The story so far...

Prologue

Cascades of molten gold pierce through my curtains and lazily drip upon my eyelids causing me to stir. I languidly raise my left eyelid and stare at the cracks in my aged ceiling. A single sigh escapes me as I heave my reluctant body into an upright position. My right eye is remaining obstinately closed, and so, through my monocular perspective I venture forth to forage and hope I remembered to buy groceries this week. Alas I did not.
My sleep addled brain decides to improvise a meal from what I can find laying around. Mistake.
Ten minutes later I throw the unholy concoction in the trash and head down to the local purveyor of pre-prepared, no fuss, almost edible, goods, all the while praying that my aborted attempt at Breakfast hasn't escaped the confines of the bin to devour the neighbours’ pets.
As I sit and consume the bland morsels, purported as actual sustenance, I watch the eclectic array of people that saunter in and out of the establishment and smile to myself. I try to imagine the circumstances that led them to this point in their life.
Caught in reverie I do not notice one of the objects of study approaching me.
Words drift across to me out of the aether and so I turn to ascertain if they are directed at my person. Shock, horror and small amount of Chanel No. 5 wash over me as I take in the terrifying vision that stands before me. The sharp blue eyes that stare out at the world beneath perfectly curled lashes and artfully tussled brown hair, the hot pink lips that would fly off her face if she pursed them together any further. She stands at 5'5"; 6 of those inches are all heel. Her dress is a swirling mess of Lime Green and Burnt Orange with a delightful Pink purse tying the ensemble together.

"Are you listening to me??"

The words ooze from her mouth in a syrupy whine that would give even the healthiest of specimens Diabetes

"Huh?" is all I can manage as I scramble all my cognitive energies into devising a means of escape.

"I said, are you listening to me?" More treacle.

"Sure, what can I do for you Miss Kileny?" With no sign of escape I resign myself to my predicament and engage battle with the beast.

"That's Ms Kileny, and what you can 'Do for me' is what you promised when I paid you four months ago. Give me my Paintings."

My eyes move to meet hers and a small grin touches my lips.

"You can't rush Art Ms Kileny."

At this Kileny's brow furrows, her lips, defying possibility, purse tighter and all traces of treacle evaporate from her voice, leaving behind acid.

"At $1700 a canvas you better bloody well make an exception!"

Having made her point, and caused a suitable scene, Kileny huff's loudly, adjusts her hair and pirouettes on one heel to storm out of the premises.
I sigh as I slump back into my chair, the sketches of a new painting forming in my mind.
A banshee poised upon a lime green dragon with burnt orange wings.

********

Sitting in my car, massaging my temples, I look down at the fist-full of pills I'm about to take: 2 for anxiety, 3 for blood pressure, 1 for depression and 4 pain killers to take the edge of the headache that’s jackhammering my brain.
This is what working with people like him has reduced me to. I need drugs just to stay functional.
I chuck the pharmacy into my mouth and swallow them dry.

"'You can't rush Art.' Who the hell does he think he is?! Van, freakin', Gough! Arrgh!"

 The horn gives a short burst as I punch the steering wheel. The lady in the car next to me gives me an odd look; I smile politely and accelerate heavily as the lights go green.

"I need to get out of this job."

When I started I thought all my stars had aligned. I would be working with the crème de la crème of the modern art world. How deluded I was. Mr 'Can't rush Art' is only the capping stone of the pyramid of crap I've endured whilst 'Living the dream'. Maybe I could go back to Uni and become an accountant; I bet they never have to deal with 'artists' and their petty needs or fragile egos. Ah, who am I kidding, I barely made it through Uni the first time, and that was when all the students were the same age as me. No, it's time to suck it up princess. You've got to start playing hard ball with these gadabout ingrates.

‘Artists need clear and precise boundaries in which to operate their particular brand of chaos, give them free reign of their time and they fall apart, unsure of what to do with themselves.’

That was the advice the previous curator passed on to me when I took the job. I should have given it more credence. No time like the present I guess. I boot up the Bluetooth and hit speed dial.

