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zg_shadows2008-04-04 12:52 pm
lanfykins.livejournal.com) wrote in zg_shadows2008-04-04 12:52 pm
The blind leading the blind
"I thought you might like to get out of the city for a bit. Spend some time in the country."
"Ummm..." Rae tried to think through her pounding headache. "I won't be very good company," she said at last.
"I don't need you to be good company. Just be yourself."
She couldn't possibly understand what that meant. "You know I've fallen off the wagon in a fairly major way," Rae said carefully, hoping that the woman on the other end of the telephone could work out the implications for herself.
"I thought you might have," came the instant response. "We can get drunk together."
Rae gave up. "Yeah, OK. You're an adult. You know what you're doing. 'S your funeral."
***
She woke with the bitter-sour taste in her mouth that told her she'd thrown up at least once the previous night. She was lying on some kind of odd-shaped sofa, and her head ached from the hardness of the arm. She sat up carefully, the smell of paint turning her stomach.
Past a short row of canvases in various stages of completeness, her hostess slumped asleep on one, having fallen as she worked. Rae stood up and walked unsteadily over to touch her shoulder.
The painter stirred and stretched, with a cracking of joints and ligaments. "I really should stop doing that," she said as she stood up. She looked at Rae. "Drink? JD and coke?"
Rae almost threw up at the thought of more whisky. "Just the coke for now," she said.
***
She'd passed out halfway through the storm last night, but she could see it reflected this morning in the intensity of her hostess's work, all dark colours and spiky lines. The storm that had passed over was still in the air here, and she could feel it as she watched her companion paint her emotions onto the canvas. She felt twitchy and restless and jagged, and a sudden, irrational fury rose in her that the storm that could kill people on the cold wet city concrete was nothing but a dramatic inspiration to someone who had a big house in the country to retreat to and watch from.
What her companion was painting was a pretty, pretty lie that she couldn't let go unchallenged.
"You got a spare canvas?"
"Of course."
Rae could feel the city inside her as she painted, black and jagged like barbed wire. Inexpert brushstrokes slashed across the canvas, leaving oil paint thick in its wake, in colours of black and rust and bruised yellow-grey, the brush pressing so heavily it scored the canvas. Life wasn't inspiration. Storms weren't pretty. Everything was ugly, destruction, pain. That was what was real. That was the city she'd grown up in. That was the city that had killed Kieran.
She threw the brush down, black spattering across the stones like blood from an artery, and fled blindly from the room, making it only a few steps beyond before she collapsed, sobbing so hard her chest hurt.
Later in the evening her hostess, wandering through still dazed by the hours of work, took the bottle from Rae's lax hand, put it up on the mantle where the dogs couldn't reach, and absently petted the young labrador that curled up beside its unconscious mistress. Then she went on to bed, leaving her guest sprawled where she had passed out.
***
It was three days before Rae could bear to return to the painting. She approached it cautiously, touching it gently, almost apologetically, tracing with pain the white lines where the brush had scored the canvas. The touch of the brush was gentle, this time, as it touched in shades of grey against the black. She used no other colours; just grey, grey, grey, from steel to mist, a city in permanent winter, and her touch was the touch of a lover. Tears gathered in her eyes and started to trickle down her cheeks, and this time she put the brush down gently before she walked away.
***
They sat together on the patio, watching the sunset, passing the bottle between them.
"This is my shadowlands," Rae's hostess said suddenly, unexpectedly, and looking at her Rae realised that she was drunk. "My place of dreams. Apart from the world. There is no past here, no future. No other people, no drugs."
"Nothing wrong with drugs," Rae began, and then, in the expression of naked pain on her companion's face, suddenly realised she was talking about something very different. "Oh. Shit. I'm sorry." She reached across and hugged the other woman.
Her friend tensed, and Rae immediately released her. The other woman was shivering. Rae handed across the bottle. "You all right?" she said, but there was no answer as her friend took steady gulps of whisky. After a while she passed the bottle back without answering.
There seemed nothing more to say. Rae drank when the bottle was passed to her, though that was not often, as her companion was drinking with the familiar singlemindendness of one who intended to pass from vertical to horizontal with the minimum of fuss. Rae drew her knees up to her chin and watched thoughtfully as her hostess gradually slumped in the chair.
"Pass it back," she said at last, holding out a hand for the bottle. It was waved vaguely in her direction and she grabbed it and took a swig before putting it down on her other side where her friend couldn't reach.
Time passed. The sky faded from violet to black. "It's getting cold. We should go in." Rae stood, a little unsteadily, and offered a hand to her hostess, who stared at it blearily for a few moments before finally levering herself out of her chair. She almost fell, and Rae put an arm around her to hold her up. Gradually, erratically, the alcoholic guided the drunk to bed.
