Tag Archives: Death

Art Imitates Sadness–A Feature Article

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The tragic affairs of the “tortured artist” are not, and never will be, foreign to us. We are, on the contrary, well acquainted with the Greats—the notorious tortured artists of this world—that have weathered the sufferings—callous and unforgiving—of sadness; Van Gogh’s mutilation immortalized through his self-portrait, depicting the very spot where knife met flesh—gauze covers the right side of his head, where his ear once resided; Sylvia Plath’s suicide, in which she thrusts her head into the oven, her children sleeping nearby as the carbon monoxide steals away her last strands of breath; Robin Williams, beloved actor and comedian, whose death devastated the world.

These individuals, of course, only contribute to a fraction of what appears to be an eternalized list. Beethoven, Edgar Allan Poe, Ernest Hemingway, Frida Kahlo, Anne Sexton, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse–they were all tortured artists. Some took their own lives. Some passed away due to physical illnesses. But there is no denying that each of these men and women died in the company of their own sadness.

Sadness, indeed, seems to be a commonality among creative thinkers; while depression is not prone to infect the minds of creatives alone, it is far more prevalent among creatives than it is in the “average” person. A report published in The Guardian (2014) states, “painters, musicians, and dancers were, on average, 25 % more likely to carry the gene variants [for depression] than professions scientists deemed as being less creative.” This statistic represents a group of people that,  according to psychologists, have an increased tendency to ruminate, in comparison to non-creatives.

To conventional dictionary definitions, ruminating, to put it simply, refers to contemplation, typically to an extent of great depth. But from a psychological standpoint, ruminating holds a negative connotation since it describes an obsessive act in which an individual repetitively reflects on distressing thoughts or situations.  Depressive rumination, in particular, concerns one’s feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness and is usually spurred on by memory; that is, when a person is feeling depressed about something that is occurring in their present lives, memory causes them to recall other instances in which they also felt depressed. This proves especially troublesome for creatives–painters, poets, musicians, etc–who “connect the small details of everything [they] experience, the good and the bad” as is reiterated by Tanner Christensen in “The Link Between Creativity and Depression.”

Being a poet myself, I find Christensen’s description of a creative’s rumination process to be both warranted and accurate. While an artist’s work may be inspired by a grand miscellany of factors, it is often the desire for catharsis that prompts an artist to create in the first place. Because catharsis is a form of release that is used to remedy some unfavourable emotion, it is an alleviation that is almost always exclusive to pain; there is obviously no need for one to purge themselves of happiness because happiness does not have any distinct, negative impacts on emotional health.

However, while catharsis might provide relief, it is the process through which a creative seeks to attain this relief, that their sorrows become more prominent. This is because, to create art that is cathartic, one must first reflect on the sadness that has inflicted them. But, similar to a domino effect, what might start out as a mere reflection may eventually manifest itself in the form of rumination, in which a person might obsessively deliberate the hardships that have burdened them, thus deepening any feelings of depression.

But surely catharsis—despite the fact that it is an instigator of the rumination process—is capable of relieving any depressive thoughts, right?

Well, not exactly.

Another issue that is common among creatives is one’s incapability to formulate solutions to their problems. This definitely explains the rumination of creatives; it is not necessary to obsess over a problem that has been solved–a problem that no longer exists. Ironically enough, creatives are also incredibly imaginative, so you’d think that this imagination could be utilized to come up with new, efficient ways to approach an obstacle. Instead, and on the contrary, however, it is imagination that enables a creative to catastrophize, which, in turn, causes them to view their tribulations as being permanent and seemingly insurmountable.

Moreover, imagination is a catalyst for idealism, something that may appear to be innately good, but, in actuality, puts creatives at risk; that is to say, idealism is capable of antagonizing a creative by immersing them within an illusion, one that represents, perhaps the lifestyle a creative wants  but does not have—something they may never be able to achieve in the first place. Eventually, the inevitable shattering of the illusion proves itself to be all the more devastating as a creative is forced to come to terms with the true nature of their reality. As a result, a creative is more likely to become dissatisfied with their life.  Thus, while catharsis might be able to temporarily reduce emotional tension, it is, by no means, something that can sustain one’s happiness.

