like a slightly different person. The colours, the textures… it was a beautiful piece of work. “Identity lost” by Richard Kemp. She thought she had found a rival. She scratched an itch on the crease of her chin, then sped up her steps. She was just glancing at the walls now, but a few steps later she stopped again. “The Gorgon’s hands” by Gemma Rivers. Scaly yet fragile hands were positioned in a demure fashion. The light made them look almost semi-transparent. Red blood showing through, a reminder of the humanity. She kept walking, now stopping every two or three paintings. “Human delight” by Parker Bura, “Untitled” by Anais Morrell, “The ox” by Minnie Jenkins, “Behold” by Mahmoud Akram, so on… Instead of her sketchbook, she now pined for that phone booth. She looked at the walls no more, but her fast moving feet. Step, step, step, door! She gasped in the fresh air the moment she left the building and made her way to the phone booth.

She pushed her shiny international phone card into the slot and punched in the number she knew by heart. Three rings after, her mum answered the phone. They talked for a very long time, about her little dorm room, the people, the foreign language she had to tackle. They then talked about the paintings on the walls. Her mum told her, of course they would be good, they have been studying for it. By the time she finished university she would be even better. No doubt. Three beeps told her that the international phone card was consumed and the line was about to cut off. They said their goodbyes, and then she was alone again. She returned to her dorm room, recharged by her mother’s words, ready to face her sketchbook.

A week in, students had been introduced to all of the classes, the studios and each other. They were already boasting an ownership to “their campus” and each of them had started to establish an identity for themselves.

Working on their first assignment in the studio, she had already appointed the rival. Martin McKinley had a heavy style that swept all the rest. “To have such a strong, artistic voice at such a young age” tutors were saying. Yet all she hears for her work was “potential”. She thought it was bad luck. Of all the places, Martin the unreachable talent had come to her university. She had to pull through this feeling. The bitter taste in her mouth was disturbing her. With a lighter soul, she thought she was still the best female artist. The itch was back on the crease of her chin. She must have a spot coming on, she thought. She had a scratch, sharpened her pencils and carried on with her sketches.

A couple months in, the identities people had created for themselves had started to change. Real personalities started to seep through the made up ones, though some were better at recreating themselves and had already fully killed their previous self. Some students, getting comfortable with the system of the school and the friendships developed, had a new found confidence. They started to discover and embrace their different talents, a new thought pattern previously a stranger to them. One of these students was Bella Jordan. Her work was said to be “an exciting amalgamation of ideas and technique”.

The itch on her chin was out of control. And a red bump was now growing. But she couldn’t scratch it anymore, as her mum told her scratching or popping a spot would leave a scar. She had bigger problems than a spot to think about anyway. She was constantly working on ideas. Sketching, sharpening her pencils and sketching again. Stale. Uninspired. Predictable.

Any good thing said about her work was bringing an unexplainable anger to her heart. Pity.

Often she found herself in front of “Identity lost”. She should have made this painting. She thought even her own feelings were expressed better by other people. What kind of artist was she?

As she entered her dorm room, she caught her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall. The spot on her chin now had a white head, uncommonly large. She never thought of herself as beautiful. Her thing was always being talented. But it just felt like a sick joke that on top of it all, she would get this enormous piece of ugliness on the corner of her face. Useless abomination.

A few more months passed. Her calls to her mother were reduced to a minimum. They were short and tasteless conversations of mere courtesy. The few blossoms of friendships, she had nipped in the bud. There was no pleasure in her painting anymore. Her ambition was disgusting herself. As more people discovered themselves and their capabilities, she felt she was getting buried deeper underneath their talents. She now had to hide the acne under a big square of bandages. Growing bigger, day by day, she was afraid to check out what it looked like under the gauze.

She had thoughts of quitting it all. Accept failure, go back to her country, be the “big fish in the small pond”. One day in the library, using one of the few computers with internet, she searched out other artists from her own country. Really, how shielded was she? How deluded? As she browsed webpage after webpage, she could feel her lungs crushing. She could not breathe. She left the library, running through the corridors. As she was passing in front of “Identity lost”, she stopped, spat a heavy spit on the painting and ran off to her dorm room.

For the last few weeks, she had not left her dorm room. The fresh, white brick walls were feeling like a prison cell now. She had stopped calling her mum, going to classes, speaking to anyone. After all, how could she, with an acne the size of a melon on her face? It was too late to go to the doctors about it. She didn’t want anyone to see it. If she dies from it, so be it.

Her head was feeling heavy with the weight of the acne. She spent most of her time sleeping. Every now and then she grabbed a tin of tuna or beans, or some crackers from the kitchen when everyone was asleep. She had not drawn anything for weeks. Her sharpened pencils were lying there, waiting.

One night, she was awakened from an uneasy sleep by an unfamiliar voice. The voice was mumbling to itself. She thought she could make out some words but wasn’t quite sure. It was coming from somewhere so close, she was petrified. She finally had the courage to turn around in bed to see if someone was lying behind her, even though, deep inside, she knew exactly where the voice was coming from. The bed was empty. So she got up and with painfully slow, quiet steps, she walked towards her small mirror on the wall.

There it was, staring at her. Her acne, now in the form of a strange, cream coloured face. Mumbling in a creepy tone whilst looking directly into her eyes in the mirror. She could not make out the words but she knew exactly what it was talking about.

She did not scream. Why would she? It was like seeing an old friend, so familiar. Instead she was filled with hatred, not towards the acne, but towards her luck, and all the people who allowed her to delude herself, and all the people that broke her delusion. The world had impregnated her with this acne baby, and she hated the world for it. She held the acne head between her hands. The cream coloured face started to grunt and grimace. It was growing at a mad pace now. The head was fully formed, then the shoulders, the navel, all cream coloured, full of puss, disgusting. It wasn’t painful, but itchy.

She remembered her mother’s words. Can’t scratch it, can’t pop it. This made her throw out a deranged laughter. The mumbles of the acne continued as it was growing. Now resting in her hands, the acne had come out of her chin all the way down from its feet, yet still connected to her face like a giant albino leech. She turned the acne baby around to look at its face. Acne’s eyes were looking deep into hers without blinking, and it was constantly mumbling to her like chanting a spell.

There were no tears, no passionate emotions. She was too tired for all of that. She had had enough of this weighty feeling. There was only determination, and an acne baby that she neither needed nor wanted. She picked up one of the sharpened pencils on the desk. The slight, painted wood and lead combination in her hand felt like an epic spear at that moment. She raised the weapon high up with a tired heart and thrusted the pointy end into the creature that had been a burden on her for several months. It popped with great force, its contents spreading all over her and around her, pushing her onto the floor and at once, rendering her unconscious.

The next morning, she woke up with a heavy head, yet feeling lighter over all. She looked around, searching for a sign of her murder last night and found nothing. She got up, grabbed a sketchbook, a pencil and her international phone card. As she was making her way out to the phone booth, she found herself in the mirror, with a tiny scar on the crease of her chin.