"Calling Greyden Zitzloff" tones the electronic voice.

*********************

A feeling of calm pervades the air as I sit transfixed by the simplistic beauty of the neon spirals of green and white rippling across the surface of the freshly opened paint that I am stirring. I let it envelope my senses and drift outwards to the point of my mind where inspiration resides. I reach out to grab hold of it.
♪(phone rings)♪
Inspiration slips from my fingertips as the calm evaporates in a burst of shrill electronic noise.
♪(phone rings again)♪
Carefully placing the stirring rod on the drop sheet, I pick myself up and head inside to see who's responsible for this unwanted disturbance
♪(phone rings again)♪
A perturbed groan escapes my lips as I see the name displayed on the caller ID. I hope what she wants is important enough to warrant the interruption, if it's going to be inane chatter on matters that really don't deserve my attention I'd rather not answer.
♪(phone rings again)♪
Then again if I don't take the call now the next time will be considerably worse.
With a resigned sigh I pick up the receiver.
"Hi mum. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?" I chuck the phone on speaker so at least my ears don't have to face the onslaught directly.

"Is that sarcasm I hear in your voice? Do not deign to speak to 'me' with such disrespect, you may get away with it with your father, but I will have none of it."

A rapid-fire tirade of pomp and self-importance. That's my mother in a nut shell.

"Sorry mum, no disrespect meant. Was just wondering why you called is all?" That’s the way, show her you've got a spine... that's always bent.

"That's better." I hear the steal leave her voice as it's replaced with honey.

Oh no...

"I ran into Clarice Jenson today, you remember Clarice, she used to attend my Tennis Club luncheons?"

"I was 5, how.." Is all I get out before the cut-off queen shows why she was crowned.

"Don't be silly of course you do. Well her daughter; what was her name again? Mandy, Maddy, Molly... something starting with M, she has just recently gotten Divorced, and apparently is not taking it well, poor dear."

"What does this have to do with me?"

My temples start to pulsate. The devious old bat is at it again.

"Well Clarice and I were talking, and it came up that you were still single, and we thought that the two of you might be good for one another. You could help her get over the Divorce and she could help you become a human being again. Maybe even dig you out of that hovel you have sequestered yourself away in. The arrangements have already been made; you are to be at La Parisian by 7pm tonight. Have a shower, shave that growth of your face and wear a suit."

I watch tiny little dust particles dance along beams of light filtering through my blinds and envy them their freedom.

 

 

No rest for the weary

I wake in a cold sweat, pulse racing, mouth dry, and the all-encompassing darkness shaking my already brittle nerves. I barely make it to the bathroom in time.

Having violently expelled the contents of my stomach and anything else the other organs decided pitch in. I wash my face and stare at the haggard features looking back at me in the mirror.

"What happened to you?"

The other me doesn't reply.

"Hey, are you alright Chrissi?" Damn, I must have woken Shelly with my 'vocal exercises'.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just eaten something that didn't agree with me. Sorry for waking you." I swing a sheepish grin in her direction hoping she doesn't see through me.

"Ok. Well, next time, be a bit more careful with selecting your food 'K roomie. You may not need beauty sleep but I sure do."  With that chastisement, and a sleepy smile, she heads back to her room.

I thought being more pro-active at work was going stop this crap from happening. Things have been going well at the gallery since I placed down some ground rules, I even got 'Can't rush art' to cough up a few canvases. Why do I still feel like I'm teetering on the brink of collapse? I must be further down the rabbit hole than I guessed. Looking over at the overwhelming stack of prescription drugs sitting on the kitchen counter all I can do is laugh. You'd think for $250 an hour I might be getting some insight into my messed up psyche, instead, all I get are more pills and incomprehensible parables that would make a Buddhist shake his head in dismay.

My feet are numb. That's odd. Crap, how long have I been standing in the bathroom? Hitting the lights, I stumble back to my bedroom and snuggle into my blankets. Praying that tonight I might get at least 4 hours of sleep.

