a thousand years and still we stand.
here's a very abstract story:
Chapter One
"It's not the best."
"It's not my worst."
"It's s**t."
"Yeah, well it sells," I said. Sure it sold. Everything did. Still, the degree of unjustified arrogance was clear in my tone. A dry swallow followed like the dragging of a guilty child's feet across the carpet. It wasn't my best piece-- something I had rushed into completion due to time restraints-- and I wasn't horribly proud of it. I wasn't feeling anything at all for it, in fact. Just a painting, a crowd pleaser made of diluted shades of blue and violet, because blue and violet were calm colors that people liked. Art school 101; this plus that equals everybody applaud. I'd been out of school two years now, and in that time I'd managed my way in to a small, up-scale gallery in the heart of town. most of my clients were tourists. Pockets of cash waiting to be spent on trinkets and memorabilia. Why not a lovely painting from a local artist? A month from now this particular piece would be hanging forgotten in a long hall in some fancy house I'd never see.
The man who'd just casually insulted my art now crossed his arms over a broad chest, head cocked slightly as he scrutinized me. Sharp, intelligent amber eyes seemed to study every angle of my face. It was brief, and yet the intensity of such a look brought a rise to my pulse. He was so strange. Pale blond hair, strong jaw and high cheekbones. Tall, lean, well dressed. He might have been of German blood.
I was staring and he was staring back, and it seemed the room had gone empty and silent, until an arm draped around my shoulders. Startled back to the here and now, I rose a brow at Jenna, the young woman who ran the gallery. Her smile was tight lipped and commercial.
"Lovely piece, isn't it? Don't you just adore the shades, so subtle and relaxing." She was speaking to him, but looking at me. It was the kind of gaze a mother held for a child who was showing off a finger-painting.
"I'm sure that's the point of it," said the blond man. He reflected her plastic smile. My stomach turned a little.
"Ace is good at that," she replied.
Was I the only one suspecting this mystery man was further insulting my art? Not that he was wrong, but to do so in such a setting--
"Mmm, I'm sure he's very good at giving the public what they want." The blond grinned. Dimples flashed and I was offended by how attractive I found it to be.
The two chattered pointless at one another, and it gave me a moment to step back and to the side. I wasn't fond of being in the spotlight. That's what the art was for. Even so, something of this man was unnerving. I found myself staring and trying not to stare all at once, brain ticking and rotating like rustic gears. Like something was awakening, a recognition I couldn't place my finger on. The sense of curious familiarity was maddening.
But before I could decide where I had seen him or met him before (surely there had to be a time, he was just too damn familiar to me) he had begged pardon and, with ridiculous manner and grace, stepped away from Jenna and out of the room. I watched him through the wide glass windows as he moved down the sidewalk and crossed the street. His hair shone like spun gold in the noon sun. For a moment, I could have sworn I should hate him.
--
Generally, I spent most of my time between the gallery and the studio, immersed in various aspects of the world of art. It was where I lived and where I preferred to be, pulled from the currents of man-made boredom on loop. Call it a habit of me to evade the norm. Today was no different in that sense, but rather than returning to the small and horribly paint stained studio, I set my course elsewhere. Seaside wind poured through open windows and my hair was made into a many-ended whip that stung my cheeks and threatened my eyes. Sky melded to treeline, treeline melded asphalt, and another momentary eclipse of reality was set. Gears grinded and the engine hummed. I needed a faster car.
Someday.
Twenty minutes in to road sailing, I was pulling into the parking lot of a shoddy apartment complex. With the turn of a key the engine died and I sat there staring at the steering column. So it was this, again. Eyes flickered to the window with the green curtains. There was nobody to stare back at me this time. No horrible but gorgeous blond man with a snappy tongue. ******** if he wasn't the reason I'd come here, though. Guilty fetish not allowed to be considered until I was inside, and even then it would be my secret. Only mine, all mine, shamefully delicious. Dirty secret. I tore myself from the vehicle and went upstairs.
He'd answered the door just before I'd knocked. Maybe he'd seen me through that ugly green curtain after all. He wasn't blond and he wasn't a mystery-- quite the opposite, really. Shaggy brown hair, tan skin, handsome face. Well built. He was wearing nothing but for a pair of incriminatory tight jeans, complimented with holes in the knees. A toothy grin was offered to me as I stepped in.
"Hard day?" he said, closing the door behind me and snapping the bolt lock.
