Out of Clay

Young sculptor Andreis finds his world in upheaval after taking a job he couldn't refuse. He has questions. But as his work is nearing completion, he wonders if he really wants the answers after all.

Dark, dark, dark, everything Andreis saw was dark.

The chapel room at its gloomiest, merely a few candles and oil lamps struggling to enlighten the fane; hooded figures wearing black robes, chanting in a tongue black as night.

And that only being what he could empirically perceive.

That and the fact that he wanted nothing more than to run, hide and cry, not even necessarily in that order, preferably all simultaneously.

He couldn’t put his finger on it; of course not, he was scared straight out of his mind, but he wouldn’t have been able to any other way as well, nonetheless, something tugged at the corners of his mind and he could feel it.

Subtly, steadily, but persistent and corrosive, as if his sanity had been submerged in concentrated acid and was now beginning to wear down like an iron bolt once the protective lacquer had dissolved.

He would have shrugged and shivered at this mental picture for its disturbing accuracy and implications, but he was too close to a state of horrified panic to conceive anything more complex than a certain blankness of mind.

 

What was it that put young Andreis in such distress, without even revealing itself to him?

Not even an enigmatic ritual, not even one this dark should do quite that to him.

The smell of the infernal incense that was being burned, that hellish scent of noxious charring and caustic smoke?

Certainly it added greatly to his displeasure, but the trace of ozone and the weird sensation of free radical energy in the air he breathed without realizing them was surely the even greater factor.

 

His consciousness failed to perceive so many of the things happening, his very presence in the fane seemed almost superfluous, even counterproductive one could argue.

The human mind however is made up of more than the conscious, as we know.

For better or for worse, there is more to us and our brainbox than meets the eye, more than we could fathom.

What a fine piece of absurdity we wear in our heads, what a hilarious irony of the universe; the human mind and its absolute failure to comprehend even itself.

 

For worse in the case of poor Andreis, surely.

There were things going on, that much the young man was certain of without ever forming the thought.

What the hell these things were or how they could be explained eluded him completely; he was a league below any possible conscious understanding at that moment, he could not even properly wonder about these questions.

All he could do was stand there, stare at the scene unfolding before his eyes; the ritualists chanting and waving their hands in complex shapes while other men, higher men in a concentric circle closer to the central altar continued to pour liquids from the golden inscribed bowls and precious chalices they held.

The young sculptor Andreis would have been horrified at the thought of just what these liquids might be, but there was a slight problem with his vision stopping exactly that from happening.

 

Nothing was wrong with his vision, actually. He saw everything. Physically speaking.

Light emitted from the laughably insufficient sources in the chamber was reflected off the persons and objects and redirected into the pupils of his eyes alright, everything worked as it always did if you chose to disregard the strange red tint and desaturation of color inflicted on the light by something.

It was the way from his eyes to his brain where the fault lay. Seemingly his mindbox was a little to occupied by getting clawed at from something lurking in the shadows of perception to deliver optical information to the consciousness.

 

Suddenly, among all the sensations unpleasant and disturbing, there was one requiring examination before categorizing. Physical contact on the palm of his hand and a feeling of warmth in his heart radiating throughout him. Surprising, but very welcome. Calming.

Turning his head to look down on his hand, he felt it had soothed his mind in turmoil enough to already have discerned what he was going to see.

Another robed, hooded figure, yet this one he recognized and felt thankful for being close to.

While the others were nothing but that, namely unsettling shadowy shapes, to him, Andreis would be forever unable to see this one for anything else than the unique, unmistakably remarkable individual currently hidden and obscured beneath the fabric of ritualist cloak.

A kind, caring soul, a brilliant mind and amazing artist was standing next to him, having taken hold of his hand with her own, squeezing reassuringly while he could do nothing but look into her eyes and feel a surge of warm, delightful gratitude rolling through him for having her by his side.

And then she smiled that unbelievable, incredible smile of hers.

You’re not alone in this., she told him wordlessly. I’m right here with you and we’ll see this through together. I won’t ever abandon you. You’re not alone.

 

Did all distress fall off him like a heavy backpack he cut the straps on?

Did the darkness fade away into light like a thousand torches had been lit?

No. He was not suddenly all well and feeling great and ready to face any madness that may lie in wait in the shadows between the worlds.

Andreis still was witness to a horrifying spectacle that seemed to bend and tear at reality itself, threatening to tear down his mind along with it; his fight or flight instincts still urging his consciousness to let them take over, then forget about fighting and just run like living hell, hide somewhere and cry in hope to wash all this madness out of him.

 

He didn’t suddenly see roses and rainbows because she held his hand and smiled at him.

But it made the thing threatening to shred his mind, whatever it was that was eating at his sanity like afore-mentioned acid, clawing at his innermost self, retreat into the blackness and cease grinding against his soul.

Being with her made even the most horrifying experience he ever was unlucky enough to have to witness bearable.

Still looking into nowhere but the marvelous aquamarine eyes of hers, he silently mouthed the most deeply heartfelt Thank you of his life, before returning his gaze back to the events ensuing before him. Not because he wanted to, but because he somehow felt he had to. It was his work as well, after all.

And so he faced the awful scene unfolding again, knowing he would never be able to forget this, while trying his hardest to think about Sonja, her smile and how he had fallen in love with her.

Author's Note

This is an attempt at something new for me, namely storytelling in English.
It is just the begining of the first slice of the first part, but I'd like to check reception as early as now.

Please be merciless. Any flaw you can find, no matter how small or subjective, point out.
Concerning my style and "craftmanship", don't be merciless, be cruel.
I want to improve as much as I possibly can, and I need you for that, esteemed reader.

Also, of course I hope you enjoyed what you read.:)

Reviews

[Marie]

The first 5 paragraphs need to be reworked; they need to be condensed; they need to be clarified. Your story doesn't really start until halfway through. When the girl slips her hand into his, it begins to get interesting. You're obviously a good writer. What you have to do is make the first part of your story as interesting as the second half.