Where hides Death

Dark thoughts persued in frustrations lost, to Love & Art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Balance

          Sunk. Into the past comfort, of his bulky and well worn... 30's period arm chair. Painstakingly reupholstered with experimental talent, and normally. It held a kind of security, in a familiar... almost meditative spot. In only one of the many locations, in this compartmental open style designed loft.

          On the second floor, of what had been an abandoned old archaic warehouse built, in 1926. With past acquired funds. Purchased and renovated, his salvaged world out of mostly recycled materials and with time and craftsman hands. Spaces, that now housed their live in Arts studio. Their Galleries exhibitions, gatherings, and storing a growing collection of cars, motorcycles, bikes, antiques and... various other junk. Artifacts, that would surely be useful in his future. Of a life... he was gradually assembling, to live in a manner of dreams. Evolved into as an Artist. Carving his talent, into a world of recognition...

          His imagined place in history, alongside...

          THE MASTERS.

          He sat moodily, in that favoured chair on this particular evening and his current experience, being mostly inebriated. With an anxious collation, of thoughts and memories collected. Along those sort of blurred good and bad, life long accumulated lines and how was it turning out. In all of that? In his considered opinion being born Roly Syrus Patterson, he was definitely a master of sorts. Who somehow seemed to excel, in whatever he put his talented hands to. His reputation in: Artistic Excellence, was growing. The last few years of his world, in a very stable relationship. With a partner and had finally, a blessed individual endlessly precious to him and her presence as though a strong persevering tiller. An ever gentle guidance, directing some determinable course across the ocean of his dreams. So, it seem. Making his island in a mad world, a place of seemingly fulfilled... firm purpose.

          Their joined venture, was prospering. The gallery, downstairs on the warehouses ground floor. His wifes design marvel doing very well, along with her now many clients. Selling his work as fast as he could create pieces. Suitable, to the market of his evolving technique.

          As well, with her as his business manager. Had gotten his more experimental works, on the cover of best selling authors and were now, a backlog of them. Waiting their turn, to have Roly's art work associated with theirs. What with waiting Corporate commissions and the pressures of The Gallery, At times all somewhat overwhelming... in all of that!

          Exceedingly so.

          Right in this particular moment in Roly's continuum of times wheel.

          Now this current perturbation of nasty business at hand, had intervened. To genuinely put a cramp, in his evolved style! God, did these odd collection of thoughts. Just roll right round, in his brain.

           Roly, gazed blurredly from his placement of this seeming secure arm chair. At his painstakingly designed spaces and its now new, everyday clutter. Breathed in the familiar ever-present aromas of thinners, oil paint and sometimes incense burnt. When all the offending fumes, from the active studio couldn't be drawn out fast enough. By its old filtration system and in constant need of repair.

           Reminders of all the things, yet to be finished. Before... his life was.

           His depressed perusal, taking in days of dishes pilled high in the kitchen sink.

           His badly missed partner out of town and not around, to keep on top of his recent slovenly ways. Rough sketches, newspapers, assorted magazines and used take out coffee cups. Lay in the scattered mental muddle all around him. Along with the not a few, empty 24 pounders of Malt liquor bottles mixed into the fray. Reminders, of failed attempts at leaving this blur of memories where they should stay... buried. Like this trash taken out and kept, in the landfills of the some where's out of mind, and... god. Maddeningly, just wouldn't stay there. No matter how hard he struggle... to take the garbage out

           To stay in the now, where this studio held the vibration of his being, his heart... his Art. The passion, of this his past eight year endeavour. To separate himself from those deeper regrets. That would not die... refused, to let him go and give him needed absolution... they haunted him and hunted his nightmares. With the black side of his equation. The payments demand, for being granted... the possessing of creative current and some not so few. Perceived personal failings, that generate these reflections of a tortured soul incarnate. His fight to rise from the shadows, and on... into. Impossibility.

           An eluding dream. The light of blessed relief...

           Where angels... smiled, their light upon you! Not here, where dark demons lay in wait! Sinking into confused alcohol dementia, lost in this old friend arm chairs embrace. With the past whiles revelations, unfolding. Feeling alien, in the chairs engulfing textures pressed against his exposed skin. Like an itch. A rising anxiety, in his contemplating crossing the studio and unveiling...

