Blank Canvas, Shaking Hands

I was just staring at the blank canvas in front of me.

I didn’t know what to do—or what to express.

It was the same as yesterday—blank, black, just the canvas itself and the endless thoughts of what-ifs.

I still remember, I used to finish a painting in just one sitting.

In one sitting, my hand would move in sync with the beating of my heart.

But who even cares if I can paint today? No one.

The world is busy with its own problems—like they’d bother adding mine to the list.

Who am I, anyway, to be worth anyone’s time?

Maybe a little dot on this canvas won’t hurt, right?

But does that even matter? Would it really change anything?

Who even is Zoraya Pascual anymore?

A painter? Or a failure?

Just a girl staring at a canvas that refuses to speak?

My heart hurts—for a passion that once found me, but is now lost.

My eyes sting from staring all night, searching for courage, for meaning.

Morning is almost here, and all I’ve done is stare into nothing.

My hands could not reflect what my heart shouts.

I can still smell the dried and old paints surrounding the room.

They once gave me comfort and solace.

But now, they’re just that to me—a scent.

It’s like they’re calling me to touch them again.

But my brain refuses their call.

I just can’t think of anything that could motivate me to even lift a finger and touch the brushes.

It’s been just one week, and even now the bruises on my hands haven’t healed.

If I didn’t have them, maybe I could paint everything.

But what good would it do if I had no bruises, yet still couldn’t think of anything to paint?

Even just replicating what I see in my room doesn’t sit well with me.

My brain keeps saying the bruises I have are already enough to be called art.

Just what the hell am I thinking?

These bruises are telling me I wasn’t born to be a painter, but to be a canvas everyone else gets to touch.

I let my eyes wander across my room.

Full of color and painting materials.

I laughed at myself.

What happened?

How did I get to this point?

It’s like I no longer own this room.

I was pulled back to reality by a knock at my door.

I know it’s my uncle, my mother’s brother.

“Come out already, Aya, and cook breakfast.”

Even though I didn’t respond, I know he knows I’ll come out.

It’s become a ritual.

A silent agreement.

This is our daily routine.

No one else would call for me anyway, there’s only three of us in this house: me, my uncle, and his wife.

I can already hear his voice, clear and commanding, even before I open the door.

This is the everyday cycle I always wish would end.

Not because I don’t want to help, but because something about this house feels wrong.

It’s not just cold, it haunts me.

I try to ignore the sick feeling crawling up my throat, but it’s always there, lurking.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve heard his voice or how many times I’ve swallowed my anger...it’s always there.

Like the bruises I can’t hide.

Like the paint that refuses to be touched.

I stand there for a moment, frozen, trying to collect my thoughts.

I should move.

I have no choice.

I know he won’t wait forever.

The door knocks again, louder this time, and I take a deep breath before standing up from my desk.

I open the door, but I can’t meet his gaze.

I never can.

My eyes are trained to look away—to stay small, to stay unnoticed.

“Come out now. Cook. I’ve got some work lined up for you later,” he says again, his voice rough with impatience.

I step out silently, eyes fixed on the floor.

Forcing myself to walk without shaking.

But I stopped when I remembered—there’s no rice.

We don’t have any rice to cook today.

I tried to stay strong and looked at him—eye to eye.

“Uncle, we’re out of rice. I don’t have anything to cook.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, but his tone was sharp.

It wasn’t concern.

It was a challenge—like he was daring me to say something wrong.

I couldn’t answer right away.

The words stuck in my throat.

“Well, why are you just standing there? Go out and buy some rice—I’m hungry.”

“Uh… with what money?”

“Use your own money, of course! Are you stupid again, asking me for money?

You already live in our house, and now you want us to feed you too?

Wow, aren’t you lucky?”

he said, with a wide grin on his lips and his hands on his waist.

I had no choice but to go back to my room and get the little money I had left.

Only three hundred pesos.

Even though I didn’t want to touch it, I didn’t want to risk another scolding if we had nothing to eat today.

Against my will, I stepped out of the house, holding my last bit of money.

It’s different outside compared to inside.

But no matter how big the difference is, it doesn’t change the fact that I feel trapped inside—and that I may never get out.

Outside, there’s sunlight.

There’s air.

There are people I don’t have to avoid.

But still, there’s a part of me that’s always scared, always rushing, always afraid I’ll get scolded again, even when I’ve done nothing wrong.

I walked quietly.

I ignored the noise around me—the tricycle horns, the laughter of kids at the corner.

I arrived at the store.

No line. Thank goodness.

“Rice, three kilos,” I whispered.

Ate Sally, the store owner, looked at me and paused.

Her eyes froze on my hands.

I didn’t know if it was because of the bruises or because I was trembling as I handed her the money.

But she didn’t ask.

She quietly got the rice and handed it to me.

“Take care, okay?” she said softly, handing me the change.

I only nodded and quickly turned away.

I don’t want questions.

I don’t want stares.

I don’t want anything that might open the door to what I’ve been desperately holding in.

As I walked home, the rice seemed heavier in my arms.

Not because of the weight, but because I knew that once I opened the door, I’d be back inside the cage.

No harsh words. No shouting.

But the fear is always there.

Always.

As I held the doorknob, I froze for a second.

Do I even want to go inside?

Do I even have a choice?

But even in my hesitation, I still opened the door, walked in quietly, and closed it behind me.

I couldn’t tell what I was supposed to feel.

It’s always the same.

And somehow, that’s the scariest part.

sairenithy (Irah Santos)