Cathy unearthed Part 2 of 6
Tom was just, barely surviving on the meager earnings of a part-time job packing shelves at a Super-market.
The money from the farm was gone and the future held no promise. His only friend was half-crazy old man with whom he spent hours just staring into inner-space.
Depression was tearing him apart and a once budding talent was reduced to groveling for commissions only to be incapable of producing the sickly sweet prettiness demanded from the idle rich.
Rarely would a painting of his sell. The images he created emitted no warmth.
No patron wanted psychotic monsters masquerading as human litter, festooned on their walls.
But every time he tried to do the Gallery’s bidding of a friendlier style of work the painting just took over and only angry twisted and grotesque beings clawed out of the canvas.
Dirt and squalor inhabited his life. Alone, on the 3rd floor of a condemned building he huddled in desperation.
His nightly dreams now contemplated life and death, neither of which brought any pleasure nor pain but the hope of final relief.
He had sold the last thing of value, that chronograph found at the accident scene, for some paint and food. The Pawn-broker, looking at the back of the watch said:
“Sure you want to part with this?” Tom nodded and took the money hurriedly.
On a cold and luckless morning, carrying a canvas he could not sell, he walked aimlessly in a confused stupor.
Just then, around the same corner he was leaning for support, a young hopeful was hurrying to an early appointment carrying a coffee.
The girl smashed into his sulking, thin body.
The paper-cup split and her coffee exploded in both their faces, the plastic lid hitting him and cutting his nose.
Avoiding cab-fare, Cathy had rushed out early to get to the interview in time.
Hot coffee burnt her chest and she screamed in terror at the only outfit she had, now stained, unusable.
Tom jumped aside then, surprised and fearful fled the scene like a guilt-ridden thief leaving her sobbing at her bad luck on this one important, desperate morning.
Arms flailing, coffee streaking her fingers and stains splattering her lucky-blouse, she looked plaintively up to the sky as she sank to her knees.
Then the final insult! Placing a hand on the painting dropped by the intruder, something cut her deeply; something sharp and hot; something so painful that it seemed to go up her arm right trough to her heart then her burn hot trough her veins.
Just then it started raining. Shaking with indignation she looked up at the sky and screamed!
*Characters in this story are purely fictional.