Additionally, artists are known for the precarious lives they lead—they are typically known for living on the edge. The continuous recklessness associated with living on the edge too acts as an inhibition to the establishment of a healthy state of mind; artists, in an attempt to rid themselves of their sadness, are more likely to take risks, which usually lead to consequences, and, therefore feelings of regret on the artist’s part. For instance, many creatives—and anyone who suffers from chronic depression, for that matter— self-medicate in order to ease daily anxieties. Alcohol, as well any non-stimulant drug, are often the means through which an individual might self-medicate, as these substances have a calming effect on the nerves. Of course, something that may be overlooked by a user is the fact that each substance is a depressant, and that both alcohol and drugs can be detrimental to their physical health if they are used on a consistent basis. For example, substance abuse can lead to liver damage and failure. Under such circumstances–bodily deterioration– a creative is, without a doubt, left feeling dejected—both worthless and inadequate— as their degenerating body appears to betray them. Some, on the other hand, may, instead, overdose whether it be an intentional overdose or not. Why do you think so many creatives die young?

But, ironically enough, to some, depression is considered to be an evolutionary strength, especially by supporters of Darwin’s “only the strongest will survive”; Darwinists believe that depression encourages us to become better–stronger– psychologically because we desire to rise above the pain it causes. While I do not necessarily agree with this—I personally do not think depression propagates our chances of survival, as the number of people who have taken their lives due to their inability to cope with their depression is, in itself, unfathomable–and while I certainly do not view a depressed individual as being weak or incapable, I can appreciate the “moving on” mentality of “only the strongest will survive.”

And, by “moving on” I don’t mean spontaneously ridding ourselves of our depression. Because let’s be real here. That is neither realistic or possible. As someone who has struggled with depression her whole life, and as someone who is, on top of that, a creative, moving on for me means living when I so badly do not want to. This way, I can continue to do what I do best–write poetry. Because dead girls certainly cannot write poetry.

And I want to write, to create, with the purpose of honouring all of the tortured artists we have lost to depression, those who let their creativity destroy them.

I want to live on for those who could not—who chose not to— live.

Van Gogh. Sylvia Plath. Robin Williams. And all the rest.

This is for you.

~

Inspired by the same themes present in this article, I have written a poem that is also entitled “Art Imitates Sadness “   If you are willing, I’d appreciate it if you gave it a read. 😉

Feature Image:

Sad man huddling against house gif. (n.d.). [image] Available at: http://31.media.tumblr.com/ea493d68972525075a85431e53ac340e/tumblr_n9919tVGh71rohvuao1_500.gif [Accessed 30 Apr. 2018].

Bibliography:
  • Christensen, T. (2013). The link between depression and creativity, and how it can be good for you. [online] Creative Something. Available at: https://creativesomething.net/post/55508909341/the-link-between-depression-and-creativity-and [Accessed 15 April  2018] 
  • Wehrenberg, M. (2016). Rumination: A Problem in Anxiety and Depression. [online] Psychology Today. Available at: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/depression-management-techniques/201604/rumination-problem-in-anxiety-and-depression [Accessed 15 April 2018].
  • The Ranch. (2017). Artists and Depression: The Link Between Depression and Creativity | The Ranch. [online] Available at: https://www.recoveryranch.com/articles/artists-depression-link-depression-creativity/ [Accessed 15 Apr. 2018].
  • Biali, S. (2012). A Little Weird? Prone to Depression? Blame Your Creative Brain. [online] Psychology Today. Available at: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/prescriptions-life/201204/little-weird-prone-depression-blame-your-creative-brain [Accessed 15 April 2018].
  • Eyeondesign.aiga.org. (n.d.). The Links Between Creativity and Depression | | Eye on Design. [online] Available at: https://eyeondesign.aiga.org/the-links-between-creativity-and-depression/ [Accessed 15 April 2018].
  • Matthews, H. (2009). Top 10 Tortured Artists – Toptenz.net. [online] Toptenz.net. Available at: http://www.toptenz.net/top-10-tortured-artists.php [Accessed 15 Apr. 2018].