"Is that the only reason I see you?" I took my shoes off and sank onto the sofa. It smelled of musk, sex and cigarettes.
"You see me because I'm better than you can imagine, and you can't get enough of me." He stood in front of me, hands on hips. He was grinning. I hated it. Wanted to tear his lips from his boyish face. Instead, I leaned forward and hooked a finger into one of his belt loops. Words were so pointless between us. Little more than half-assed play, more for him than for me because I can't be ******** to feel much interest in dirty talk. But if I wanted the release I needed-- oh, those guilty, dirty little secrets-- I'd have to play his game.
The rope burns on my wrists were still healing from last time I'd come to him. I was always asking and begging, like an abused dog with tail between legs. Always unable to voice it until he forced it from me. The thrill of humiliation was potentially my greatest defeat. I didn't want to be his. I just wanted to be had. But he'd never know of the pretty blond I imagined that late afternoon, the blond who's face I replaced his with. Hovering over, accusing me with those silent amber eyes.
--
After satiating my lust, I laid strung across the barren mattress, sheets tossed carelessly upon the floor. My hair was matted and the need for a shower buzzed complaints through my skull. Eyes stared at the green curtained window. The silhouette of a cityscape remained solemn. I felt empty; worn and relented in every aspect. Minutes drew into hours and he went out, leaving me there in the silence. I couldn't be bothered to move for a while, and so I smoked cigarette after cigarette and, when the ashtray was overflowed, finally drew the ambition to go home. Time was measured in the flow of careless motion. I drove, stopping to get more smokes and refill the gas tank, all the while automatronic in every act. My mind was elsewhere-- nowhere. Once at my apartment, I'd showered and gone to bed. The blue-gray glow of muted infomercials on the television lulled me to sleep.
Days passed, and then weeks, and only once did I think of the blond man again. A dream that was so vivid I awoke suddenly, sweating, feverish and somehow giddy. I had stayed up the remainder of the night, wondering over this strange individual and why, oh why, I had him in my mind. Only once had we met. Maybe. There was still that uncanny sense of familiarity, but perhaps that was only the unexplainable allure getting the best of me. There was no reason, no evidence to suggest why I should be feeling this way. Life went on in gray-scale.
Until I saw him again.
"How's this?" I asked, standing precariously on the second to top step of the ladder with a string of party lights. I held them over the wide open doors of the gallery. Jenna inspected from the sidewalk, and after a moment she had nodded in approval. I stapled the string in place, then stepped down and joined her. The lights were already plugged in, and they framed the entrance in a vibrant multi-colored glow. The galleries and cafes along the strip were festively lit and decorated as well, all prepared for the block party this evening. Street artists and performers were already gathering, setting up tables and displays along the road, which would remain blocked off from vehicle traffic until morning.
Jenna had dressed up a bit more than usual, and I was wearing a casual but decorative purple suit. It seemed just eccentric enough to befit an artist. That and, purple was my favorite color. Any excuse to wear the suit was a good one. I ran a hand through my hair, disheveling black locks before attempting to rearrange them perfectly for the third time in the last hour. Jenna caught me and grinned. "Nervous?"
I shrugged and cast my attention to the street.
"You could make a lot of money tonight," she said, following my gaze. "You might even run out of pieces. Have you got any more at the studio to restock with?"
"I've got some, yeah." I paused, well aware that wasn't quite the answer she was looking for. "And some big ones I'm working on that should be done soon."
Her brows lifted. "Oh?"
"Yeah. You'll see. Probably by next week."
Seemingly satisfied, she gave yet another nod, then rose her chin. "Let's get the displays up, then. Come help me."
"I'm an artist, not work for hire, you know."
"You're a man," she smirked, "You're genetically required."
I kind of wanted to choke her-- Right after the sex change so that I wouldn't be declared abusive for the fact.
It wasn't long until the streets had become thicker and thicker with passers by, and soon enough there was music streaming from shops and performers, and children having their faces painted. A mime wandered about on stilts and people clapped in approval. I lingered at the door to the gallery, enjoying the cool breeze that the evening hours brought. Within the first two hours I'd sold an original painting and two prints. It was enough money to pay the bills for two months.