           His, Master Work.

The portrait, that had started it all... his blessing and curse. A balance of elation and pain. Light and dark forces, in contrast. The perfect, composition.

            His Angel...

Recent Regret

          If only, oh yes. Those if only's... If only, he'd not taken that call. In one of those mornings, he'd gotten up and as usual and shower to prepare, for another day in the studio. Roly, wipe aggressively away at his bathrooms full length mirror, weirdly impatient with the fans ability. To clear steam away fast enough, to suit him. The dream, had just before waking held still. A vague gnawing away, at his subconsciousness and giving him a strange tightening in his breast. Heart attack... to laugh. Nope!

         The figure staring back at him, tall and raw boned... muscular and not the regular impression. Of an Artist. He thought again, to his reflection... for the millionth time. Rubbed with out thought, at some of his life long acquired scares.

         'Not feeling... like an artist today, Roly'? He query, his reflection and look down. Flexing large powerful hands and these acquired scars with anxiousness. Their not looking dexterous enough, to do with oil brushes the seeming wondrous things. He'd accomplished with them. Among other things, he'd rather not think of... but his dreams seeming to bring hard to surface. Hellish scenes to paint. Reminding him... of those infernal worlds, where the shades of Hades are never far away and weirdly. Sold those novel covers, so well in demand. Bringing in more money, he didn't even need, or want for that matte and for all that mattered to him, because it didn't. Money, meant little to nothing to Roly. Real regrets, course through him and... in what were only daily regular mornings preparation... needing reassurance of his basic humanity.

           To retain some spirit...

           Of a life worth living, graciously. While, back in the mirror an almost dark stranger. Ran his unnaturally strong hands, through still damp mid-length curly black hair and growing stands of grey.

           To stare hard, into almost stone cold ice blue eyes. The kind... that when most people, caught his gaze. Peering straight into them, turn away and appear to be startled. By their unintentional icy deep reflection, 'the windows, to the soul' as the well worn saying went, and Roly. Fought a shiver... at live memories. Actively stored... behind them!

            He stroke a firm hand, thoughtfully across softly grating dark stubble on a square strong chin and its slight dimple. To decide, not to shave for the day. Feeling, that his constant five o'clock shadow if not left too long... suited him. In an easy movement, reach to the fresh cream turtleneck folded meticulously atop black jeans, on the side counter. To watch his reflection, go through the motion of slipping the turtleneck over his tall six foot three frame, past drying black curls. Thick powerful well muscled chest and his previously fondled scars. To slide into place... over a flat washboard stomach and rippling abs. His real speed arm muscle, slight in their accentuated definition. Made him smile at the mirrored result, and flex them. Making a silly muscle man face to the mirror and laugh at himself a little. 'Old', a stray thought appear... in question. To nod, negation and answer himself with a simple affirmative, “nope”. He grin, and say to his alter image. “Your still, a contender Roly”!

           Feeling muscles sliding with flexed response, to his every actions demand and, in the main. Knowing, his honed physic would still at mid-life instantly carry out his will and command to act. Roly's movement in its way, measured and natural in whatever situation that may be a presented threat. Was instinctive and exact. Achieved, through crafted years of intensely disciplined work outs. With a quasi military Martial Arts regiment. That made him almost liquid and at ease in motion, through most any of life's physical obstacles and dealt with objectively. Through hard training. That had saved his life, more than a few times... but. He was trying not to think of those type things today.

           Roly turned away from the mirror and did wipe out the feelings he'd rather not be experiencing. Slip fresh briefs, over slimly muscular legs. His light body hair the same black, as his head of curly hair... well. Minus, again he thought of the grey middle-age strands appearing more often, in his morning mirror. Not that he were vain, and it bother him... quite the contrary. Roly thought it only add a certain something to the character, he was growing into. Sometimes, through sheer grim determination. Which was probably, what in fact created those noted stands of growing grey hair. Laughed to himself, sometimes you can't win for losing... when it came to style. He figured. Like new black jeans, grew onto his form fitting snug appearance. Not yet, splattered with paint. Were lacking Roly's everyday style. His objective for the day, to fix that inconsistency. Black socks, and tan hush puppies already besmirched with pallets work. Finished his dressing for the day.