Dark Forest

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As I step into the forest, everything becomes dark. I see black souls rushing in one direction. One of the souls spot me and stop. They start looking at me with curiosity. Wondering where I came from and if I’m still human or not. As it comes closer towards me two more follow, slowly three more. The number gradually increases as the souls glance at me. Then they are in a circle, surrounding me. They push and shove each other to get their hands on me. It was hard for them to decide who would eat me, so I was safe, for the time being. As I look around me, I see a soul that signifies the identity of a faceless man, with no eyes, ears or nose. But with a significantly large mouth

As soon as the souls realize I was still there, they rush towards me once again, with hunger and desperation. But this time, it wasn’t about deciding who will consume me, it was everybody trying to attempt consumption. I lose hope, and welcome the death that was upon me. A few seconds later, I assume I was dead, but I wasn’t! I checked my pulse and my body parts, they were still there. I was still alive, as I look around I see a white bear, staring at me with elegant eyes, with a color as blue as the ocean. The bear approaches me slowly, he comes so close, that tears begin to come out of my eyes. I was stunned by this bear, because it was indeed the work of mother nature’s beauty, which seemed dormant in the forest up until now.

All of a sudden, he disappears right in front of my eyes, leaving me alone in the darkness. I look around the filthy place and smell the scent of the rotting souls. The air of death is around me. I relax myself and become careless of my surroundings, thinking about the white bear. It felt as if it was telling me to go somewhere, so I followed it.

This lead me to the black river, with the stench of the bad souls, and viscosity as that of blood, it was a danger to be here. At the same time, I was here for a reason, it was the bear that brought me up to this point.

On the other side of this river, surprisingly, I spotted a bear cub! It hid behind a tree as soon as it noticed me looking in it’s direction. I crossed the bloody river to see why he was hiding behind that tree. It was not alone, it was accompanied by an evil soul, which was feeding on its spirit. I attempted to take the cub out of that place, but it seemed impossible. The soul wouldn’t let go. So I calmed myself down and enlightened my spirit, and amazingly, the soul just disappeared. It came to my attention that evil souls fear people that are enlightened and calm.

I immediately took the cub out of there afterwards and had a vision of a lush green land, filled with more hope and enlightenment, just like me. A vision that started to lead me in a direction that I didn’t know of before. The cub, apparently, was following me, it was inexplicable. How would an animal want to follow a human, I thought of it as a sign of loyalty because I saved it. After days of walking in the designated direction, I noticed that the forest started to lighten up. Everything was becoming beautiful and the forest started to show it’s true colors. My vision had come true, after days of walking on that steep, muddy and long path. The cub wouldn’t stop following me, and it eventually got annoying. But I thought to myself, why not keep such an animal to accompany me, so I don’t have to feel the sense of loneliness every again. We still had much to explore in this new lush green land, which I think holds many wonders and secrets to it.

This story was inspired by the piece that I wrote called Hatred in the souls. This is the continued story of the person that got stuck in the dark forest.

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In This Moonlight

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Synopsis:

Till death do us part? For one woman in a suffocating marriage, that may not be fully true. Whilst dragging her husband’s body out to be buried, she hears his voice. He opens his eyes, and begins to speak to her. They talk of their marriage, and the eventual routine a couple falls into. Yet, there is something we are not getting. Her motive. What drives a person to commit murder? What happens when years of commitment are brought to a boiling point. A boiling point punctuated with a bullet.

Character Description:

Woman is  slowly coming apart after killing her husband of many years. She is easily controlled, a side effect of her many years in an abusive marriage.  She is becoming more defiant as she reaches her breaking point. She is grappling with the benefit of her crime vs. the nature of her crime itself.

Corpse is manipulative and abusive, he was demanding and possessive in life. He is trying to hold on to his greatest treasure, his wife. He is not, however, not a loving man. He dearly loves his wife, but has backward ideals. He was raised in this generation, he knows no different. He is not an evil man, despite appearances. Corpse can only move head, not his body. He will need woman’s help. He slows gains movement of his body, think reverse rigor mortis. Shot in heart.

Both are wealthy, and upper class.

Set/Background:

Barren graveyard, foggy and empty. Set in 1950’s

Production notes:

Takes place at night. Blue and purple lighting/ cyclorama. Dim wash, but still visible. For the part in their home, a visible lighting shift that simulates an interior home. Minimal set. Need a shovel, and a way to simulate a grave. Fog machine set to simulate low lying fog, but not overdone.

Script:

(off stage) Corpse: Please put the gun down, I’m sorry. I am. You can’t get that upset over such a small thing. I love you, you know. Are you listening to me?