**********************

My eyes meander about the room, taking in the kitsch art, the shabby chic furniture and the copious amounts of Bric-à-brac. I shudder, barely able to contain my disgust.
Mother always did have a talent for inducing nausea, now she's taking that talent into interior design.
Speak of the devil and she shall appear.
"How do you like what I've done with the place? It is wonderful; would you agree? Oh, of course you would, you are an 'artist' so you appreciate good taste. You must have got that from me, your father would not know good taste if it smacked him in the face." She shoots a terse look in my Dad's direction. He just smiles and nods, poor dad, I give him a look of condolence and shared pain. Mother, oblivious to this silent exchange, prattles on.
"Now, what is this I hear about you leaving poor Melody Jenson waiting at the restaurant for an hour and a half before finally showing up? Covered in paint no less. Has not the poor dear suffered enough?"
I give a nonchalant shrug
"I got caught up with a painting. I have to paint when the inspiration hits or it vanishes, like so many feathers in the wind, and is impossible to gather back."
"Stephen James Millicent Holsworth. I thought I taught you manners, but, the teacher cannot be blamed if the student is a dunce."
Mother looks at dad with exasperation, as if to say 'What did I do to deserve a son like this.' and storms out, probably to inflict her wrath on one of the house keepers.
Dad pushes his considerable bulk out his favourite chair and saunters towards me.
"She means well, she really does. Besides, would it really kill you to have contact with other people once in a while? God forbid, maybe even a social life?" "Don't give me that look son, we worry is all."
His giant hands clasp around my shoulders, and a concerned smile graces his face. After a few seconds, feeling he's gotten his point across, he releases his bear grip and saunters off to find my mother.

*

I sit in my car and watch the rain gently slither down my windscreen.

No point getting out now, it'll just ruin the 3 new paintings I'm here to deliver.

With time to kill, I decide I should catch up on some of the sleep I skipped last night finishing off the commissions, so I close my eyes and let the soft drumming sounds encompass my entire world. I feel my mind settle just at the edge of consciousness, teetering on the tipping point of sleep, comforting warmth starts to flood through my body and I give myself over to the sensation...

Three sharp raps on my window startle me back to wakefulness. My blurry vision registers a disorienting swirl of Plum and Olive staring in at me through the offending window. I shake my head to try and clear the cobwebs from my brain and take a second look at the odd, yet colourful, disturbance to my slumber. Cold shivers run down my spine as recognition slaps me in the face. I scramble to tidy myself up, and do a quick wipe of my mouth to make sure I didn't drool during my nap, then step out of the vehicle.

"Hi, Ms. Kileny, sorry, I didn't get much sleep last night and I was waiting for the rain to ease up before dropping off the last of your commissions."

"That's all well and good Mr. Holsworth, but sleeping is best done at home in ones’ bed. Kindly refrain from using our parking lot as a personal camp site in future."

"No problem." I flash my most charming smile in her direction. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Now let’s get those paintings inside before the rain returns shall we." The sugary warmth in her voice belies the cold distance in her eyes.

"Sure thing."

***********

I don't know which is worse: Putting on a brave face so that no one sees the cracks threatening to become chasms, or letting everyone see that sanity checked out months ago and the new tenant has trashed the joint.

As I help Holsworth hang the final painting, I step back and envy his ability to disconnect from reality. The man lives only to paint, he doesn't even see the world let alone live with its' pressures and demands. All he needs to know is that there is paint and a blank canvas waiting to become something beautiful and he's content. I hate him for it, irrational; yes, unjust; certainly but I hate him never the less. I want to scream at him to wake up and see the real life, I want him to feel like crap, I want him to feel like I do, so I wouldn't be so alone...