         Roly, now an Artist. Ready for the studio.

         Sat on the toilet, tying his laces and contemplating waiting canvases. He'd brought the phone into the bathroom, in case his wife call from Vancouver and, it began to ring importantly. Roly, as was his deceptive style and with natural grace. Unhurriedly rose and grip the ringing phone, with a heartfelt anticipation. He didn't show. Punch the talk button expecting to hear his wife, on the other end of the receiver... work in the studio.

         Would have to wait.

         It wasn't... who, he'd expected. At all.

         With the unexpected call, in real preparation to leave and respond to this mornings phoned request. Roly change casual work shoes, into motorcycle boots and sweep intently into a now fairly worn out. Brown buffalo biker style leather, for zipping and buckling traditions and him thinking. He might enjoy the ride on his Harley.

          In any case, on looking out a window... it was a day built for it! Roly happily, worked his way with purpose in his stride and 'love to ride'! Down to the main floor of the warehouse where his pride and joy. Sat, looking wickedly fast... in her low slung stance. His custom Harley chopper awaited him there, as if to say. “It's about time, Bad Boy”! Monster Girl's sleek signature paintwork, airbrushed by his hand... beckoned. Roly. Mounted her radical curves, fired up her deep breathing dragons breath... filling inner chambers and out the door. He rode her. With a button pushed on the fly by, had doors auto close and lock behind him. Roly smile into the throb, twisting throttle and swing hard. Out of the parking lot and off, into light morning traffic. To open the stroker up, maybe a little more then his usual law abiding self and whip through that light traffic's dodge. A childish glow. Folded in intoxicatedly snug leathers... thundering past cars, like they were standing still. On rapidly passed streets ah blur. “Ya man!” Yelled at the Harley's deep throbbing vibe, an Roly. Just add more throttle, to the days altering experience. To arrive at his destination quicker, than time... had a right to.

         Turn back the clock...

         Only again... to uselessly wish. He'd just gone on a great day ride on his bike and put this portion of life, in its rear view mirrors retreating... then actually arrive anywhere else, but that which he would face... at destinies door. The choices that he'd have to contend there, and sooner than he might have wished.

         More than regretting he'd responded to this past patrons, as yet unknown request. To enter into that door and this mans huge mansion. Invited, by unrecognized demons for a commissioning offer... he didn't need. Yet even more, eternally regret.

         With all his heart and eternally damned, soul!

         That Roly had even done commissions for this man of questionable means, early on. When upon arriving in this city, setting up and Roly, needed work, recognition. This particular oily rich gentleman had helped him quite a lot, and probably the only reason he'd accepted his phoned invitation in the first place! Roly, was very well known in certain circles... for his classical nudes. A habit, that he'd never gotten over and more than probably... never would! In his mind, all the great masters had delve into the human form. Especially, the nude woman. Well, wasn't that mostly every mans passion, it really was one of this man passions and Roly had thought. The request was to be about and really... it was, yet contained within that request. A seed of destruction, in a hard won life fought for... he could never have foreseen.

        Not, in a million years.

        Or live with as long.

        On that arrival, Roly's first observation was how much The Man had aged, since the last time he'd seen him. Was it really that far into his past and realized, it had been some years, since he'd done any commissions for him. His patron didn't look well, and if possible. Looked even more degenerate then he remembered. He loved Roly's nudes and owning a number of them he'd painted, but had always pushed him for things that were more titillating. Than Roly, were comfortable with.

        This, were another of those occasions...

        He... The Man, After sitting them at an amazing home theatre with drinks. Had joked about past disagreements, on these very issues. Saying, that he had to try once again and he now had some serious thing. To show him. But, this was a thing apparently very hard to come by and had cost him an extreme amount of money. To get his oily hands on. He'd gone on quite a while, in the greasy preparation... of the viewing of this thing. That Roly 'keep an open mind' to the material content The Man was about to exhibit, on his huge screen surround a sound entertainment system. Probably worth in the tens of thousands of dollars, to mostly view filth and degradation.