(off stage) Woman: I’ll never have to hear you again.

Gunshot heard. Car pulls up. (Can be simulated with lights) Woman steps out. She goes round to back of trunk. Lugs out body of man under tarp. Clearly too heavy for her. She lays it down. Goes back to get shovel. She begins to realize the work ahead of her.

Woman: Got to get this sorted, sun is on it’s way up.(Humming jaunty tune, clearly afraid. Sees blood seep from tarp, feels remorse.) I can’t hear his voice. Silence. Oh, god, oh god, oh god. Honey, Honey! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It looks worse than it is, promise. Freedom. Freedom is silence.  (She goes about setting up tools and shovels, as well as cleaning off murder weapon, I’m partial to a gun)

Corpse:  Where are you going dear? (Woman turns in shock; his voice is one she never wanted to hear again. She lifts tarp to see his face) Why thank you, I could barely breathe under all that heavy fabric.

Woman: (In shock) I hear him. How do I hear him? How? I… shot you. It went straight through you and out the other side. How are you speaking? Thinking? Breathing?

Corpse: Was it the gunshot? I figured seeing you under all this moonlight is what took my breath away. Christ, you’re beautiful.

Woman: (Slams down shovel to cut him off, clearly afraid) Don’t talk to me, you can’t talk to me. You aren’t real. You aren’t. I can’t hear you. (glancing at corpse)

Corpse: I’m as real as the day I died. Come here.

Woman: No.

Corpse: (Wistful) Can’t a poor man appreciate his wife’s beauty? The moonlight makes you look so striking, it suits you dear. It was that pretty face that drew me to you. Across that old ballroom, there you stood, glinting like the moon in a room full of stars. Everyone paled in comparison.

Woman: Please stop. (props corpse upright, lighting a smoke to calm herself. Out of an old habit, she puts cigarette up to corpse’s mouth, hands shaking.)

Corpse: Don’t mind if I do.

Woman:  I’m sorry. (She quickly redraws her hands from his mouth)

Corpse: hmm?

Woman:  I said… I’m sorry.

Corpse: For what?

(There exists a long pause in which both party’s eyes fall upon the shovel, woman’s eyes swivel back to corpse. Make connection. Wife steals it)

Corpse: (realizing his defeat, tries to get to root of problem) You know… I always thought it would be one of the men at the bank, or some mistress. Maybe your mother. God she hates… hated… me. Never you, Never thought it would be you. If you don’t my being a little blunt, may I ask you as to why?

Woman: Why what?

Corpse: (Dropping polite pretenses) (beginning to show true nature) Putting a bullet between my eyes. (Catches self). (Coughs) You are going to tell me. Years. That’s what it was. Years of marriage, come to this.  We had a routine.

Woman: A routine?

(The next two lines are said simultaneously, it is intentionally muddled. They yell over each other.)

Corpse: Breakfast, then I leave, drinks with the boys, come home to you with dinner on the table, then a pipe, and off to bed.

Woman: Breakfast, then you leave, prepare for your return, you come home drunk, then a fight, and off to bed.

Both: Food, drink, food, pipe, bed (repeat)

(Next two lines also said together)

Corpse: Eat a good meal. Relax by the fire. Come home to a loving embrace.

Woman: Prep a good meal. Stoke the fire. Hear the door creak open. (Just her speaking now) Dodge your attempt at affection. Then go upstairs and wait for you to fall asleep next to me. Hope that sleep is all you want.

Both: Take, possess, behold, contain.

Corpse: (scoffing) Man’s got a right to enjoy what this world has to offer.

Woman: I spent every day making you comfortable. It was all I had. You never showed an inch of gratitude.

Corpse: (Taken aback) You don’t thank someone for doing their job.

Woman: (Remorse) I’m sorry. I’m sorry you ended this way. It’s not glorious, I know you wanted a glamorous end. I’m sorry I robbed you of that. (Considering) You were so… vain. You always wanted a picture perfect life. You were willing to fit everyone in that box, through whatever means. Obedience from your wife, a sparkling home, constant promotions, and a hero’s death.

