Forsaken - A Novel of Art, Evil, and Insanity

by Andrew van Wey

  He was almost certain his web browser was the active application, but when the instant message icon plinked a third time he saw that he had typed his entire search query into the chat box instead. He scrambled to undo his mistake, but it was too late. Wherever Karina was she had undoubtedly just seen the words: dRineheart is typing a message appear in her IM client as it did whenever someone started to respond.

  Now he couldn’t ignore her. He needed to defuse the situation, not detonate it, and given their last encounter he knew he had to be careful. Why couldn’t it be simple with her? Why did every minute of his day carry the constant threat of exposure? A threat she had long ago waved away, saying: “I can be discrete if you can.”

  i know ur there! read the next message with a cheerful pop followed by a smiley face that Dan found more insulting than the constant stream of messages.

  Discrete, laughed Mr. Glass. She’s about as discrete as a circumcision with pliers.

  Fuck off, Dan typed, finger hovering over the ENTER key when a knock at the door echoed out.

  Do it, whispered the glass.

  “It’s open,” Dan called, and pressed DELETE until the message was gone.

  Dean Robert entered. He looked tired, Dan noted, older than usual. His face didn’t stretch into an instant smile and his wrinkled hand didn’t drift up into that silly half salute that it often did upon entering Dan’s office.

  “Hey Bob, how are things?”

  Dean Robert nodded, lips pursed together as his hands sunk into his pockets. “We need to talk,” said Dean Robert as he sat down on the on the couch.

  Another instant message chirped out and Dan muted the computer before pulling up a chair opposite the coffee table and sitting down. “Of course, what is it?”

  “I had an interesting morning, not one I care to repeat,” the old man sighed.

  He knows, said that lazy piece of glass, and Dan felt his left hand twitch and seize up into a fist. Had Karina told him? Or the students at the library?

  “I spent the last two hours with the investigators. Fire and insurance. They were thorough. Very thorough, to say the least.”

  Dan felt his hand relax. “And?”

  “They believe they’ve found the source of the fire.”

  “Really?”

  “It was arson.”

  “What?” Dan scoffed. “How can they tell?”

  “There were inconsistencies. Their words, not mine. They were vague but insistent that the fire didn’t originate from any of the lamps or outlets.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “They weren’t sure. What they’re certain of is that negligence didn’t play a part. The burn patterns were controlled. Planned.”

  Dean Robert inhaled, his nostrils flaring as his forehead wrinkled. He leaned forward and looked Dan straight in the eyes for the first time in years.

  “Dan, I need you to be honest with me.”

  Here it comes, he thought.

  “Would any of your students have reason to do such a thing? Any reason at all?”

  “To start a fire?”

  “Yes.”

  Dan exhaled, leaned back and tapped his foot for dramatic effect. He could think of one in particular, but even for her, such an act would be obscene. After all, she had cried, both in The Archive and in his arms on that very couch. Or had it been act? Another masquerade of hers, one of countless that had driven him to end the affair as quick as possible. No, she would never. He put the thought out of his mind and filed it away under the absurd.

  “No,” Dan said. “None that I can think of.”

  Dean Robert held Dan’s stare for as long as he could, then smiled and clapped his hands, ending the discussion.

  “Very well,” the old man said as he stood up. “And how goes your search for the unknown artist?”

  “Bunch of dead ends.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll find something. You always do,” he said, pausing by the door. “And um, about this fire. If you think of anything...”

  “I’ll let you know,” Dan answered.

  “Of course.”

  Dean Robert left, and Dan returned to his computer to find five new instant messages, the final one reading: r we still on 4 the weekend???

  Thirteen miles and five zip codes away, Karina sat in front of her laptop, staring at the blinking cursor, waiting for a response that never came. The apartment was bare, undecorated, having been moved into eight days earlier. It was smaller than her previous place, but then again she had months to find that apartment last year and only days to find this one. Her sketchbook, camera, her clothes for the day, the necessities, they were the only items she had bothered to unpack. The rest of her bags sat against the wall, claim tags from Italy still wrapped around them, mocking the failure that had been her summer abroad.

