The Gaps by Leanne Hall (classic literature list .TXT) 📕

I know the longer Yin’s gone, the more we should worry for her, but I’ve noticed that the pure fear of the first weeks has melted away. The more time that passes, the easier it becomes to forget.

If women hold up half the sky, then why are we so disposable?

DAY 53

I’ve lost count of how many hours I’ve stared at my photo. I have it clipped to the easel, set up near the window, where the light is strongest. It’s still a shock to see something I created blown up so big. Even the mere size of it makes it seem more like proper art.

Natalia sprawls on the mottled concrete, red feathers sprinkled around her body, looking like a littered petal or a lost princess, or a dreaming virgin or a bad girl getting what she deserves. All of these contradictory things that somehow get heaped on young women.

The print turned out shadowier than I expected, but the colours are everything I wanted, even though I’d originally wanted a subject with dark hair.

A bird walks across the corrugated tin roof overhead, its spindly feet amplified into sharp clangs. I pick up my brush.

After practising on countless throwaway photos, I’ve finally plucked up the courage to paint the real thing. I’ve coloured Natalia’s cheeks and given her exposed limbs the barest hint of pale blue. So far, no mistakes. I can’t afford to get another print, so whatever happens, I’m stuck with it.

My phone rattles on the card table but I ignore it. Natalia has already messaged me a billion times since the shoot, demanding to see updates.

My next step will be to create a rainbow aura around the ceiling and edges of the picture, as if something otherworldly might be at play.

I walk back to the reference pics I have taped to the shed walls, looking closely at my eighteenth-century geisha, the photo that gave me the idea to hand colour my image.

Underneath her heavy costume and makeup the girl is probably very young. I imagine letting her hair down, wiping her face, putting her in a Balmoral uniform instead.

Who arranged for this photo to be taken? Was it her family, or her employer, or a tourist? Did she want to pose, or was it for someone else? Does it make a difference?

I scrawl the words that come to me—someone’s watching—on a piece of paper and set it aside.

Even though I haven’t finished colouring my photograph yet, I can tell already that something is missing. The image is too similar to the Devil Creek billboard, too much like the crime novel covers. There’s not enough comment in the artwork yet, not enough of my opinions.

The air is stifling in here; a headache crouches at the edge of my vision.

Someone’s watching—who? The world, the newspapers, Doctor Calm, the police, TV viewers, book readers. And me.

It’s possible that the thing missing from my photo is me. Or someone like me—a teenage schoolgirl watching the scene. Watching the scene of her death, her falling, the depiction of her demise. Showing that we see it, but that’s not who we are. But I don’t know how to make that happen. I don’t have the time or money to take the photo again.

My phone vibrates.

I scoop it up, and my drink bottle too, and go outside.

The garden is another world. There are bees and butterflies buzzing about and I can smell the tomato plants. The gentle sun feels good on my face. I stretch my limbs, waking up my muscles.

It’s not a bad day, after all. Maybe spring is almost here. It’s been nice to be away from the rumours and the endless cycle of news and no-news.

I read my messages—Natalia has gotten huffy to the point where she’s asking for Dad’s address, saying she’ll come over, Liana wants Katie and I to watch her netball grand final on the weekend, Mum needs help resetting our modem.

I go in the back door, through the sunroom, past the laundry and into the kitchen, all three rooms looking like they were tacked onto the house as an afterthought and might fall off one day. Dad is at work and Jarrod is banging drums in the bush with a group of men, so I have the place to myself.

I try to picture Natalia inside my dad’s house, but it’s impossible.

It would look like a slum to her, to any of the Balmoral girls, probably, instead of a major life achievement.

I fill my bottle at the kitchen sink and then drink it almost in one continuous hit.

Nestled among the bills and recipes tacked onto the fridge is the invitation to our school art exhibition opening. It’s in the first week of term, after our artworks have been up for a few days, to give students time to vote on their favourite.

I’m terrified about Dad coming with me to Balmoral, what he’ll say and think about the groomed school grounds, the epic buildings, the august portraits on the wall. Even worse, I’m worried how he’ll act around Ms Nouri and the other parents, what random topics he’ll raise or, worst of all, what will happen if he decides to talk politics with them.

I can’t figure out if it’s going to be the worst or greatest night of my life.

I return to the garden, squint into the light. I need to add myself into the photo somehow. Maybe I should get Dad to take some photos of me in my Balmoral uniform, then print them out and make a collage, cutting and pasting to construct a frame.

More work, in short.

Because no one’s around, I allow myself a little growl that turns into a satisfying anguished groan. This project is taking over my life.

‘Who’s that?’ Mum asks, when my phone lights up.

‘Natalia. Again.’

‘You two seem to get along well.’

‘Hnnh,’ I say, even though she is sort of right. I read Natalia’s message and then stow my phone. ‘She’s desperate to see how