Corpse: That’s not an answer.  Tell me. I HAVE A RIGHT TO KNOW! TELL ME! (Using what exists of his mobility, he crawls toward her, grasps her hands and pulls her down to his level.)You feel that? Being that close to the Earth, that close to rotting? The decay, it has already begun. I can feel my flesh coming away, my bones turning to ash. You did this to me, you put me here. (Manipulative) The least you can do… is tell me why.

Woman:  Because every time I heard your voice I wanted to cry. I despise you. Ever since we were married you took complete control. You didn’t want a wife, you wanted a slave. The idea of wearing your ring makes my flesh crawl. Hearing you breathe beside me in bed reminds me of what you have taken  and will take from me. Sitting across you at the table makes stomach no longer want for food. Your hand on my skin made me want to rip it off. So I sat, day in, day out in a prison where my cellmate was also my jailer. Escape was inevitable, yet divorce was out of the question. (resolve) I took an alternate route.

(She turns to look at him, nearly at the shovel. He strikes a pose, leaning on his working arm. To deflect her attention from how close he is to the shovel. She looks at him strangely.)

Corpse: Is that so? (He is angry. Is it because she is finally in a place of power?)  

Woman: Yes it is.

Do you think I’m having the time of my life? I shot a man, and whether or not you are actually dead, I had the intention of killing you. I didn’t know it at the time, but I wanted to kill you. I am capable of taking life. Do you have any idea how shocking that is to find out about yourself? It was so easy. You were coming toward me, that look in your eyes, the one you get when you want something bad.  I thought about how… free… I’d be without you, and I pulled the trigger.

(To self)

So easy.

Corpse: I’m not someone you need freedom from. I’m the only reason you have any standing in this goddamn world. I’m your wallet, your guardian, your husband!

(we now enter a reenactment of their final fight)

(Lighting shift)

(Corpse gets up and sits in chair as if he is home, smoking a pipe, whatever it takes to establish he is alive now.)

(wife enters from the cold)

Corpse: (leading) Where were you?

Woman: (startled) Out. I was out. Nothing wrong with that. (To herself) I hear him.

Corpse: I’ll ask you again. Where were you?

Woman: Why does it matter?

Corpse: (Condescending) Because, if you are out there making a fool of yourself, it reflects on me. If you are a fool, I am a fool. If you are dishonorable, I am dishonorable. (smiling, and moving towards her) If you won’t tell me… I’ll have to ask someone else.

Woman: (To stop him, saying it out of fear) A pub.

(corpse stands, grabs wife’s hands and holds it)

Corpse: A pub! A damn pub! Do you know what people would say! My wife is some whore who flaunts herself in brothels and the like!

Woman: (Mocking him) Yes. I walked in there in a dress to my thigh! I found the nearest man I could see, and threw myself at him. Oh, you would have loved him dear. He was so sweet, treated me so well. Told be how I reminded him the sun, beautiful and radiant. Said if I were to be his wife he’d never hit me. Here that? A man who wouldn’t hit his wife, how shocking!

Corpse: Did you dance? Drink?

Woman: Yes. (Hitting her breaking point)

Corpse: (spits) whore.

Woman: A whore. That’s what you think I am? (Angry) Because I want to enjoy a night, not spend it next to you? Because I want freedom? A stiff drink? I’d love another, right now, actually. (Crescendo) Maybe, just maybe, it’ll dull the pain of all this. Then I can pass out on the living room chair, while you bring me a pipe? Then when we inevitably get in a fight…

(He hits her, cutting her off)

Corpse: (Explanatory) Don’t look at me like that, I only do this to maintain your honour. Your beauty. How else are you to know what is right? Look at me. LOOK AT ME.  I AM YOUR HUSBAND LOOK AT ME!

(she doesn’t)

(He grabs her arm and pulls her up, making eye contact. He softens. Looks like he wants to kiss her. She looks down again, he pushes her away. Why is she being so cold?)

Woman: (once again broken) I’m sorry. (beat)

Corpse: (Accepting of her apology, he has spun his guilt onto her) Yes. Yes you are. Come here.

(Once again, she doesn’t. The sign of growing defiance.)

Corpse: Look. When I want something you get it.  Food, water, clothing, it doesn’t matter. When I want something you get it. And right now… I want you. (hand on her face) In this light… it suits you, you know… this moonlight.

Do you know? Do you know how merciful I am? I am so kind to you, so incredibly kind. (To himself)  Feed you, clothe you, pay for you. (He smiles)

(He leans in for a kiss. She backs off scrambling for something to protect her. Finding a gun.)