I was musing over the simplicity of my being able to paint something in a few days and have it cover so much rent upon sales, smoking a cigarette beside a tree not far from the gallery when I spotted it. A flash of blond in the crowd, so pale it might have been bleached. I nearly swallowed my cigarette. Could it be? Was I so delusional to imagine him outside dreams? It was perturbing, to say the least, but I had to know. Sneaking down the sidewalk and through carousing clusters of people, I followed the direction the blond flicker had been heading. There it was again. Perhaps twenty feet in front of me. Chasing after in my greatest attempt of stealth, I felt something like a stalker. For each step I could only wonder why, why did it matter at all to me? Was my life so terribly unsubstantial that I was obsessing over a stranger? Neon golden lights washed over the crowd he had merged to, strands overlapping above the doors of a cafe. Blond went in, and I lingered at the door. The blond-- a woman with obviously bleached hair and uncomplimentary, thick black brows, was standing in line at the register.
A wash of disgust towards myself made my stomach do loops. I held back the need to grimace and flee, and instead turned on heel and, with an attempt of calm, headed back to my post at the gallery. Blonds were not uncommon. Bleach was just as in now as it was in the fifties. I knew this. My arms drew around my body thoughtlessly, goosebumps rising. I slumped against the unforgiving coldness of brick wall, spine curved like soft rubber. The wind was tousling my hair and I pushed it back from my eyes. Another cigarette accompanied me in self reflection and confusion, until Jenna popped around the corner of the entrance and gestured at me to come in.
I stamped out the smoke and abided.
"I see you haven't sold it yet."
I could barely contain myself. My insides welded together and froze, eyes locked upon him. That face, those blond strands, that unnerving voice that soaked through me like venomous honey. I was enraged and broken and I did not know why. He rose a brow and I coughed.
"Well, the evening is still pretty fresh, I'm sure he will," Jenna chipped, business-woman voice grating against the undertone of the music outside. She looked at me. I stared at the man. He turned a little, rotating on the back of his foot. A hand rose and he pointed a thumb at the painting-- the blue and violet one he'd insulted during our last meeting. Suddenly I wondered if he was aware of my fantasies that involved him during my last escapade with sex-and-bondage boy. A wash of heat dressed my cheeks.
"Are you well, Ace?" Jenna cast me a concerned look and I stifled. Nodded.
"It's warm in here." Possibly the stupidest excuse for a blush, and there it was spilling awkwardly from my lips. Was I salivating? No, my mouth was dry as a desert. I needed water. Or maybe some hard liquor.
The blond stuck his hands-- long, thin, pale-- in his pockets. I couldn't help but notice the way the white of his suit contrasted against the solitary piece of black clothing he wore; a tie. How stylish. I felt ridiculous in my purple getup.
He was looking at me with a curious intensity, lips tight and drawn thin. Jenna seemed to feel the tension in the room and stepped toward me, stilettos clicking against the hard wood grain of the floor. She slipped an arm around my own and pulled me over. I hesitated and grew stiff, then reluctantly moved, heart hammering as if it might explode any moment. Each beat was the ticking of a timed bomb.
"Ace... he wants you do to a portrait for him," she said, small fingers digging manicured nails into my arm.
I blinked, startled. "He does?" And why the ******** for? I could have sworn he hated my work.
"Yes, yes he does," she said, "he wants you to do a portrait of a girl for him. For her birthday."
Oh, crushing. But WHY was it so crushing? WHY did I even care? Was it so shocking to know this obviously well to do man had a woman? This attractive, handsome individual-- he must have girls hanging off of him. That sickening sensation arose once again. I couldn't have hated myself more.
"Which will be in two months," said the blond. He stepped forward and offered his hand, cordially inviting me to shake it. I obliged, though weakly. Limp digits in a firm grasp. I could smell him, so close to me. Musky, male, something of spice. Oh god did he smell delicious.
Oh god was I blushing.
Jenna stared at me like a confused parrot. "Ace? Are you sure you're well?"
I could have murdered him for making me feel this way, but instead I suddenly gripped his hand and shook it firmly, almost boisterously, and gave a sharp nod. "Right, two months is fine. Deal."
He didn't seem amused or delighted, staring at me like I had perhaps lost my mind and he was just going to politely pretend to ignore it. "Good," he said, "I'm Micheal. Pleasure to be doing business with you."
So the saint had a name, and a saintly one at that. How entirely expected. I cannot describe the degree to which I wanted to hurt him. We exchanged numbers and business details and I gave him the address to my studio. For some reason he insisted he be present during the entire painting process, which I assumed meant he would be lecturing and nit-picking over my shoulder. Brilliant. All I needed were more complications.
