The Outsider
Staring
blankly into what's presented in front of him. This dark figure,
stares in the middle of the wall, resolute. He has been doing this
for some time, when he began there were people close to him, but now.
No-one. “Nacimiento
del Gótico”
was the name of the painting he was now lost in. Created in 1386 by
the Spanish great Alvaro Ramos. Now alone in the centre of one of the
greatest art collections in the modern world. He was entranced. How
was he allowed to be here at such a time? This thought began to sweep
across his mind. Had the staff forgotten him, just as the world had?
Well it is easy to forget someone if they never make an impression on
you.
His
creased whit shirt in much contrast to his cleanly pressed black
trousers. This was his uniform, for what job no one was quite sure.
The common public assumption was security but no-one ventured to ask,
because quite frankly no-one cared. People saw him each day, sitting
on the first seat of the bus staring into the distance, a distance
which wasn't there.
His
hands shook involuntarily as his dark eyes wandered between the
frames, searching for reason, not just within the painting but he
always found himself searching for some meaning behind what he was
doing. As his hand continued to shake he plunged it into his pocket,
allowing his fingers to roll over what was inside. A handful of
coins, different sizes, shapes and currency, yet all fitting together
between his fingers. It interested him how such a global consistency
could vary so much across the globe. Within his other pocket he
touched the top of a cash bundle, he himself didn't know how much was
inside, he knew there were ten notes so it could have been anything
between fifty pounds to 500, he knew the man who slipped it to him
was British so he had made the assumption of it being pounds, but
with the amount of mystery shrouding the suited man who handed him
the paper, suit case and cash clip. He followed the instructions
written on the now crumpled paper squashed in his breast pocket. Now
he was waiting. For what he didn't know.
Footsteps
came from the other end of the marbled floor. The sound of the soles
echoed through the halls, resonating into the figure's ears and
shaking the image before his eyes. Of course not to the naked eye
but, to the man who's eyes hadn't moved from it for hours each
vibration shuddered the flicks of paint. He was lost, lost in the
world of the painting. Showing the creation of the Catedral
de la Santa Cruz y Santa Eulalia,
the beating heart in the centre of the emerging Catolan nation. It
spoke to him, a sole figure un-noticed within a society which was
moving faster than the masons could cut the stone.
The
lights went out and he was left in the pitch black. Now he was alone,
left without the painting and without his newly found guiding light.
A scream broke the silence and awoke his eyes, this was a chance for
him to be able to stand out and do something. He turned on his heel.
Almost slipping, while his shoes were, on the outside shined and
polished as if new, but they hid a sole which had lost any sense of
grip leading him to almost fall each time he made a turn.
This
was the moment he had been waiting for, or at least he thought it
was. Prowling the now darkened corridor, he blew into his hands,
warming them. The museum grew ever colder and as his breathing became
heavier, as the anxiety did upon his back, his breath created clouds
of fog infront of his eyes. A flickering exit light around the corner
was the only source of light in the pitch black. All the paintings
had gone it was him and the dark searching for a scream and a
meaning.
He
slowed as he arrived at the point where he thought the scream had
come from. Of course he couldn't be sure but something told him this
was the right place. A murmer from the corner and a squelch from
beneath his foot, this must be the place. “Hello?” his weak voice
barely made it to the edge of the fog that came with it. A smell
broke through the darkness, it was heavy and biological. It smelt to
him like the smell a compost bin gets when you don't empty it. “Mr
Davis? It's Mark, Mark Claridge?” there was no answer. “I think
this is where I'm meant to meet you, I think this is where the man
told me to come. I want to help, he said I could help”
The
room exploded with light. He was overwhelmed by the sight presented
to him, a blood trail from his shoe, still shiney but now claret. It
lead to what he assumed to be the source of the scream, she lying
dead upon the cold floor. Her face white, as the rest of the room
except coming from the back of her skull, what was left of it and not
scattered across the floor, blood splattered about half way up the
wall accompanied by lumps of grey flesh.
In
the corner a man was stood, drips of heavy liquid fell from his
finger tips as he emerged from the corner of the now wretching man's
eye. “Yes, this is where you are meant to be” his voice was
calming yet cold and organised, as if each word came from a script.
He continued, “Don't worry Mr Claridge, this is exactly where we want
you to be”...
Hope you enjoyed, and let me know what you thought
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