The creator

         I was a painter once, although I can’t quite remember when it started. I know quite vividly when it stopped, for the scars still have yet to heal. I suppose that they won’t, seeing as they are scars, and not just minor abrasions. But my life hasn’t been separated, as most people in my position seem to say quite often. There aren’t “pre-trauma” and “post-trauma” parts of my life, or of my past. All that I can seem to put into order is when my ability to make art became recognized, when it became famous, and when it disappeared.
         My hands shake now. They didn’t use to shake, even after the accident. They were steady, or as steady as they had ever been, and until recently, they were the only solid ground that I had. As long as my hands work, I would tell myself, maybe I still have hope. What does it matter that I can’t string together a coherent sentence, or that my sense of smell sporadically vanishes? After all, I never really thought about my art while I was making it. I would sit down in front of an easel, decide upon a topic, and let my hands do the rest. The colors truly came alive on the canvas, and how can I claim to be responsible for controlling a living force? Perhaps with my hands in working order, the painting could come back to me.
         I’m not allowed to drive anymore, and I understand with that decision. I even agree with it, most of the time. The other day I read about a woman who was driving herself to her ninetieth birthday party when she drove straight into a pond. She told the police officers on the scene that she thought it was a parking lot, and if that can happen to her, I’m sure it could happen to me. Besides, even if I was in my right mind, it doesn’t seem quite right to allow a man full access to the roads of his hometown just weeks after he blindsided a minivan. There are three people still in the hospital because of me, and I suppose that I feel a little better knowing that I won’t ever have to hold that sort of responsibility ever again. Still, the paints that I like to have aren’t sold at the local stores, and I don’t think it’s fair that I should suffer like this for a single mistake. I guess that’s what they mean when they say that we all have our burdens to bear.
         I miss my painting, now that I’ve had some time to think about it. I really do. It was always more than a job for me, even when the larger paychecks started coming in. That’s what I regret most about driving drunk, seeing as I’ve lost my license. Don’t get me wrong, the eight-year-old on life support sucks, but what I REALLY regret is the loss of art. Art is eternal, if you’re good enough at it. Life is never everlasting. So the girl dies, and it’s a shame, but the real tragedy is that I can great incredible masterpieces that would stand the test of time, if only I were still allowed on the open road.
         I had a system for making the best candy-apple red you’ve ever seen. I don’t like the term “candy-apple red,” because candy apples are covered in caramel and therefore aren’t red at all, they’re brownish. But I don’t really care for semantics, and if you saw my red, you wouldn’t care what it was called either. You take 15 parts of “red,” which typically looks a bit lighter once it’s on paper, and mix it with five parts “fire truck red,” add one part white paint, and then two parts “dandelion.” It looks just like a stop sign should, and if the one that I ran were as bright and vivid as the ones in my paintings, then maybe that mother would still have all of her kids in working order.
         I think I want to paint the scene of the crash, only instead of making the minivan full of children, I think I would replace it with a large truck, maybe even an eighteen wheeler. And the driver would be so high above the ground, he could have just walked away from the accident, and I would be the victim. If I can manage to do this, I think it would make up for the two kids that I paralyzed and for the one girl who would be legally brain dead in most other states. After all, what’s one human life, more or less, when I have the ability to build a world?