        “It's pornography, Roly,” came The Mans... 'thing'!

        His revelation at last and out there, in the open.

        'Well ok'... and assured him that he'd indeed watched at least some of that kind of thing, in his lifetime and to go ahead... put it on. This had quite excited him, to have gained some sort of seedy conspiratorial permission.... for forbidden viewings, of the unnatural.

        “Wait till you see this girl, Roly! It's who, I want you to paint. Well, the whole scene... if I can talk you, into it?” Demented eyes, pleaded.

         'Probably not', thought Roly... but he'd view this stuff anyway and just maybe, agree to paint at least this girl. Doing her thing, in a manner he felt to be... appropriate.

         “Ok, lets do it,” stated and The Man remote in hand. Starting, the much touted demented DVD. Like, any movie the titles and what have you's came up. Surprisingly enough, it was all done very well and this wasn't one of your run of the mill type Porno's. The production quality, was obviously set actually very high.

           Probably, real money involved...

           Roly, sat then in the now. In his arm chair stinky drunk thinking, he really couldn't remember the title of it. That because of the mess, his thoughts were now in. He did remember, the name of the Porn Star however. There, in bold glittering gold letters on the silver screen of viewing such perverse garbage. Being introduced as a new Starlet Harlot, to entertain and thrill your senses... the insatiable. Sierre Faye Na Dunne... it, had been presented. And, got right into the beginning scenes. The set, was elaborate and not at all cheesy. Not to Roly's tastes, but well designed in colours and textures as an artist. He could appreciate. It was very sexual in its very impression, and in the panning of the camera... left little to the imagination. When it came to the featured apparatus of this staged setting and a very art deco, piece of furniture. That brutally poised ugly monster, that was unmistakably designed for bondage style perversions. Roly, at that juncture already, felt a creeping foreboding. Filling, with growing human disgust...

          In camera's pan, there were all manner of equipment of a said nature placed about the set, and Roly knowing. The sick players, would work their way through them. Till they arrived... at the films featured: Engaged Presentation. Bent offerings... performed on, evilly construed apparatus... the bound and enslaved. Were held captive. These workers of indecent inequities, in the extreme workings of human depravity. Do demons, destroy... innocence! This screamed, his righteous indignation. With this foul memories... burn and it again, sickening Roly's souls endurance. To contend, such things of human torture. Experienced for entertainment? In our world gone mad!

         Delusional...

         Oh God... the very sickness, this memory held!

         A masked Dominatrix entered... pulling along, with her. Two very large men, similarly garbed and masked identities. Being led into the scene, by their extraordinarily equipped almost unnatural presence of sexual tension. They engaged in various explicit activities... and Roly. Asked if this were this, Sierre Faye Na Dunne. The Mans eyes, now sort of glazed over from the viewing of sick DVD, said, “No, no... Roly. Just watch, she's... coming up shortly. You won't believe this, trust me. Keep an open mind,” said again, and went back to being glued to the screen. With almost drooling excitement. Roly thinking, he looked really sick... totally demented. The extremely hard sex went on for a bit. Then this thoroughly disgusting Dominatrix. Call for the bruisers, to bring forward...

         This productions star sex performer... Sierre Faye Na Dunne!

         They left to re-enter with a very young looking girl, with long luxurious Auburn... wavy hair. That hung tantalizingly over her face, and at first. Appearing very submissive. Already her nakedness, stirred Roly, in a way he couldn't describe... other than.  

         Disturbing.

         The manner, in which she moved fairly radiated, want... “See,” the drooling pervert, stated. “What did I tell you Roly, is she amazing or what!” What, was obviously. A beautiful young woman, her wondrous hair, still covering her face.

         Who, began to piteously... beg and plead for them, to engage her loveliness. As they led her further into the scene by leash and collar. Toward the centre piece of the set...

         That sick, god damn chair!

         Turning her, to begin bonding her to her trials that were about to take place. She threw her hair back, as camera zoom in on her... face. Till that exact moment, Roly had been fairly disinterested in the viewing, of such Pornography... but at that, precise scene.

