A talented child artist loses her desire to sketch or paint, and when it comes back in adulthood - it returns with a vengeance!

A myriad of light and colours passed before Lori Driedger’s eyes. She was holding on to her sanity with a pencil, her only weapon against her nightmares. She tried to bring the colours into focus. A dizzying kaleidoscope of images spun before her. Her head pounded. Inwardly she squinted, hoping that the throbbing pain behind her eyes would subside. She trembled, fearing this vision would consume her. Irrationally, she feared she’d become this swirling mass of nothingness. The pencil shook, as if afraid of the sketchbook beneath it. Her breath came in short gasps. She gazed at the paper, begging her subconscious for a clear image. Her hand began to move in short jerky stabs. Another picture appeared. Sweat beaded on Lori’s forehead. She was both excited and terrified to see what she’d created. However, the colour drained from her face the moment she realized what the image was. It was back. Lori’s artistic talents had appeared in early childhood. While other children were struggling to ‘stay within the lines’, Lori was colouring the world with expertise. It was a gift, or so her mother had said. She shuddered. Lori wasn’t sure why. As a young girl, sketching had been what other children would have called playing. She’d sketched her parents, flowers and trees. She’d even tried to capture a sunset and a sunrise. She drew her favourite cartoon characters. The one thing she’d never draw was herself, well not until this insanity started. The ‘kaleidoscope’ vision started years ago, back into the depths of her childhood and each attempt at a self portrait always resulted in the same nightmare. The part that flung her sanity far from reach was the sketched look in her eyes. Pure terror. She didn’t just view it, she lived it. She couldn’t figure out why or even how she drew such nightmarish visions. It always made her feel sick. She burned each of the drawings hoping that it would purify her. Each time the nightmare occurred, her revulsion increased. Lori’s head swam. The pressure in her head was like a vice grip. She tried to squeeze the vision out. In first grade, Lori had an art teacher who’d noticed her talent and had encouraged her to pursue it. He was the one who insisted that she draw. She shivered again as she thought about it. If only Mr. Carroll hadn’t noticed her talent, her life would have been so much better. After she completed grade three she’d stopped taking art classes. She’d lost interest. She’d stayed away from art entirely for the balance of her grade school years. High school only increased her aversion to art. Her first boyfriend had taken her to the make out spot behind the bleachers. There was a grove of trees that gave hormone driven teenagers a little bit of privacy to study anatomy. Yet, while Lori’s anatomy was being explored she began to shake and feel sick. The boy she was with, Danny Meryl, had tried to be kind. When it happened the second time he’d had enough. He was polite to her in school after that but they’d never had another date. Lori knew something was wrong and thought that maybe she was one of those frigid girls she’d heard about, a tease. Better than a tramp. Lori rationalized, reacting to her memories. She shook her head slowly. None of it rang true . She felt like her mind was exploding with kaleidoscope images racing through her it. She was humiliated because she couldn’t be intimate with a really nice guy without feeling terrified. Lori arrived home in tears after the second failed date with Danny. She liked him, but she didn’t even want to kiss him. The thought turned her stomach. "Good Lord, maybe I’m gay!" As Lori pulled her thoughts back to the present, she couldn’t imagine what her conservative parents thought of her behaviour back then. Yet even now, she knew everything felt wrong. She felt wrong. The answer was sitting just out of reach, taunting her. It was teasing her, daring her to find it. Lori’s mind returned to the night after her last date with Danny. She woke screaming. The whole household was awakened with her. Her brother was pissed off that his sleep had been disturbed, and grumbled audibly as he trudged back to his warm bed. Lori’s father was kinder. He furrowed his brow and looked at her for a moment. “You used to wake up with nightmares when you were younger. Do you remember?’ His tone and smile were gentle and his had a deep, faraway look. “No, I don’t.” “Yep, we used to sit and draw together to calm you down. You always drew trees.” “Trees?” “Yep, they looked like a forest with a shack peeking out of the woods.” “Oh.” Lori felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach, she shrugged as nonchalantly as she could. “Sorry, don’t remember.” She stifled a yawn. “We should all get some sleep.” Her mother stood, hands on hips. “You’re okay, right?” Lori nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew she’d scream again if she did. She remembered the trees. Jen and Peter Driedger returned to their bed and left Lori in the deep, uneasy darkness. Lori breathed. She forced another breath. She tried to remain calm although all she could see was the trees. The trees blocked out the sun. The trees blocked out the school. The trees blocked out her memories, until now. Mr. Carroll had been admiring her art one day. “You are the most talented first grader I’ve ever seen.” Lori flushed, both as a child and as the adult remembering it. “I could give you extra lessons and help you become a great artist.” The child’s eyes shone with awe. “Wow. Okay.” “Do you know where the trees are, behind the school?” “Yes, Mr. Carroll.” “There’s a little shack there, it’s my art studio and it’s only for real artists. Meet me at the shack door at three thirty. Will you come?” “Yes, Mr. Carroll.” She nodded. And she had. Lori lay in the dark, remembrances crawling through her brain like sand slipping through an hourglass. One grain of sand followed another. It was filling her mind. She could see the childhood sketches. Her heart went cold. The shack was cold. Lori shivered remembering the “extra credit” classes he’d given her. Sleep wouldn't come after the nightmare and after her father’s comments. Lori was overcome by an overpowering urge to sketch. She turned on a tiny desk lamp, hoping that she could vanish in the darkness. She sketched the shack and the trees. Her blood ran cold. Goosebumps slithered up her arms. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. Tears washed over her cheeks. She knew the shack. Lori’s hand became a fist, snapping her pencil in two. She turned the desk lamp off. She didn't want to look at the hideous sketch. She didn't want to remember. No. No. No. No. No. No. Lori repeated this mantra until she fell into an uneasy and fitful sleep. A nightmare pierced her slumber. She awoke gasping for breath. She held her hands to her chest, willing air into paralyzed lungs. The terror was fading. All that was left was her crazy kaleidoscope vision. She picked up her sketch pad. She drew the inside of a shack this time. It was a shack made of two by fours. It was once probably blue or grey but now was merely the unusual colour of blonde wood. A few paint flecks still clung to the boards, unwilling to relinquish their home. On the far wall there was an easel, a palette and paints lined up neatly. Too neatly. A canvas adorned the easel. Along the near wall, there was a couch. It was a plush sofa bed. Lori looked at the sketch. It felt more than looked accurate. She could see the colours of each item, each board even though she’d only done a pencil sketch. Her ‘kaleidoscope vision’ was colouring them through her mind. Lori shook her head, incredulously. When she looked back, the colours were gone. Thankfully so was the night. Morning never brought such relief as this one had. Lori spent the day trying to forget. After this event, nightmares became a way of life for Lori. She’d even resorted to a dreamcatcher, in the vain hope that aboriginal spirituality would work for her. It didn’t stop her nightly terror, in fact the intensity increased. She took the dreamcatcher back and got a partial refund. Since that first night, Lori had a strong urge to sketch after every dream. She always drew the same thing. She could see the trees. The one to the left of the shack bent right over the roof. She wondered if it had fallen into the studio yet. The one right in front of the door had a big hole, big enough that Lori thought she could hide in it, as a child. It was big enough that she wanted to hide in it! She drew that tree with precision every time. It didn’t make her feel uneasy like everything else did. Can I make a living sketching the same tree over and over? It was a stupid thought, but she loved the tree. Six months of sketching this scene passed. Lori pulled out each page and hid them under her bed in a portfolio. She didn’t want her parents to find them. She especially didn’t want her Mom finding them and thinking that she was going to renew her artistic interests again. Computer art was it. Each dream lifted the ‘kaleidoscope’ feeling. Every sketch made the dizzying, unfocused feeling lighter. It was a warm May night when a particularly bad dream left Lori drenched with sweat and an urgent compulsion to sketch. She detailed the inside of that studio. The trees were outside. She wanted to hide in the tree with the hole. The child was in the studio looking up at someone adoringly. Whoever he was, he was a tall man, a giant to a six year old. He held her hand. It’s clammy. Lori was feeling it as she sketched. The pencil tore the page in her haste. She looked at the girl, standing beside the couch looking up at her teacher and she knew. She knew what her ‘kaleidoscope’ vision meant. Her stomach rolled. She dropped the sketch pad as if it were aflame. She ripped out the page and grabbed the portfolio from under the bed, swiping at any dust bunnies that impeded her. She shredded the pictures into tiny little pieces. She was tearing that studio, the trees that hid him and the man who did the unthinkable. Then she cried. How could I forget this? Lori pulled herself into a small ball. How could I remember? Sleep had been out of the question after the horrible revelations she’d made. An overwhelming guilt was choking off all of her consciousness, her arm worked as if possessed. No longer shaky and tentative, it drew a frantic set of sketches. Her pencil flew across the pages. She created scene after scene at a breakneck speed. She was aching to start one the second she’d finished another. She was barely cognizant of what she was drawing. Her subconscious had found its voice and now it wouldn’t be silenced. Lori practically filled an entire sketch pad that night. Mercifully, none of the pictures bore her image. She was on the brink of insanity, and that would have pushed her over the edge. When she finished, exhaustion taking over her entire being, the swirling kaleidoscope that resided in her head was gone. The horror that had been the stuff of nightmares no longer ruled her nights. It ruled every waking moment. She hid the sketchbook in between the mattress and box spring of her bed and slept. She then slept soundly for the first time in months. May 18th. That date would be burned into her mind forever. It was the day after she drew the sketches. It was this day four years hence that everything else would unfold. This day was hers. The day after she finally remembered became first day of her new life. At least, that’s how she’d come to think of it. She realized that she had much to relearn. All those years of denial had broken something inside her. Now, it was trying to heal itself. It wasn’t fixed exactly, but it changed her artistic talents and the subject matter she would tackle, forever. The reason that she’d become interested in computers was linked to her trauma. Computers were far less personal; you could create things on a screen without ever getting involved with people. Despite the month, the day felt more like winter than spring. It was unseasonably cold and drizzly. There was a north wind chattering at the window. It cut right to the bone. For Lori it all seemed to fit. She awoke shivering and raked her fingers through tangled hair and staggered from her bed just before noon. She could hear the buzz of voices from the living room and the laugh track of a sit-com in the background. The smell of bacon was still in the air. As Lori passed the mirror she did a double take. Her deep brown hair was standing up in all directions. Her face was puffy and pale. Her eyes were red-rimmed with dark, swollen bags underneath. She pulled her slim frame up to its full five foot six and tried to smile. It came out as a grimace. She looked sick. She felt hung-over, although she hadn’t been drinking. The only thing she’d over imbibed on was sketching. It must have been after four when she’d finished. Lori looked back to the bed and decided to take one more look at the sketches. She wrote them almost in a trance and curiosity was calling to her more than any other need. She looked down at her trembling hands as she flipped the cardboard cover of her sketch book revealing the first of the series of drawings. It was more abstract than she preferred. None of her other work had ever had this quality, well, except those sketches of trees. She much preferred clean lines and intricate detail. These images almost looked like they were moving. They had the same quality of photos taken while the subject was walking. Lori strained to remember drawing them but didn’t remember this quality in them last night. However, to be fair, the whole episode had a deeply surreal quality to it. She gaped at what she saw and drew her robe tighter, hugging her waist. Mr. Carroll was there in complete, if blurred, detail. They were all the details that she remembered from a decade earlier. Even the abstract style couldn’t hide that. He looked a little older than she remembered but the poses were familiar and thankfully very blurred. What was unusual was that the little girl that in the sketch wasn’t Lori. It was a blue-eyed, blonde girl. How do I know that from a pencil sketch? The thought slipped through her consciousness, dancing in between the horror. Lori didn’t know how she knew these colourings, but she did. It was a deep surety in it, too. Her stomach clenched and lurched. For a moment she was sure that she’d be sick, but it passed. “Bastard!” She spat at the picture. It made her feel like her artistry had been tainted by him. She felt filthy drawing him, even more so because he was hurting other helpless little girls. Lori