Michael had left promptly after, and I remained for perhaps another hour or two before heading home. My apartment was not the sort of home you bring friends or family to. It was not the sort of place to invite a date. My apartment, a small one bedroom on the top floor of an unflattering complex, was a rat nest. I had a habit of buying and collecting most anything that interested me, often to a point that I would make myself financially ********. There were fancy wooden and metal bookshelves, none of which matched, that hosted piles of trinkets-- from stuffed animals to statuettes to engraved pieces of rice in bowls. There wasn't any particular theme to anything at all. Just junk. Not one item I owned meant a thing to me.
The floor was cluttered with various boxes and dishes and clothing, and I moved through it with a distanced mind, kicking aside things to reach the couch. Draping across it, I worked my shoes off, added them to the collection on the carpet, and lay still. Eyes focused on the dull yellow light of the ceiling lamp. A dead spider gave a blurred shadow through the glass. I shivered and looked away. Couldn't even bring myself to get rid of it, and I couldn't stand to look at the thing. Twisted dried out limbs. I nearly felt them prickling along my skin, but it was only the hair on my arms standing up. Goosebumps. Silence reigned for too long and my thoughts wandered to the blond who I'd poorly attempted to not consider during the drive home. I wondered what his hair felt like. What his skin tasted of, what his breath might do when danced across my body. Fingertips ghosted along my chest and I caught myself fantasizing.
How repulsive. I hated him. I hated how subtle he was, how easy it was for him. The way he'd looked at me earlier, incriminating and confronting me in my own place of business. That stare. Those amber eyes and that smile built of sin. Had he smiled? I couldn't remember now, but I could picture it just as well. Dimples. I knew he had dimples. I'd have liked to drive my thumb nails into them and see what he might do about it. Pretty, stupid, devil blond. Michael the saint. Michael the sinner.
Chapter Two
"Just a quickie."
Lights flickered dimly, and I found my cheek pressed against cold tile. A toilet bowl glared down at me. Someone's pudgy fingers were wrapped around my upper arm and attempting to pull me up, but my body refrained. Sweat prickled my forehead.
"Mmmn?" Incoherent question oozing from my throat. Had I passed out? A little too much to drink had gone and sent me to the porcelain throne, it seemed. My head felt heavy as I forced it to lift and find the face of whoever owned the hand.
"Just a little quickie, mate? Yeah?" Big teeth. Looked like veniers. Australian tourist seeking an good time in... a bathroom stall?
"Mmmph," I grunted, staggering and climbing the length of the stall to rise, legs wobbling and feet uncertain. A boy wearing too-tight jean shorts and a fishnet top came in, possibly nearing the stage of drunkeness I was currently at. He giggled, lurched, and made way for the adjacent stall. I didn't feel like sticking around to find out. Momentary dizziness washed my vision and I yanked my arm from the grip of the man who'd considered me a two-dollar-or-less-whore.
"The ******** is this? Burger King? ******** tourist. Go have it your way with someone else. f*****t." I spat at him, and he gasped, wiping the vomit-scented glob from his face. Glazed eyes took me in like I'd just violated his favorite dingo. I grinned.
The crowd was very unwilling to part. Bodies barely clothed and sweating and smelling of booze packed the dance floor. Lights flashed and changed in color, and mist rolled across the hard wood. Someone grabbed my a** as I moved through. Saturday night at the most popular gay bar and dance club in town. I must have felt particularly suicidal, but at the moment I couldn't recall much and the need to get home-- or at least get some air-- was a far more pressing matter. Where was the door? Ah, there. Yes. Closer. Nearly there. Finally.
I stepped into the night air and breathed, swallowing it in greedily. Another wave of dizziness came and went and I wondered if I should attempt to drive. The fact that I was wondering probably meant I shouldn't. Hands dug about the pockets of my jacket and I fished my wallet out. Six bucks and some change. Not enough for a cab. "Oh, christ. Seriously?" The walk home would probably take an hour or so, and through the worst parts of town. I sank until my a** found the edge of the sidewalk. Lit a cigarette. Rubbed my eyes. Music roared from inside the club and was met with the sound of night traffic and ocassional police siren in the distance. The wind blew and cooled my skin. Smoke danced and I contemplated what I was doing with my life.
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dysphoric ashes.
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