*********

As I help Ms. Kileny hang my final piece up on the gallery wall I feel a sense of joy tainted with sorrow, a conflict all artists must face, you spend so many months formulating the ideas, then hours, upon hours realising the work and when at last the task is done you step back and you see that you have given birth to a unique and beautiful life, the child of your mind. How can you ask a man to part with his child? Yet, if he does not the child will die for it requires new minds and new eyes to sustain it, to continue to give it life and purpose. Thus, Joy and sorrow are the artists’ constant companions.

My reverie is interrupted by a sudden cry behind me; I turn to see Ms. Kileny collapse onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and designer shoes.

**********

My eyes split open and searing light floods into them shooting hot pain all the way to the back of my skull. I have no idea where I am, but, wherever it is, there's a strange smell of antiseptic mixed with paint fumes and a slight musk. I make an attempt to sit up and notice that I've been restrained somehow. I start to panic, my mind races to all sorts of strange and horrific scenarios. Have I fallen victim to some psychopath's deranged plans? Am I about to be raped? Panic overwhelms me and I thrash about trying to release myself from my bonds, then I feel a sharp prick and the world fades to black once more.

**********

I sit in the chair the nurse provided for me, trying to get comfortable, and wonder why I'm still here. I have no personal connection to her and until she was admitted to hospital I hadn't even known her first name. So why am I still here? Maybe it has something to do with seeing her crumpled on the gallery floor looking so vulnerable or maybe it's to do with the words she mumbled as they loaded her into the ambulance: 'No one cares. So alone..." This was made evident by the absence of any visitors aside from himself. I just can't bear to think of her waking in the hospital with nobody here to be happy she's still alive. I shift around in the chair again trying to find the comfy spot, frustrated and tired, I give up and walk over to sit on Christine's hospital bed. Looking down at her unconscious form, I note that even now she doesn't seem relaxed or at peace, her usually precisely tousled hair is a flat mess, her brow is furrowed with worry lines, there are large dark circles under both eyes and her body was so tense it looked as if it was ready to spring of the bed at the slightest provocation. Pity swells inside me and I reach out to brush away some stray hairs that have fallen across her face, as I do, her eyes open the tiniest of slivers and a small groan escapes her lips. I find myself running to fetch one of the Doctors.

"Um... Sorry to bother you. Wasn't sure what to do, but I thought you should know Christine is waking up."

The Doctor grabs a clipboard and checks its' details "O.K. I'll be with you in a sec."

I head back to Christine's room and as I get closer I can see something is not right. She's shaking violently and then she starts to thrash about on the bed. Several nurses rush past me into her room, 2 of them grab her and hold her down whilst the 3rd nurse gives her some sort of injection. After a few seconds Christine's back stops arching and just collapses back onto the bed her head lolling to the side. I run into the room.

"What was that all about? Is she O.K?"

"She'll be fine Mr. Holsworth. We just gave her a mild sedative to calm her down and stop her from injuring herself."

A cold blast of anxiety fires through my brain and down my nervous system.

"O.K., but what caused her to react so violently and, whilst you're at it, why'd she collapse in the first place?"

I waited, and hoped for some straight answers. I was disappointed.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you're not family, so I'm afraid I can't give you any details."

I head back to my vigil seat and crash down in it, defeated and exhausted.

The worry must have been writ in bold type across my forehead, for the Doctor sighs, takes a few quick glances to check for colleagues, and pulls me into the visitors lounge.

"Look, you seem like a nice guy, and I don't see anyone else turning up for this poor lass. This isn't the first time Ms. Kileny has had to spend the night, over the last 2 years she has been a monthly guest of the emergency ward, although, this is the first time that she hasn't checked herself in. You see the first time she came to us she was messed up, rambling incoherently, she looked like she'd taken one hell of a beating, but when we calmed her down enough to ask what had happened she just said she'd fallen down the stairs."

At this my stomach does a double somersault.