  Downstairs, she could hear the old Jewish couple listening to the news at full volume. That had been their routine for the last week, perhaps the last half century, and she didn’t expect it to deviate. They were old and set in their ways no different from the grooves in the old stone streets she had seen overseas. After the news they would watch Jeopardy, then Law and Order, and whatever late night talk show was on before going to bed at exactly midnight. They smiled when she signed the rental agreement, when she got the keys, and when she saw them in the mornings, day after day. Most people would call them kind.

  Yet she hated them.

  She hated their silver hair, those matching canes, their afternoon walks around the block, stopping to marvel at the few trees that changed color this time of year like a pair of toothless kids before a toy store. She hated their smiles. Hated the way the old man shuffled back to the duplex with a grin and a newspaper, as if he’d walked on water, while the crone teetered on the stoop with a cup of coffee in hand, waiting. They reminded her of Italy, of the families, smiling and laughing in piazzas as their spawn chased each other beneath the summer sun. Drinking wine and coffee and plucking at bread with sunspotted talons.

  She had studied them, filled pages of her sketchbook with drawings of their happiness until she had drawn them out and replaced them with pictures of herself and her man, hands entwined, old, smiling, sharing coffee and wine and feeding each other bread beneath that same warm sun. It was the future, her future, their future, and the more she drew the clearer it became.

  And then came the doubt, growing like a tumor on her heart, spreading through her veins, until it infected everything, even the art she loved. The doubt that they’d ever share those moments, that future. The doubt that he loved her. The doubt that he felt the same emptiness that made her sick, literally, unable to eat the bread or drink the wine and coffee without throwing it up moments later. A sickness, coursing through her. His sickness.

  And the doubt that he would leave that family, that burden he had confessed he hated the same way she hated that old couple downstairs. The doubt, it crippled her, made it impossible to do the job he’d fought so hard to get her.

  Had he exiled her? the doubt asked. Had he swept her away like a secret? In the void that came after each unanswered question the doubt whispered back. It whispered that she was no different than a mistake, a blemish to him, and the sickness filled her.

  The computer chimed, and her eyes refocused on the screen, those cold black pixels that read: dRineheart has gone offline.

  Exiled indeed, said the doubt.

  Entente

  “I OWE YOU an apology.”

  Tommy turned his attention from the TV to his father, standing in the doorway of the living room. Tommy’s face was cold and annoyed. He blinked, perhaps wondering if he’d misheard his father’s words. “What?” he asked.

  “Tommy, this morning, I made a mistake.”

  “You broke my Nintendo,” Tommy said in a flat voice.

  “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry about that too.”

  Tommy squinted as if his dad were a dese
rt mirage that at any moment would turn to sand.

  “Tommy, I...,” Dan started, considering his words. “I never knew my parents. I know it’s hard for you to understand what that’s like but try imagine a hole. You call me dad, right?”

  “Duh,” Tommy quipped.

  “Who do I call dad? Who do I learn from if I never had a father?”

  “I don’t know,” Tommy answered.

  “Me neither. All I have is a hole there.”

  “So what?” Tommy asked.

  “So, what I’m trying to say is, it’s not easy being a father if you’ve never had one. I’m your dad, but I’m human too. I’m still learning. And sometimes I make mistakes.”

  “Like breaking my Nintendo?”

  “Like breaking your Nintendo,” Dan smiled. “And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

  Tommy studied his father. Then, as if realizing some small joke, he smiled. “That’s okay dad.”

  Dan smiled back. He took a deep breath and sat down on the old ottoman beside the couch. “Your sister looks up to you. You’re kind of a hero to her. Like, I dunno, Superman or something. You know that, right?”

  Tommy nodded. “I guess.”