His heart leaped into his throat and felt as though, it could virtually explode! Or, that he'd just puke his drink all over The Mans very expensive carpet. This beautiful young being... introduced, as a Harlot Starlet sex goddess. Sierre. Was, in shocking reality. Recognized.

          It was... Bethany Angela Edwards!

         “Oh... my god”, he screamed and Roly'd jumped out of his chair. Then and there, before he'd even realized what he was doing. Had his hands wrapped around this rich and very influential mans, throat. Screaming, in that b******s face. “Turn that s**t off, and right... now. You sick, piece of garbage!” His voice being projected in a very serious and deadly tenor, and instantly... caught himself. Before he well and truly throttle him, Roly let The Man go... and in a heave. Threw up on him...

         The guy, had obviously been startled, and then... scared spitless. As his shaking hand flew to the remote and did exactly as directed. Then in a half a heartbeat, was furious and yelling about going for his gun, or some such violent nonsense and Roly. Then would have to kill Mr. Pervert. It took some apologies and explanations, before... the exploding scenario of real potential violence. Was at any point, of being rationally understood.

         By either of these two men, involved.

         B*****d perv, off to clean puke away from his disgust... and, not coming back with a gun. And Roly, not having to ripe his lungs out for him... then explained. That he'd known this girl Sierre, at very young age and not that many years ago. Had painted her portrait,  

        Not once... but twice!

        On the other hand, The Man had really wanted her sex starved beauty, painted.

        Still did.

        Was actually trying to talk Roly into watching, if not the whole DVD. Then just the scene... he had in mind. Roly, really couldn't believe this guys s**t at that point and just what, was taking place in that mansion. With strong wordage and real feeling... adamantly refused him. And left, before very real potential violence erupted, and Roly. Wipe that b*****d, off the face of the earth... again. Rip out his lungs... and feed him, his still beating heart! Man, he was that pissed and discussed.

         His stroker ride home, on Monster Girl. A virtual full throttle blur... and Roly.

Not remembering any of it, or any of its routes taken randomly.

         At more than serious speed.

         In pulling into the warehouse an parking his hog. The heart beat slow some and the adrenaline fuzzies on edge... still taking its time to wear off. Roly, sat on the pinging bike awhile, awaiting the approach of sirens... that never showed up. Either, he'd actually lost them. Or plain, just couldn't catch the madman. Pounding through their city streets.

         On wide open, full blown... pissed off, maniac!

        Gone suicidal, Harley...

        The feelings had... upon arriving in his studio. Required plenty of booze, to try and quash the shock of what he'd just witnessed. Initially, he couldn't get out of his mind and was like sheer torture. Jesus the thought of those unwatched scenes and just what those B******s were going to do to his beautiful, sorely loved Angel, Bethany.

        My god... pornography. Experienced, in that ugly evil chair?

        It just too much, to bare. Roly broke into an uncontrollably drunken bawl. There lost, in ungodly images... swimming through blurry hot tears. In his not so secure arm chair. Roly beat fists against his skull, pleading inside. 'This is just too god damn much, way too much and it won't... stop! Oh god, shut it off. Please, please. I can't take this'...

        And, right up till that moment of cursed recognition...

        Everyone, had thought...

 

        That Bethany, were dead.

 

Author's Note

What lerks in the shadows of the Master Artist... with untold debts.
To those of Human Kind.
The pressures to hide, as what will rise... can't be good!

Do you feel this need a Mature Rating?

Reviews

[Angel Bird]

An amazing chapter, it held my interest from the start to the last line. Very well written so that the visualisation is made easy as also it has me (as every reader for that matter I suppose) wanting to know more - much more...

[SM Davis]

NICE HORSE! LOL...one person's evil chair is another's liquid freedom. Of course referencing the ride only. Will send PM with notes. I like the flow.

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the artwork. It was a amazing chapter. I had to read twice. A painter is a special form of art. He paints what he feel and wants to see. I like the conversation and the characters in this chapter. I will read on. Thank you for sharing your storties and books.
Coyote