I sit at the dining table, and the warm spring sun falls on an empty sheet of paper. I draw almost every day now. And no matter what I start to draw, I see myself in the end.

The day before yesterday, I was a tennis ball. A green one, with light lines wrapping around my body. Such balls are usually picked up by men in snow-white shorts. Those with strong hands and stressful jobs. They grab the ball, lift the racket, and swing it against the wall. Just to have fun and relax. “Stupid ball!” they shout if it does not fly straight back into their hands afterward. And then they hit it against the wall even harder.

Yesterday was better. I was a fish. Lying on his favorite plate, seasoned with rosemary and lemon juice. Everything as he likes. When he saw me, he even smiled. “You look so good dead,” that smile seemed to say.

Today, I sit at the dining table and cannot start drawing. It seems that if I touch the sheet now – I will not be able to stop. And everything that I have been so tired of holding back will spill over with dark colors. I am afraid of that. What if it spills over me, and I can no longer wash my white clothes and pretend that the darkness does not exist inside me? How can I go out in these clothes among people then?

So I sit and look at the white paper. I cannot help but draw either. Because then he will come home, and find me as a white sheet. He will draw me into the shape he wants. He could make me anything. And then throw away all my paints.

So I place the first dot on the paper. A few movements – and it turns into a beast’s head. A few more movements – and the first outlines of the body, the lines of the back and paws appear. I draw the beast’s nose and mouth, and now its eyes are looking at me. I look into them, mesmerized. I see cliffs and mountains, dense forests, and untamed peaks in them. I see misty lakes and deep mountain rivers, filled with rainbow fish. I meet in these eyes noble deer, cautious wolves, and cunning fire foxes.

I look and look, and touch the sheet again. But somehow, I feel that it is no longer me drawing the beast, but now the beast is drawing me. And my body begins to be covered with thick brown fur. My arms grow into strong paws, sharp claws sprout from my fingers. With every new line drawn, my bones become wider, and more flesh and fat grow on them. I feel the earth pulling me more strongly. Then my face stretches out and transforms into a bear’s one.

When I put the final stroke, I rise from the table and stand on my hind legs in the kitchen flooded with the setting sun. Then I throw my head back and roar like a bear, long and loud. My roar interweaves with the song of birds, the hum of cars, and the laughter of children under the windows. My roar becomes a part of this place and time, and I finally become a part of this world, this moment. Neighbors knock on the radiators, but it doesn’t scare me somehow. On the contrary – I like it. It means they noticed that I exist. It means that I exist and that I am marking my boundaries. Then as they knock, they indicate where my boundary meets theirs. Neither their aggression nor mine is scary anymore. It becomes just a natural signal.

Then I go down on all fours and slowly walk into the bedroom. I open the wardrobe and take out suitcases and clothes. I try to gather them. It’s hard. Hard to be a wild beast in the city. Apartments are too small, movements – too clumsy, and strong claws are not meant for folding delicate blouses. I know – it’s not enough to wear new skin. You also need to learn to live in it. And to hide it in the wardrobe, when necessary. I will need time to learn this.

When all the suitcases are packed, I sit again at the dining table in the kitchen. When the front door opens, I sit and look at my drawing as if in a mirror. Then with slow, heavy movements, I approach the door. He is taking off his coat. We stand and look at each other – a tall dark-haired man with a black coat in his hands and a large brown bear with sharp claws. But he does not know this. He sees only a slender blonde woman, who seems like she could break under the weight of his gaze.

“You can end your life if you want. It’s only your responsibility,” a roar escapes from my maw. “But I choose to be responsible for my own life. That’s why I’m leaving you.”

He looks at me as if trying to quickly come up with a new manipulation to make me stay. His pupils dilate, eyebrows rise, and hands clench into fists.

“How dare you say that to me?!” he shouts.

I look into his dark brown eyes. Once, I believed I saw love in them.

“I left the key on the dining table,” I say.

– Alina Kuvaldina