"She was barely conscious and bleeding profusely, so we gave her a sedative to knock her out and, upon thorough examination, discovered evidence of what might be rape. When she came to we queried her on what had happened but she stubbornly held to the stairs story so we couldn't peruse any further. We discharged her once she'd healed sufficiently, but within 2 weeks she was back again, a full repeat performance of the first admission, but, the odd thing was, she looked perfectly healthy, no signs of physical trauma what so ever. We admitted her anyway and concluded that it must be some form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I referred her to one of our on staff psychologists and hoped for the best. But, once a month, like clockwork, she comes through those doors in full hysterics and we admit her, give her some sedatives and when she comes to we send her on her way. The psychologist informs me she sporadically attends their scheduled sessions and, when she is there, complains that all he does is feed her pills to stuff his pockets."

The Doctor heaves his shoulders forward, as if to dislodge a burden that has been weighing him down and sighs loudly.

My mind reels with all the new and disturbing information that it has just absorbed. As the Doctor turns to exit the room I grab his arm.

"Why has her family not been there for her?"

The Doctor turns his sad face towards me, but never makes eye contact.

"For all intents and purposes, Mr. Holsworth, she has no family. What family we could find want nothing to do with her."

*

I sit in my vigil chair, feelings of pity, anger, and fear swirl inside me fighting for prominence.

 

Awakenings

A playful breeze stirs the loose tendrils of my unkempt hair, an odd juxtaposition to my current melancholia. I came outside to clear my head and escape my new guardian, but, all I'd managed to achieve was a slight chill and a runny nose.

"Ha-ha."

Don't know why I just laughed.

As a kid I loved autumn, all the leaves changing into beautiful colours and then raining down in cascades of auburn and russet. I used to run around crunching all the leaves I could find, picking them up and letting them shower down all over me. Now, the vibrancy has drained from autumn for me, all I see are dying or dead leaves, cold trees stripped of their coats and abandoned by their tenants. When did the world become such a cruel place...? When did I become such a cynic?

A man’s face flashes into my mind, a snarl echoes in my ears, the smell of fresh cut grass lingers in my nostrils and I feel unchecked tears start to stream down my cheeks. I collapse into my knees and feel the grief and rage wash over me.

"Why me...? What did I do to you, you son of a bitch?!"

I feel a hand clasp my shoulder and I instinctively push it away and run.

********

"Christine wait..."
I call out, but she just keeps running, so I take off after her. In her state she's liable to run out in front of a car or something and I couldn't handle that on my conscience.
"Christine, wait! It's Stephen, I'm not going to harm you, please stop before you hurt yourself."
Too late, as the words leave my mouth I see her ankle buckle and she crashes down hard onto the pavement.
"Damn it."
I squat down to where she's huddled on the ground, scoop her into my arms and head back towards the hospital.

******

A warm copper taste explodes into my mouth as I slam into the concrete. Then I'm weightless and I feel a warm secure sensation envelope me before I slip down into darkness.

******

I've never had stitches in my mouth before, feels like I have a guitar in there and my tongue is the plectrum. Apparently when I had my little tumble yesterday I bit through my cheek. Just another thing to add to the list of stupidity that is my life.

"You know you talk in your sleep?"

I turn my head languidly towards Stephen.

"Yeah. Did I say anything interesting?"

Stephen fidgets in his seat

"Gibberish mostly... Who's Henry?"

I must of looked annoyed 'cause Stephen shrugged and sighed:

"Never mind."

I roll my head back onto the pillow and close my eyes.

"He was my father."

"He 'was' your father? Is he dead?"

"No."

"O.k....?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Why can't this guy take a hint? I didn't ask him to stay; I don't even know him outside of work. Why do the doctors let him stay here? Do they think I'm here all the time 'cause I'm lonely? Do they think my life is that pathetic?

"I've never felt a need to connect with another human being. My parents tried. Mum still tries to set me up with girls. I had my art, that’s all I ever needed. Must be hard on them... Why do I feel so connected to you?"

He's just sitting there looking at me. I don't know what he expects me to say. I want to tell him to get lost and leave me alone, but for some reason I don't.

"You hungry?"

My stomach grumbles my reply for me. I hear him chuckle.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'."

I hear him stand up, open the privacy curtain and head off in the direction of the cafeteria.