Corpse: (realizing he is in  danger, trying to justify his behaviour) Are you upset? You know this is how I am, I can’t change myself. Therapeutic they say. Better to lay hands on your wife then to silently resent her. All the men at the club do it. To protect their purity, they say. A woman must no her standing. You look beautiful… in this moonlight… absolutely beautiful.

Woman: Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.

Corpse:  Can’t a man appreciate his wife’s beauty?

Woman:  (Panics. Pulls trigger.) I can’t hear him. Can’t hear his voice.

Corpse: (Falls and crumples at wife’s feet.) Was it because I loved you? Because I protected you? Because I wanted you to be the best you could be?

Woman: Yes.

Corpse: The rot. That is the worst part. I was beautiful. We were beautiful. The skin I used to love you, touch you, returning to the Earth. The muscles I used to spin you around are now stiff and immobile. The eyes I used to take in every inch of your face are crusting shut. How could you…

(He doesn’t move, or speak.)

Woman: I’m sorry. Do you hear me? I’m sorry. (He isn’t responding). I’M SORRY.

I can’t hear you. (sinking into madness) It is not your fault, you knew nothing else. It is just… the weight. The weight of it all came down on me and I had the trigger to release it in my hand. He’s dead? I did it. If it is any consolation.. I will always feel remorse.

I loved you.

I love you…

I love that you will never touch me ever again.

(She shakes him, again no response. She realizes he won’t respond, and begins to dig grave. As she finishes her work, he speaks one last time…)

Corpse: You look beautiful…in this moonlight.

Woman: I’ve always liked the way I look in the sun.

(Sunlight rises slowly over graveyard, woman sets to her task of burial)

 

Author Unknown. “Gif Death Black and White Sad Suicide Horror b&w Dead Grave Sadness Tomb Funeral Tombstone Bury Inhumation Burried Tgifs.” Rebloggy!, 0AD, rebloggy.com/post/gif-death-black-and-white-sad-suicide-horror-b-w-dead-grave-sadness-tomb-funeral/83896312928.

Don’t go into the basement

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When Ma and Papa told her a year ago that they were moving, the girl thought that even though things would be different, her brother Bear would always be there for her; cheerful, loyal and always reminding her of home.That wishful thinking was killed after the accident.

Now today was moving day and tomorrow was a new home without Bear to keep her grounded, keep her in reality.

The girl stood one last time in the middle of her favorite room in the house, dubbed “The Watchtower” for the telescope shaped window that seemed to allow the viewer to see for miles, and swept her gazed across the now empty room except for the grandfather clock.

Gone were the Victorian furniture and decor, the ancient oak bookcases filled with dusty time portals she visited a thousand times, all of it now sitting in boxes waiting to be opened in their new house.

This was the first time she was able to be in a room that Bear had once occupied since the accident and not have a panic attack, especially this one.

Everywhere she looked she saw his round little face with his big blue eyes, heard his squealing laugh and his soft breathing.  She could feel her chest tightening, feel her breathing pace faster.

Breathe, she thought, just think and let all the memories go into this room.

The girl took a few deep breathes and slowly opened her eyes.  She glanced at the old grandfather clock and wished it was coming with them, but her parents sold it along with the house. A closer inspection revealed a small stuffed teddy bear casually sitting on the pendulum bob.

It looked an awful lot like Teddy, her little brother’s stuffed teddy bear he had with him 24/7 ever since he was born.  The girl lovingly nicknamed him Bear, because Bear and his stuffy were almost one and the same.  She slowly stepped back in shock.

No, impossible, she was sure that Teddy was buried with Bear, for she herself gently placed Teddy beside Bear in his small coffin.  She scolded herself for  trying to fray her already scattered nerves and reasoned that Ma probably bought a similar stuffy as a random decoration.  The girl abruptly left and locking the door behind her, shoved the key in her pocket.  But an unsettling feeling remained.

As the car pulled away from the only home she ever knew, the girl watched the house full of left behind memories slowly fade away into a tiny dot on the horizon.

