SUPPRESSED

As I finish the final touches on my next piece, the last few strokes seem endless. Every stroke adds to the story, and every color, to the scenery. Covered in colors, I’m not sure how long I’ve been cooped up in this studio. This is how it usually happens when a certain feeling sparks. I can’t seem to focus on anything else until I get the feelings out onto a canvas. Painting has become my safe space. No pressure, no noise, no people, just me and my hands as tools. My alarm rings, taking me out of my trance and I go to the fridge and scan the many vegan meal preps that I’ve made, grab one, and head to the balcony and take in the scenery. Thinking, “this is the only place that I can be a complete mess.” Everywhere else is spotless, clean, my closet is color coordinated, organized. Every item has its place.

Spain is always beautiful at night, perfect time to be creative. This piece feels different. These past few weeks have been nothing less than eventful. Art shows, painting exhibits, silent auctions; it still amazes me to watch people admire something I created, let alone, spending millions of dollars purchasing my creations. I attend these events, anonymously of course. Mostly, out of curiosity, and I don’t stay long. I don’t enjoy large crowds, the noise, or the many smells people bring along, social anxiety at its finest. It reminds me of my childhood, painting with my dad, going to museums and art galleries.

I was like any other foster kid, various foster homes, foster parents, running away every chance I got. Trouble seemed to always find me, even though I couldn’t remember doing certain things, saying certain things. People would always tell me to apologize or ask why I’d do this or that, I’d never have an answer because I’d never have any recollection of doing anything. So, I was always sent back and forth.

No one usually kept me, that’s until two people finally did. Finally adopted at age fifteen, by that time, I didn’t feel as connected to other people nor did I feel connected to my own body growing up. I’ve always known I was different. My new foster parents took notice, and I was thrown in therapy, been in therapy ever since. Therapy has been up and down for me, there’s memory gaps of my childhood that I haven’t figured out yet, and probably even more trauma that’s hiding. I started transitioning from female-to-male when I was eighteen. They didn’t love me any less. They were present for all appointments and surgeries that followed my decision. That’s really all I’ve gotten out of therapy so far.

Randall Armani was the artist, famous for his variety of artwork. Clayton Armani Sr., is a veterinarian, owns his own animal hospital. I guess that’s where my love for art and animals comes from. My fur baby sits at my feet, wanting to be fed too. He would eat everything in sight, if I let him. He’s an orange Maine coon, named Foxx. I adopted him as well; he’s basically the cat version of me. People always ask if I would want to know my biological parents, and I often shrug, because I’m thirty-five now, and I’m not sure if I want to know them. I’ve done amazing in life thus far, knowing wouldn’t change a thing. Besides, I’ve had their information since I was eighteen, my parents thought it would be a good idea to give it to me, had I ever wanted to know. Would knowing help the missing memories surface? My therapist thinks so. She’s been encouraging me to try hypnotherapy. So, here we are.

“Now, I want you to close your eyes and listen to my voice,” Rachelle says.

“We’ve been at this for a month, Is this all really necessary?” I roll my eyes, annoyingly.

“If you want this to work, you have to take it seriously, it may help you remember.” She tells me.

“Fine,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Now I want you to think about your childhood, what you see, what you hear, smell, anything that triggers a memory,” she says.

I do as she asks and say, “I only see flashes, there’s a room.”

“What else do you see?” she asks.

“I see a door, but it’s locked from the outside,” I said.

“What do you feel?” She asks.

“I feel like I need to run away or hide, someone is coming.” I say, getting anxious and scared.

“Who is this person, Clayton?”

I panic and shake my head and forth and say, “We need to get out of here, now.”

I close my eyes tighter and get a strange feeling and everything goes black.

“Clayton, can you hear me, are you ok”? she says

“You just had to go picking around, bringing up old memories?” I say, angrily, in a raspy voice.

“I’ve been protecting Clayton for a long time, since he was ten, since foster care, I’ve been doing a good job, until you”

Rachelle looks at me for a while, at my face, eyes, and says,

“What do you mean, you’ve been protecting him?”

I take the glasses off, put my hood on my head and pull the strings, covering my face, and say,

“I mean, any time something bad happens, his anxiety gets unbearable, I show up. All the things he’s scared to do, I get it done. He doesn’t know me yet.” I say, taking his glasses off, scanning the room.

“That’s better, I can’t see shit with those things, and I’m all the bad parts about him, all those bad memories, I take care of people whose hurt him, past and present”

She’s quiet for a second, and starts writing more in her notebook, looks up and asks, “do you have a name”?

“Kagee.” I answer.

I close my eyes again and roll my neck, another headache, open them, and calmy say, “What happened”?

Rachelle watches me and with a worried look says, “Clayton?”

I look around and back at her and say “Did I fall asleep? Did it work?”

She smiles and says, “We will talk about that in our next session.”

“Is everything ok, is there anything else we could try, I think I was getting somewhere.”

“No, that’s it for now, I’ll see you next week!” She says.

We both get up at the same time and she leads me to the door. I stop and put my glasses back on and walk out the office. I walk out to my car, before I could open the door, I hear, “Freeze, this is the FBI, don’t move!” I stop dead in my tracks, terrified at what’s going on. They grab me and push me up against the car, cuffing me and putting me in the back of the car.

In complete shock I say nothing the whole ride, my mind in a frenzy. We finally pull up to the police station and they take me straight to what seems to be an interrogation room. I sit there in silence for what seems like to be an eternity before someone comes in. A short stocky guy in a suit that doesn’t really fit him comes in and sits in front of me. He sits a bottled water in front of me.

“Thirsty?” he asks, I don’t say anything. “I’m FBI agent Lucas Weston, do you know why you’re here?”

Silence. He starts going on about an investigation, asking questions and I give him no answers. I stare at him as he gets increasingly frustrated and asks again,

“Where were you last night?” The FBI agent asked, scanning my face for lies, as I sit muted. I’ve been in this room for more than twelve hours.

“You’ve asked me the same question twenty different ways, and I have the same answer, home.”

“Do you know who this is? Look at it,” the FBI agent says, and slams down a photo of a man tied up and beaten, unrecognizable. I glance at it.

“I have no idea who that is, could be anyone, I just know I had nothing to do with it, I say.

“Your fingerprints are all over the place in there, we have your DNA, video footage shows you without the face mask.” The FBI agent said.

“Show me the footage,” I say

The FBI agent points to the tv, and presses play, it shows footage of a man running out of a popular club, gun, he takes off his mask and reveals someone with the exact same face as the man sitting across from him.

“That isn’t you?” The FBI agent says

I am appalled by what I see, it does look like me, exactly like me. I don’t make a sound, not moving a muscle. I’m left gazing at the screen.

I think, “It couldn’t be, I wasn’t there, I’ve been in Spain for the past six months. I guess it’s finally time to use the contact info I’ve been dreading since my eighteenth birthday.

“I want my lawyer,” I reply as another annoying headache creeps up again and everything goes black.

Krystian French is a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. Writing has been his passion for as long as he could remember. He is currently working on his first book and hoping to become a well-known published author in the future! Whether it’s a series, play, or movie, you will see his name soon!