  “I know she can be annoying, but try to be nicer to her, okay? You’re the world to her.”

  “Did you ever have a... you know, like a brother or sister?”

  There were cold nights and thunderstorms. The clack as the old chest slammed shut, and how the darkness and fear had suffocated him. Crying, for what felt like lifetimes. Fists and fingers against them wood until every fingernail had come loose and his fingertips were raw and wet. The thought of that darkness sent his stomach into a corkscrew, and he felt the glass vibrate white hot deep between his ears.

  “No,” Dan said. “I didn’t. But if I had, I think I would’ve wanted one like you.”

  A smile grew on Tommy’s face and he fought to keep it from spreading. Instead, he simply said: “Thanks dad.”

  “You’re a good kid Tommy,” Dan said as he stood up and walked to the door.

  “And you’re a good dad.”

  Dan felt his eyes twitch, the corners growing heavy with tears. And you’re a good dad, his son had said. You’re a good man, his wife had said. You’re a good lover, Karina had said.

  You’re a good liar, the glass said.

  He reached around the doorframe, felt the box he’d left on the end table just outside the living room. “And um, about that Nintendo of yours...” he said, and then tossed the box to Tommy, who caught it as his eyes went wide.

  “Oh cool! Nintendo 3D!”

  He tore into it with excitement. Several games fell out of the box as well--Mario Kart, Street Fighter, FIFA Soccer--games that the clerk hard assured Dan were must-haves for the system.

  “Thanks dad!” Tommy said, turning back to the empty doorframe where Dan had been standing until a moment ago.

  The study was awash in a thousand watts of white light. He had spent the last hour setting up the lights and had blown the fuse twice. The wiring was as old as the house, almost eighty years, and he had to unplug the television and computer to keep the circuit from popping again. Tommy didn’t mind that the TV was off, as he was immersed in his new toy, an excited “whoa, cool” coming from the room in regular intervals. Jessica was busy practicing her vocabulary and spelling words for the week with Linda in the dining room. He could hear their occasional laugh echoing down the hallway.

  He mounted the heavy DSLR camera on the tripod. He’d checked out a few grand worth of lenses and lighting equipment to go with it, having felt embarrassed the first batch of photos had come out so unprofessionally. He started with another wide shot of the painting. The camera whirred with each click, capturing the composition in twenty-five megapixels of resolution. Then, as he did before, he started from the left, capturing three images and adjusting the f-stop to be safe before moving on to the next invisible grid section.

  That bobble-headed girl with her tears and sack-like skin. That brooding boy and his pinhole eyes. The old wallpaper of the house, a small piece of it peeling back. And that spot between the kids and beneath the window. Empty and unbalanced, as if waiting to be filled.

  And the window, looking out upon the sunset landscape where that lonely tree stood. Again, the hill looked larger, as if it had grown since he’d last seen it. Impossible, he thought, and when he tried to remember its size it seemed only natural it had always been that shape. A lump in the middle of the field.

  And atop that hill sat the sick tree with the shadow behind it. Dan stopped on that image and lowered his camera. The shadow. Had it moved too? It was closer than before, as if it had stepped out from behind the tree and taken two steps towards the viewer.

  Of course it hadn’t really moved, such a thing was impossible. Still, a nagging doubt lingered: if the painting hadn’t changed, was it possible his memory had?

  He pulled back from the viewfinder and took his compact digital camera from the desk. He scanned back through the first set of photos, searching for the tree and the shadow. There they were. He zoomed in on them until the tree filled the LCD screen. Part of the shadow was there, but the rest was washed out by that tendril of light, that artifact that stretched across the hill and masked the contents in light. If they had changed, he had no evidence. And if he had no evidence, then they couldn’t have changed.

  He returned his camera to his desk and continued using the DSLR to capture sections of the painting row by row. That little girl in her yellow dress. That old clock, its three missing numbers, hands stuck at 5:55.