***
It was late morning; a grey spring day, but the light still made her head pound as Rae gazed out of the window at the unnerving expanse of countryside, just becoming hazed with green.
"I need to go back," Rehema said.
"Ummm..." Rae tried to think through her pounding headache. "I won't be very good company," she said at last.
"I don't need you to be good company. Just be yourself."
She couldn't possibly understand what that meant. "You know I've fallen off the wagon in a fairly major way," Rae said carefully, hoping that the woman on the other end of the telephone could work out the implications for herself.
"I thought you might have," came the instant response. "We can get drunk together."
Rae gave up. "Yeah, OK. You're an adult. You know what you're doing. 'S your funeral."
***
She woke with the bitter-sour taste in her mouth that told her she'd thrown up at least once the previous night. She was lying on some kind of odd-shaped sofa, and her head ached from the hardness of the arm. She sat up carefully, the smell of paint turning her stomach.
Past a short row of canvases in various stages of completeness, her hostess slumped asleep on one, having fallen as she worked. Rae stood up and walked unsteadily over to touch her shoulder.
The painter stirred and stretched, with a cracking of joints and ligaments. "I really should stop doing that," she said as she stood up. She looked at Rae. "Drink? JD and coke?"
Rae almost threw up at the thought of more whisky. "Just the coke for now," she said.
***
She'd passed out halfway through the storm last night, but she could see it reflected this morning in the intensity of her hostess's work, all dark colours and spiky lines. The storm that had passed over was still in the air here, and she could feel it as she watched her companion paint her emotions onto the canvas. She felt twitchy and restless and jagged, and a sudden, irrational fury rose in her that the storm that could kill people on the cold wet city concrete was nothing but a dramatic inspiration to someone who had a big house in the country to retreat to and watch from.
What her companion was painting was a pretty, pretty lie that she couldn't let go unchallenged.
"You got a spare canvas?"
"Of course."
Rae could feel the city inside her as she painted, black and jagged like barbed wire. Inexpert brushstrokes slashed across the canvas, leaving oil paint thick in its wake, in colours of black and rust and bruised yellow-grey, the brush pressing so heavily it scored the canvas. Life wasn't inspiration. Storms weren't pretty. Everything was ugly, destruction, pain. That was what was real. That was the city she'd grown up in. That was the city that had killed Kieran.
She threw the brush down, black spattering across the stones like blood from an artery, and fled blindly from the room, making it only a few steps beyond before she collapsed, sobbing so hard her chest hurt.
Later in the evening her hostess, wandering through still dazed by the hours of work, took the bottle from Rae's lax hand, put it up on the mantle where the dogs couldn't reach, and absently petted the young labrador that curled up beside its unconscious mistress. Then she went on to bed, leaving her guest sprawled where she had passed out.
***
It was three days before Rae could bear to return to the painting. She approached it cautiously, touching it gently, almost apologetically, tracing with pain the white lines where the brush had scored the canvas. The touch of the brush was gentle, this time, as it touched in shades of grey against the black. She used no other colours; just grey, grey, grey, from steel to mist, a city in permanent winter, and her touch was the touch of a lover. Tears gathered in her eyes and started to trickle down her cheeks, and this time she put the brush down gently before she walked away.
***
They sat together on the patio, watching the sunset, passing the bottle between them.
"This is my shadowlands," Rae's hostess said suddenly, unexpectedly, and looking at her Rae realised that she was drunk. "My place of dreams. Apart from the world. There is no past here, no future. No other people, no drugs."
"Nothing wrong with drugs," Rae began, and then, in the expression of naked pain on her companion's face, suddenly realised she was talking about something very different. "Oh. Shit. I'm sorry." She reached across and hugged the other woman.
Her friend tensed, and Rae immediately released her. The other woman was shivering. Rae handed across the bottle. "You all right?" she said, but there was no answer as her friend took steady gulps of whisky. After a while she passed the bottle back without answering.
There seemed nothing more to say. Rae drank when the bottle was passed to her, though that was not often, as her companion was drinking with the familiar singlemindendness of one who intended to pass from vertical to horizontal with the minimum of fuss. Rae drew her knees up to her chin and watched thoughtfully as her hostess gradually slumped in the chair.
"Pass it back," she said at last, holding out a hand for the bottle. It was waved vaguely in her direction and she grabbed it and took a swig before putting it down on her other side where her friend couldn't reach.
Time passed. The sky faded from violet to black. "It's getting cold. We should go in." Rae stood, a little unsteadily, and offered a hand to her hostess, who stared at it blearily for a few moments before finally levering herself out of her chair. She almost fell, and Rae put an arm around her to hold her up. Gradually, erratically, the alcoholic guided the drunk to bed.
***
It was late morning; a grey spring day, but the light still made her head pound as Rae gazed out of the window at the unnerving expanse of countryside, just becoming hazed with green.
"I need to go back," Rehema said.