Her thoughts wander to Bear and Teddy, suddenly, a memory she’d long forgotten wormed its way into her train of thoughts…

She remembered how upset her brother would get without Teddy by his side, when once Ma took Teddy away as a punishment, he held his breathe until he passed out.  Ma was a mess and established a rule;  don’t ever touch Teddy or else.  She obliged to the rule but noticed that as Bear grew up, his obsession with Teddy increased.  She saw this with growing concern for Bear’s mental health and a weird feeling from Teddy, when she witnessed something that further fueled her concern.  

One night as the girl was doing some late night reading, she thought she heard noise coming from Bear’s room, which was in The Watchtower.  With her being the investigative kind, naturally she was inclined to go and check on him. 

 On climbing the two flights of stairs, she noticed the door was open a crack and heard, not noise but muffled conversation.  When the girl peaked through the crack, she saw a small figure pacing the carpeted floor.  Bear was sitting up in bed and conversing with the hidden figure. 

A beam of moonlight caught the features of the figure  revealing a glowing red eye, sharp pointy teeth and that familiar black fur with the innocent white snout. She tried to tell her parents, but to her shock they calmly dismissed her worries, told her she was imagining things.  That night proved something was amiss with Bear, time would only tell.

Her watch reads noon by the time they pass a sign that reads Welcome to Port Sous-Sol, their new home.  The car soon pulls up to an old house with two twin towers, similar to their old one.

The rest of the day ensued organizing the house and buying food for the coming week.  The girl collapsed into a deep sleep that night but thoughts about Bear kept invading her dreams.

The next morning, anxious to get her out of the house, Ma shoved some money into her tired hand and practically pushed her into town.  Port Sous-Sol wasn’t much bigger than the girl’s former neighbourhood; complete with empty streets, dark store fronts and gravel roads.

Odd, thought the girl as she peeked into an empty store window, that on a weekday morning nothing is bustling with activity. 

The girl stumbled on the uneven sidewalk and happened to glance to the right. An unusually dark alleyway with its big gaping mouth greeted her.  That same unsettling feeling from The Watchtower slowly edged her forward and into the alley.  That feeling propelled her forward through the dark like a firm hand on the shoulder.

Not far in, she came upon a small rickety store. Ancient toys lined the small dusty window. The sign on the tall oak door said The One-Time toy store in big black letters.  She slowly walked up the chipped wood stairs and entered inside.

A short, aging man greeted her. He sat at a tiny desk with a dusty cash register piled high with beautifully bound books.  The man had on round owl glasses pushed down his nose and kindly features framing a wrinkly square face.

The girl haphazardly looked around the store.  Everything was covered with a light dust and items varied from books to toys to candy that looked it had been sitting there for centuries.  She passed another shelf full of books and turned the corner.

Sitting all alone on a shelf beside some broken records was a small stuffed teddy bear.

That unsettling feeling hit the girl like a punch to the face.  Those happy black eyes and soft black fur with that white innoccent snout.

Impossible, stop scaring youself, the girl thought as she gently picked up the stuffy to inspect it.  Her brain was playing tricks with her.  This one had a pink thread stitched where the right eye should be , clearly not Teddy.  The girl breathed a huge sigh of relief as she carried the stuffy to the front to pay.

She handed the man her handful of money and casually questioned him on where he got the stuffy.

He told her that he found it laying on the steps of the store a day ago with a missing eye.

The man handed her the stuffy in a plain paper bag and told her no refunds or exchanges, final sale only.

The girl emerged from the alleyway and sheilded her eyes from the bright sunlight.  As she retraced her steps back home, the girl happened to  glance back  and saw a thick grey fog settling over  everything behind her.

 

The morning sunlight streamed through the girl’s window the next day as she struggled to open her eyes. Her gaze fell on the teddy bear comfortably sitting on her dresser she stupidly wasted  money on yesterday.  She noticed an weird coloured spot on its leg and a closer inspection revealed words written in red permanent marker.  Bear +Teddy forever.

Her blood curdled at those words. She remebered when Bear wrote those words, when he asked her how to spell ‘forever’. This was no joke.

The girl hurridly dumped Teddy into his plain paper bag and practically flew back to where the dark alleyway laid. She was faced with a harsh reality, it was gone.

Where the toy store once stood, empty ground replaced it. Sunlight lit the once pitch black alley. The only remains of the toystore was the rickety old steps leading to air.