continued to flip pages. There were three different girls drawn into various scenes. Each would be in a number of drawings and then the next would appear. Lori searched her mind to find their hair, eye and skin colour as if she were readying herself to paint them. Everyone was surreal. They were all blurred, yet there was no doubt what they were or who was in the pictures. Lori wiped tears from her eyes and hid the sketch book between the mattresses again. Murderous thoughts started to form. She put them away and tried to have an ordinary day instead. Lori pulled out the sketchbook daily over the next four years. She felt an affinity to the girls in the pictures. She knew that she wasn’t alone. The thought cheered and sickened her at the same time. At first, she thought perhaps this was how she was expressing her own experience but drawing in different girls, trying to distance herself from her past. She tried to convince herself of this. She’d almost done succeeded until she started hearing them whisper Help us. That made her question her reasoning…and her sanity. It didn’t make sense but the trio came to her while she slept and begged her to stop him. They attacked her in her waking hours when she’d let her mind wander a little. They prodded her and begged her and badgered her. They never stopped asking her to keep this monster from attacking another girl. She ignored them as long as she could. But three years later, she felt herself compelled to see a psychologist. A wanna’ be shrink, but not a real one so the stigma didn’t seem as bad. However, when the doctor diagnosed probable schizophrenia she ran far and fast. That ended her venture into the science of the mind. Thankfully, drawing seemed to keep the voices at bay. They were still there. She knew it. She could still feel them, waiting in expectation. For what, Lori couldn’t understand. They sat back watching and waiting and when she’d finished her piece they would begin nagging once more. Lori loved the nights and hated the days. She thought perhaps that was because she was safe in the darkness of the night, safe from Mr. Carroll who’d only seen her at school. At night she was safe from being caught, from being found out. The only thing she wasn’t safe from was her mind, the nightmares and, of course, the voices. Lori usually rose by ten, far after the time when most of the working world had to function. She’d had found away around it. She was self-employed. However, she wasn’t very close to being self-sufficient as she still resided in the bungalow that she’d grown up in with her father. Her mother had passed away two years ago from cancer. On the four year anniversary of her revelations, the world turned itself inside out. That fateful day began with the brilliance of spring. The sun rose early and warmed the world with its rays before most people had taken a first sip of coffee. There was dew on the lush green grass and a fresh smell of flowers wafting through the light breeze. It felt more like August than May. It was perfect. Well, at least, for a long moment, it seemed so. The trees had buds; the grass had taken on a lush greenness that gave the promise of summer. The wind whispered as it wove its way through the trees. The sky was a deep, clear blue and it was unseasonably warm. The air had the fresh smell that accompanies the flora coming to life. That was when the real drama began, and when it would end. Lori woke with the voices in her head. Draw him, draw, draw, draw. They whispered. The Dream…remember. Lori shook her head to clear the cobwebs and hopefully the voices. She groggily searched her memory to see if she could pull up the images of the dream she’d had that was already quickly fading. She grasped a corner of it as it darted towards her locked subconscious mind. There was a sketchpad. She was drawing on it. She was drawing him; she was drawing the monster, her demon. Their demon. She was drawing horrible things happening to him. She drew him with a knife slicing off his finger. She drew him lying flat on his back, clutching at his heart. She drew him in a coffin. Yes. The whispering was excited. Had she remembered clearly? Was this what they were after? Did they want her to torture him by drawing him? How crazy is this? She ran fingers through her tousled hair. Her eyes were wide and clear, but disbelief and horror shone from them. It was unmistakable. It was real. Lori had been toying with the idea of going to the police after the repressed memories freed themselves. She’d been thinking about it for years. She thought it was too late but found out that there was some kind of law that that extended the statute of limitations based on when the victim became aware of or remembered the abuse. She’d wasted a lot of that time already. Now, she was finally ready to take action and the voices from the pictures wanted her to draw? This couldn't do any