Fan Fiction ❯ Depth Perception ❯ Surfacing ( Chapter 2 )

Hello again, so here's another chapter! After the action packed opening I'm going to put some much needed character development into this one so be patient…(Ch3 will have a good twist in it, but you'll have to wait!) Please review also! (Opening quote from: The Problems of Philosophy by Bertrand Russell.)

 

Chapter 2: Surfacing.

 

“Is there any knowledge in the world that is so certain that no reasonable man could doubt it? This question, which at first sight might not seem difficult, is really one of the most difficult that can be asked.”

 

Resting upon the cold marble floor, I stare up towards the cold white ceiling, partially searching for some abstract form of inspiration. All is silent besides to running of water in the adjacent bath-tub. Tilting my head sideways I can even see the hair-line cracks and the grain of the turquoise paint that covers the opposite wall. I reach over to the bath and turn the brass tap on. Boiling water gurgles out of the opening and collides with the enamel pit of the tub; it begins to form an expanding pool, effervescent around the water line. Abruptly arising from the ground, I rub the steam away from the mirror with my paint spangled sleeve. The reflection that greets me never pleases, the sleepless nights have started to take their tool and the black arcs beneath my eyes descend daily. I now wonder is it worth slaving over my passion, art, or would it be worthwhile working a 9 to 5 job to move out of this dank studio apartment, seemingly a replica of the residence of all the creative people I've known, who are ironically the most deserving.

 

The bath is drawn. I step in, cringing at the intense heat of the water and eventually lower my head below the surface, the only place where I can ever seem to find some solitude. All thoughts slowly begin to depart drifting into the very matter of the bath. For several moments I stay in this womb like state and wonder if it would be easier to just remain like this, permanently. The lack of oxygen slowly contracts my lungs and I ultimately arise from my sanctum to continue on. I pull the plug and peer at the soapy water spiralling down the drain, it soon wanes away.

 

My first exhibition is now growing closer by the day, some would call it unimportant or bullshit, as it is located in a practically disused theatre, down-town, but being a perfectionist everything is of infinite importance to me. I approach the paint spangled canvas, wearing a look of disgust on my face. The picture being so incomplete and mismatched it reminds me of an old patchwork quilt or even worse yet a piece of my juvenilia. The concept work showed some promise but the lines of contrast are now blurred and distorted, as if to remark on my current state of mind.

 

The starts phone rings incessantly, unanswered, disturbing my already floundering work. Who could I possibly want to converse with considering the current selection of halfwits and miscreants in possession of my phone number; who consider me a twisted recluse, “anti-social”. I soon disconnect the still ringing phone, snapping the plastic connector with a violent thrust. After stepping back to re-evaluate the situation, things finally start to take their toll. “Fuck it” I bellow for no apparent reason, maybe to try to vent the feelings of near perpetual frustration. This seems to be a constant in my life now.

 

I pick up the white paint and coat the canvas immediately, to start anew…

 

…A new day has dawned and I am now proceeding down a dank alleyway in my formalwear. Looking fairly out of place in comparison to the homeless people, sporadically dotted along the backdoors of shops and restaurants. I urgently drag on my cigarette, inhaling deeply to experience the profound burning sensation in my lungs, soon afterwards venting the smoke through my nose, while watching it rise. My pace quickens. The rhythm of my increasingly hasty footsteps starts to echo along the lane, gyrating atop the tall grey buildings. After what seems like an eternity I locate the entrance to the gallery, gallery for a day at least.

 

Besides the decaying rafters of the ridiculously high ornate ceiling, the plasterboard, adjourned with my selection of abstract work and still-life paintings looks, surprisingly enough, rather impressive; although no one has yet arrived. Without any significant thought or reflection on the situation I immediately pounce for the cheap wine I had purchased for the event, gulping it back to satisfy my desperate longing to depart into the world of inebriation, my only comfort. As the effects of the alcohol set in I wonder if an opening at 5pm was too early, not too early drink anyway.