The girl stood there in shock. Great, now where was the nearest creepy toyshop  kindly excepting evil stalker stuffys and giving full refunds?

She returnes home later that day with Teddy at arms length away. The girl examined it again to make sure she wasn’t having a mental freakout over nothing.

In addition to the writing on its leg, Teddy now sported patches of metal all over the right side of its head with the missing eye.

The girl gave a shriek of terror. Without a second thought, she raced down the stairs with Teddy in tow to the basement door.  She chucked that messed up stuffy into the farthest corner of the empty dark basement and locked the door firmly shut behind her.  She breathed a huge sigh of relieve, Teddy was gone forever locked in the damp dark basement, left to rot away like Bear buried deep in the ground.

The girl went through the rest of the week with a giddy ecstasy she couldn’t quite explain.  She felt the looming presence that Teddy seemed to occupy evaporate like smoke.  She was free…for now.

Night spread her thick black blanket over the sky.  The girl slept peacefully in her room with moonlight shining through the partly open window, the bedroom door open a crack.  Slowly the door to the girl’s room inched open a crack more and slipped inside.  The figure inched its way on top of the sleeping form. Light from the moon illuminated the figure to reveal irregular shiny metal  patches peaking out of matted black fur.  Sharp razor teeth glinted from beneath an innocent white snout.   It let out a deep mechanical laugh enough to freeze blood.  The girl woke with a start and her sleepy eyes met the harsh red glare from the figure’s glowing slash of an eye,

Her screams echoed through the night, unanswered.

Ma squinted as dusty beams of sunlight poured into the room. Ma could have sworn she heard a scream last night, oddly enough.

Ma slowly made her way up the stairs to the girl’s room thinking about Bear and the night he died, how his body laid contorted on the blue comforter soaked with blood.  Teddy stood on the window edge, innocent as usual.

Ma reached the already slightly open door and went inside softly calling the girl’s name, already knowing what she’d find.

The girl’s body laid contored and stiff on the pink comforter, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood had already completely soaked the bed and dripped into pools on the wood floor.

Ma gasped and shakily put a hand to her mouth.

Ma  turned to go. They had to leave now, while Teddy back to its normal self.

We had a deal, Ma spoke calmly, but Bear clearly  wasn’t enough for you, so it’s off.  The house and its next occupants are yours to enjoy. Good bye.

Teddy watched out the dusty window as the car disappeared into the horizon, a wicked smile on its face, the girl dead in her bed.

 

 

To be continued.

 

 

 

 

 

A New Home

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Isn’t life so exhausting? The people, the talking, all those fake smiles produced just to make someone you don’t even care about happy. Sometimes I just want to get up and leave everything and everyone behind. Start a new life where no one even knows my name. Maybe I could chose a new name, wouldn’t that be fitting a new name for a new life. But a fresh start must come with an ending before it, so what is going to end this life I have now, this pitiful existence that I’m sure everyone hates… Fire. A beautiful yet destructive force, yes that’s how I should end, in a flurry of flame the ashes of who I was coating the faces of those who hated me oh so much. Back to the name what would it be, it can’t be something simple, it has to represent the life I want, extravagant, stunning, and, memorable. I want this new name to be remembered for nothing if not how it strikes people, how it sticks to the back of their mind so that they can’t stop saying it over and over and over again. But to be honest I’ll get bored of that name too. I’ll cast it aside like a piece of trash and forget about it.

What would I do with my new found existence? Do you have any ideas? No? I didn’t think you would, you’re all just as useless as the old me. A barren bunch of minds devoid of creativity or imagination driven like cattle through your lives running from a job you hate to a family you stopped loving years ago, that’s all you people are. And that’s why I hate you all. You snatched me up and dumped me in this box just because I was free, just because I made you all feel bad about your pitiful lives. You people think you’re so much better than people like me and all the others here, but you’re not are you? You’re just as broken as the rest of us but we get punished because we can’t hold it in is that how it works is that what i get for asking for help. Well screw all of you I don’t need your help, or your brightly coloured pills made up in some lab halfway around the world designed to turn the world back to black and white. But you know what, I’ve found a way to escape. Do you want me to tell you what it is? You do really? Well all I have to do is take this rope I stole from one of the guards as they passed by and tie it around the light then my neck and then I’ll finally be free from this prison, free to start the new life I always wanted.

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