The sky above her deepened: Stars swimming in darkness and it was enough. Enough to make her see that it was over, to finally
clarify. The stars, in a moment, became a metaphor for all she did: Tiny pinpricks of burning energy, each one as bright, but never having any true effect. Her fire, was one of many.
Her name? Well…It no longer matters…truly…But for arguments sake, lets call her Gillian. It’s slightly traditional that way.
Gillian, who’s true identity cannot be revealed, not if she is to maintain any level of pride, well…her day had, yet again, been a long one. The hope she had felt in the morning, it had gradually been replaced by a form of fear. A fear that her task’s might not all be accomplished. You see…in the evenings…Gillian painted pictures: Abstractions on canvass with definition to wrap around.
Whilst painting, Gillian’s love often lurked in half light whilst silently enthusing. He had, unwittingly, become Gillian’s biggest fan. His life work was no longer climbing the ranks of the cheap paper for which he worked, but had some how become Gillian. Yes. It was his mission to open the world’s eyes to the beauty of her paint on canvas.
Even a corpse, when painted with affection, could become astonishingly beautiful…quite… So. When Gillian had developed the painting block, her lover had parted in despair, no longer in love with Gillian, just the things about her. Yes, this day, she tried, oh
how she tried, but she knew she could not go on… Before an easel of wood, with heart as heavy as stone, these deadening elements combined, Gillian reached, one at a time, for the tablets: White and full of promise. One hour later, her task complete, she allowed her body to relax and, sinking back against a chair leg, rolled her eyes back into her head: watching colour play on eye lid.
Thoughts collided in her mind. There, against that back drop, whilst cigarette smoke rose absently from a barely touched cigarette in the ashtray at her side. These thoughts were simple, of fond farewells, goodbye to the clichéd day break. Her inability to paint, it possessed her& her being. The pills took effect. Her body ached. Still, it was incomparable to the aching of the soul. Her body flailed about, punching into the night, fighting some unseen terror of in violent gestures.
“urghhhhhhh…” Pain was evident.
“I’m…S…Sorryyyy….”
There it was. Guilt. Gillian was apologising. Not for that, that act of suicide, but for the precursor to this. The very act of being alive and all that it incorporated.
No Angel came to greet her. No serpents slunk about her. Just her thoughts: Angels and demons of the most striking kind. With kisses, which could kill.
Gillians sorrow, as her body gave up, died, breathed into her, intoxicating as only sorrow can…and she gasped again. Perhaps in hope.
Harbouring that very same, distinctive, hope, she awoke. Not on the floor. Not in a heaven or a hell. In a ward. The drip above her, running through her, a different kind of hope entirely. Suddenly, quite suddenly, Gillian felt the need to paint. With this awful experience, this mini trauma, images aplenty filled her soul. Stretching her right hand beneath her, she moved to push her self up into sitting position. Nothing happened. Yet again she tried, persevering as had once been her way. Again: Failure. Her eyes skimmed the scene before her, the one where she, mute, played leading lady. Nothing transpired. Her body was numb. Her arm unable. Her soul undone.
Yes…Gillians vision, penalized, has traded places with her body. Body for soul.
Can you work out the bigger death? Or are both is significant, dependant on one another?