 

My first customers, being a kind way of describing them, are tourists, who seemed to have taken a wrong turn, looking for “Trinity College”. They were obviously searching for some directions and of course the trademark photo, beside one of my paintings. I bite my tongue … “This is a private event” I mumble with a neutral tone to my voice. After the energy it took to prepare the gallery, to pour my very soul into this work, all now seems worthless; worthless in the sense of the people who frequent this city, this country, no one seems to appreciate… Making my need for relocation continuously grow stronger, day by day.

 

As dusk begins to turn to darkness, shadow and shade begin to coat the edges of my already darkened art; all sense of pride and hope has now long dispersed. I am sitting upon a coarse wooden chair, my residence for the past few hours; I am almost waiting here, waiting for some type of absolution in the bottom of my glass of wine; I start swirl the sediment at the end. Why bother to wait any longer, is the thought that streaks through my mind every minute or so, never being the patient type of person anyway. Eventually this thought was negated and the rationality of sobriety set in.

 

“Is this your work”, comes a soft tone from behind the pillar where my favourite piece of work happened to be situated, ironically the one I had previously painted white. I arise from the constraints of my chair and casually walk over, ignoring the shooting pain in my spine. “Yeah” is all I could come up with followed by “At least someone likes it”.

 

She turns to face me, taking me aback with her pale blue piercing eyes and blond hair, braided into a single plait, secured with a black strip of silk. “Not many people have taste” she replies, “My names Abigail and yours?”, “Kenith”…

 

I still gaze into those pale blue eyes to this day as she lies there, on the hospital bed, comatose. I've been trying to decide whether to leave them open or not, to no avail.

When I first told her my name I didn't realise that that name would be the last word I would probably ever hear her say. This slowly starts to frighten me, giving me a looming sense of responsibility although to this day I'm still uncertain as to the real cause of the accident.

 

I turn away and listen to the hypnotic beat of the heart-rate monitor, attached to Abigail via realms of rainbow coloured wires and bland square pads. I also remain transfixed by the fluctuating green line; present on the screen of the apparatus. Again I sit and wait unsure of the time that I'd actually spent here. How? Why, did I , of all people escape the accident unscathed?

 

The ward is cold, quiet and desolate besides an old woman in the opposite bed from Abigail. Yesterday her grandchildren and relatives teemed throughout the room, her own children desperately trying to secure a place in “the will”. One of the smaller kids incessantly gazed across the room, in awe of my comatose other-half. I greeted him with a cold glare, always having a degree of hatred towards small children. Some say ignorance is bliss, while I find it sickening.

 

When the string of hours beside the bed are finally broken I manage to locate a newspaper, and realise I'd lost count of the number of days since the last time I'd last been able to read. “Car plummets into reservoir” was the sub-headline. That was enough. And it at least lended me some clarity as to why I constantly saw the flooded plains and houses inside my dreams, now forever permeated and tainted. Was this was what was behind the glow of the headlights that night?

 

One summer, the rays of the sun seethed down upon the very same reservoir, evaporating the water, which then turns into clouds, such is the cycle. The consequence of this being the spire of the church arose from beneath. Although being an ardent atheist myself I found it quite ironic to find a church so far downwards or close “hell”, 40 feet down they say. I laugh to myself, thinking; “maybe the ignorance around my place of residence comes from the contaminated drinking water”. The joke rapidly wears thin.

 

When I return to Abigail's side, for the first time I notice a sign posted above the door; “St. Michaels, Ward 6” it reads. I do not even remember coming into the hospital, my memories all seem distorted and scattered after the crash. The opposite bed to Abigail's is now empty and I in the corner of my eye I notice a nurse is in the process of sterilisation. The lifeless corpse was obviously removed during my brief sabbatical from the harsh atmosphere of the room. I begin to wonder how long it lay there, lifeless, as I sat at Abigail's bedside. Rather than any glimmer emotion surfacing, the wafting stench of disinfectant brings tears to my eyes; after the accident I've felt so constantly dry these artificial, fallacious tears shock even me. After awhile I consider the fact that Abigail might want to know her departed neighbour's name…

 

“Clarissa” I whisper to her, but am unsure.

 

That's that done anyway. I know it seems a bit padded out but I wanted to lay a bit of groundwork for the next few chapters (which I'll try to make longer in the future!). Hope I didn't bore you at least! By the way I have 45,000 words of this written but am only posting a few chapters for now, so stay tuned!