  There was a brass engraving on the side of the clock, a nameplate written sideways. The words were illegible, little more than hairlines and too small to read. They formed the shape of two words with what looked like an ampersand between them. Dan blinked and as he did, in that microsecond that his eyelids flashed blackness, he caught a glimpse, or at least he thought he did, of movement. It had come from the lower right side of the painting.

  His eyes narrowed in on that brooding boy on the left side. There he was, standing, staring with defiance at the viewer as he always had. His right arm, reaching off canvas, but it wasn’t his right arm that had moved, had it?

  No, it was his left hand. His fingers were curled into that same familiar half-fist, but there was something in them, something black and circular with small, white fibers hanging from it.

  Look closer professor, whispered Mr. Glass.

  Dan understood it now. Jessica had seen the painting, had seen the disconsolate boy in it, and seen the torn out doll eyes clutched in that boy’s hands. Those eyes, obviously taken from the dolls at the feet of the painted girl.

  Jessica had seen this violation.

  Then, she had pulled out her owns doll’s eyes.

  That’s one way to think it, mumbled the glass.

  That’s the only way to think of it, Dan thought. Paintings are color and canvas and not so different than a child’s imagination. Jessica had seen the boy in the painting, seen the doll’s eyes in his hand. Then, she had copied it. And when she saw what she had done, how she had destroyed her favorite toy, no different than picking wings off a fly, she had cried and lied. What had the doctor said? She was still adjusting. She could make up anything she wanted. She could blame it on Tommy or any one of her imaginary friends and keep the truth locked away until it was forgotten and the lie itself became the truth.

  Unless...

  Unless what? he thought.

  Unless she didn’t copy it, but rather the other way around.

  He heard faint clatter of nails on the hard wood floor behind him, followed by a snort. Ginger stood at the threshold of the room, sniffing out some distant smell, her tail tucked between her legs.

  “Come on girl, let’s go to bed.”

  He turned off the lights and left the room, whistling for Ginger to follow. She paused, giving the painting a long stare, then lowered her eyes and scampered off after Dan.

  An hour before dawn
Linda awoke from a dream convinced that she had heard a door slam downstairs followed by a sound, sudden and sharp, not unlike the scraping of a wet finger against crystal, or the yelp of an injured animal. It had lasted for a single second then ended, leaving not even an echo in the cold morning air.

  She sat there for a moment, listening to the darkness, the silence, until her eyes grew heavy and she forgot what had awoken her. She draped her arm over Dan, gave his shoulder a kiss, and fell back to sleep.

  Holes

  AFTER HIS SHOWER he found Linda scrubbing dirty footprints off the stairway rug. “Kids must’ve tracked dirt inside,” she said with a yawn. “I’ll tell them to be more careful.”

  “Good morning to you too,” Dan said and planted a kiss on the top of her head before heading downstairs.

  “Breakfast’s on the table,” she said. “Oh, and your phone rang twice already.”

  “Thanks hon,” he said, realizing he’d left his cell phone in the study last night.

  The newspaper was laid out on the kitchen table, next to the coffee and an omelette. He made it to page three of the business section before Tommy came bounding inside followed by Jessica. Both were out of breath and Jessica's face was contorted in distress.

  “Dad!” Tommy gasped. “We can’t find Ginger.”

  “Did you try the side yard?” he asked, sipping his coffee and turning the page.

  “Yes! And the front yard and she’s not there.”

  “She’s gone!” Jessica added.

  “I’m sure she’s around here. What about upstairs?”

  “We tried everywhere!” Tommy said, raising his voice and when Dan lowered his newspaper and saw that Jessica was on the verge of tears.

  “She’s not in the front yard or inside or anywhere! I can’t find her!” Tommy spat out.

  “Do something!” Jessica added.

  “Okay, okay,” Dan said, realizing the situation might be more serious than he had thought. Breakfast and the business section would have to wait.