good. Please. It was a single voice this time, affirming their desire. Lori sighed deeply and began. She pulled the sketchpad out and gazed at the old pictures again. The penciled lines were smeared and the pages dog-eared from thumbing though them so often. The book was worn and pages had small tears at all the edges. Lori looked through them all, first to last. It had become a ritual, and each one was committed to memory. As she peered at the very last sketch, she noticed that something was wrong. The little girl had moved out from underneath the man and he was looking back at her with an intense gaze. Lori shuddered. She remembered his eyes from all those years ago. The way he looked at her was as awful as what he did. However, the sketch girl was looking up from the page as well, and a slight smile marked her face. Lori thought she saw a quick wink of her eye. Yes, there it was again. This hadn’t been there before. Please. The voice was gentler now. It seemed to comprehend that Lori finally realized what she had to do and the girl was beseeching her to make the right choice. The right choice for you. The right choice for us. The right choice for the girls to come. Lori screamed. She knew. It wasn’t just her, there’d be more. Good God, don’t let him hurt any more children! Her tears flowed uncontrollably. If Lori had been honest with herself, she’d known she wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t a hard choice that the voices, these girls, were providing. It made sense but she was still having trouble trusting that her sanity hadn’t abandoned her. Schizophrenia was sounding more plausible all the time. Please start drawing. The girls weren’t leaving. Now, there was no mistake in the message. If these drawings were found, would anyone conceive of anything more than she’d picked horrific and disturbing subject matter? Could they know? There might be some question as to whether she’d been abused but nothing else that should cause them to question her sanity. It could still be her secret. If things got worse, maybe she’d have to find a real shrink. In the meantime, drawing seemed to be quiet the voices…or perhaps provide an escape? Either was a good alternative right now. She flipped the page on the sketchpad. Her breath was coming in short gasps. She felt as if she were breathing through a straw. She blew out the air as hard as she could, took a deep breath, and held it. Her heart was trying to escape from her chest. She let out her breath slowly and the pounding diminished a little. Her hand grasped the pencil and the image of the monster came to her. Instead of shaking, she found a steely determination she wasn’t sure was her own. The pencil glided across the page as if being pulled by an invisible magnet. Or perhaps it was invisible little girls? The first image that she was supposed to draw, following the chronology of her nightmare, was him cutting his finger with the knife. His form came easily, too easily. His eyes were the hardest. She knew them, but she didn’t want to see them, to be caught in them. They struck a chord of terror in her. She did it anyway. As Lori looked into her creation of her demon, her heart stopped beating. She forced herself to breathe and keep drawing. She decided on a cleaver, not just a knife. He held it dangerously over his hand. Careless? Carefree? But it wouldn’t last, she felt sure. Lori felt an icy blast cover her heart. Yes, right, draw. The words were urgent but still encouraging. They’d waited four years for her to clue in to their plan. How long did I wait? She shivered violently and had to stop for a second. Her hand was shaking with the cold. The warm, spring day had vanished. The sun disappeared and dusk fell in mid-afternoon. The steeled herself again. The darker it got, the more compelled Lori was to draw, to finish this horrific piece. She drew deep gash in his hand and the blood pooling around it. She didn’t draw it but she saw the pain and panic in his eyes and she laughed. The laughter turned into hysterics. She was laughing and crying simultaneously. She hated herself for loving the pain she saw in him. She inhaled, felt and was enveloped in it. It was enticing, evil, and just. She wanted more. It felt heady and bubbly. She felt drunk with the joy that that bastard was feeling just a tiny bit of the pain and fear that he’d inseminated his young victims with. This was right; even though it was contrary to everything she’d ever been taught. She’d never been brave enough to step outside of legality and morality but tonight, every suppressed urge rose to her head and she wanted to act on it. She wanted to act on it now. Now! Yes. More. It was the single voice again. Sense had come out of the chaotic chorus that had been haunting her. Lori knew it was the voice of the girl who’d winked at her. She was sure of it. As Lori felt the panic and pain ebbing from her sketch she saw his eyes change. When she looked down at the picture again, a worried but calm look lurked in the eyes of her abuser. His hand had wrapped itself in a towel. Lori didn't think she’d drawn it. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her. Her lust to see this monster suffer surfaced again. The next picture was due. She flipped the page to detach herself from his calm and confident eyes. She wanted to see him vulnerable. Hell, she wanted to consume his suffering to assuage hers. She quickly drew his frame on a hard, dark, wood floor. She wanted his discomfort to be as great as possible, and somehow she knew that this was the right floor. His eyes filled with unbearable pain and she increased the intensity by drawing the phone just out of reach. His arms were folded over his chest as if trying to keep his heart from leaping from it. His skinny legs were pulled to his chest in a fetal position. His head was thrown back, his thinning hair drenched with sweat and plastered to his balding pate. His lips formed a grimace, teeth yellowed from years of drinking coffee clenched tightly together. Yet, his eyes were the worst (or the best?) She could see panic in those pale green eyes. He knew he would die on the living room floor. He knew he would die in pain, no help forthcoming. She knew that he’d die in pain. They knew it too. Thank you. Her chorus was back. Lori looked at the picture and inhaled his suffering. She wasn’t shaking any longer. She wasn’t scared. She knew that he was dying and it was an exhilarating sensation. She knew that he’d never hurt another little girl. He’d just lie there in agony, prolonged by Lori’s art. How ironic. I’ll bet he never knew that teaching me art was going to kill him. Lori laughed again. She was energized. Dissonance crept into Lori, suddenly. How could she feel so good about this? She tried to will self loathing into her being. It wouldn't come. She stared at the page. She directed suffering into every pencil stroke. The picture version of her monster writhed as if a sword had run through him. Lori felt sure it was her imagination playing tricks on her, but she was sure she saw him move. She heard him gasp and wheeze. She laughed again. She cried with laughter. Then she cried for herself and the other girls. The girls sensing her remorse began their refrain. Thank you. Thank you. Draw. Yes. Right. Thank you. Thank you. The sun cowered beneath the horizon and darkness filled the sky. The moon directed its pale illumination through the cloud littered sky with little success. Before too long, it gave up its quest and retired for the night. The blackness filled Lori’s studio. Then, the girls began again. Lori had gotten through the last bit of hysteria and was gazing into the darkness. She couldn't see her demon anymore but she knew he was gone. So did her companions. Now. Draw the last one. It’s over. We can go. Draw. Please. Lori flicked the switch on the black desk lamp that sat before her. The picture blazed to life, but life was gone from it. His eyes were open and blank. No more suffering; no more adrenaline rush. No more tears. Lori mechanically drew a coffin. It was the stereotype of the plain pine box. There were no adornments or plush lining to make his afterlife more comfortable. It was a perfect end for the monster. Lori felt the oppression vanish from her mind. She envisioned him in the box. She knew that’s where was going. She’d never been more confident of anything. He was in Lynwood, Washington now. Lori wasn’t at all sure how she knew that, but she did. He’d run from his last school posting in Vancouver to escape the murmurs that had begun to follow him. His last victim (the one who winked) had told her mother the secret he’d threatened to kill Lori over, all those years ago. She’d been brave, braver than Lori ever was. Thank you. It was like they were reading her mind. You’ve stopped him. You’ve rescued us. We’ll go. Thank you. The icy coldness that had gripped her and held heart, even through the hysterics, vanished. So did the urge to laugh, cry, or revel in her abuser’s suffering. It was cleansed from her as if it had never existed. She walked out, breathed the night air, and laid herself down on the grass. The sky was dark and no bit of light filtered thorough. It was fitting. A dark night deserved a dark deed. Lori felt better than she ever remembered feeling. Should I feel this good? She mused over what she had done. Oh, God. Did I really do it? Well, as far as anyone was concerned, all she’d done was draw pictures. Pictures fit for night terrors. Any likeness to anyone living or dead was pure coincidence, right? The air was heavy and humid. She envisioned his obituary. She thought to herself, he died alone. But, her girls were free and so was she. What had she done? Probably the best thing she’d ever accomplished. Once the dark night passed, she could live.