at the top, even though he could not make out who they actually were, all he could see in his mind's eye were people who were waiting to hurt him.
It filled him with such anger. He felt like he hated every last one of them. He didn't want to hate, but in a heart that would receive no love, how could he possibly love back in kind?
He tried to repress his tears, but he was losing control the more he climbed towards the top.
All Christian wanted was to never feel this incredible loneliness ever again, this loneliness that he had felt ever since he was a child. Was he to feel like this forever? He didn't think he could take it. He did not want to live if he was going to feel this miserable for the rest of his life.
He jumped up off his bed, and in a rage, began grabbing things and throwing them all over his apartment. He wasn't even sure what he was yelling out as he went on his tirade, but he was certain if anyone else could see him right now, they'd probably freak out and he'd find himself committed in a mental hospital.
After he had thrown the last thing he could get his hands on, he finally sank to the ground and began sobbing again. This cry lasted for a good half hour. After that, he lay on the ground for about an hour, not moving. He had no more will.
Eventually, he forced himself to get back to his feet. He walked over to his closet and fished around for something up top. He pulled down a shoebox. Inside the shoebox was a gun. Carefully, he lifted it out, put it to his head, cocked it, and pulled the trigger.
It discharged with a harmless *click*. Not loaded. Of course it wasn't. He still didn't actually have the guts yet. He just wanted to feel what it felt like. Have the fantasy of blowing his brains out. He imagined what the real thing must feel like... the sweet release of death...
All he wanted to feel now was the feeling of never existing again. No more sorrow. No more pain. He couldn't understand why he kept going on. Why he kept up trying to live this miserable existence. What hope did he have for the future? The bullets were right there in the box. He ought to just take a few, load it up, and end it all right now. Instead, he found himself placing the gun back in the shoebox, and returning it to its place on the top shelf of his closet.
Closing the closet door, he walked over to the corner of his room, where his easel sat with a fresh canvas that had not been started on yet. His painting supplies sat next it.
He felt no inspiration whatsoever right now, but something unknown compelled him to immediately take hold of his paintbrush and begin to paint. He wasn't sure what he was painting, just that he was painting more passionately and intensely than ever before in his life. He began to cry again as he continued to paint.
Slowly, an image started to take form...
(17)
He was getting close. So close. He didn't have very far to go anymore to get to the top. He could see a shift going on in the movements of the people above him. They seemed to be getting a little more animated. He could see them coming and peering down into the pit more excitedly than before.
He tried to push them out of his mind and keep up his pace. If these people thought they were going to...
One of them was doing something. Adrenaline spiked in his bloodstream. One of them was reaching down into the pit. For what, the young man was uncertain. Was this person going to try to push him back down?
With surprise, though, he realized that this was not the case. The hand was reaching out, extended, in order to take his and pull him out of the pit.
At first, he felt overjoyed and confused at the same time. The feeling that someone would actually be reaching out to help... but then he remembered the words of the voice and found himself recoiling. Who was to say that the hand wouldn't grab him, start to pull him out, and in faith he would let go of the rocky wall, only then for the hand to let go and drop him? Or maybe he was just trying to pull him out of the pit where they were waiting to rough him up a bit, and THEN toss him back?
These thoughts filled him with great anger. He suddenly thought of grabbing the hand, pulling hard, and pulling the person up top down into the pit with him. Yeah. That would serve him right.
But what if someone was truly trying to help him? What if it was someone who really cared that he was down there and genuinely wanted to pull him out?
He really did want very badly to just take the hand and be rescued, but a sick feeling of revulsion welled up inside of him. If someone was trying to save him, it was only out of ignorance.
This person did not know him. If this person knew who he was trying to help, he might not be so quick to reach down and give assistance. As he looked above, he could not see who was reaching down, but he felt conflicting feelings. He saw a potential friend... and at the same time, someone who could hurt him even more severely than all the others.
No. He was not going to let that happen. Nobody was ever going to hurt him again. If someone did try to love him ever again, he would not open his heart. He was not worth being loved or saved. He was going to prove it to the world. Show them, before they mistook him for something he was not, and had the chance to turn against him.
He reached down to his left side. There was a small sheath strapped to his belt. He pulled the dagger out of it. The same dagger he had used for so many years to create the scars that now covered his body. Now he was going to make some scars with it!
As the hand reached out, outstretched to take his, the young man reached up with the dagger and swung out. The hand quickly moved out of the way, causing him to miss. He expected the hand to recoil and go back up immediately, but to his surprise, that didn't happen. The hand continued to come down and try to take his. He kept swinging, playing a game of cat-and-mouse with the hand. The hand was trying to desperately grab onto his. He didn't understand why. He could only theorize the person truly had malicious intent in mind for him. With great rage welling up inside of him, he began to swing even harder and more violently. He finally managed to slice the hand across the back, not severely, but just enough to draw blood.
That did the trick. The hand quickly recoiled and drew up. He waited awhile to see if it would try to come back down, or any of the others above tried to do the same thing, but it didn't happen. No one was going to dare try again.
He suddenly felt a strong feeling of regret. He had really wanted to take the hand. He had felt almost good when the hand was reaching down to him, but he also knew that he had done the right thing. He couldn't take the risk. He carefully sheathed the dagger back in its pouch. He started to climb again.
Someone was knocking at Christian's door. A feeling of anger surged through him. He knew it was people from the Art League. He wasn't sure why they were here. Probably just to rub it in what an ass he was. He ignored the knocks and continued painting. After a while, the knocking finally stopped.
Good riddance! If he ever had anything to do with these people again, God help him!
He still wasn't sure exactly what he was painting, but as the image began more and more to take form, he started to have an idea...
(18)
Dagger clutched carefully in his left hand, he put his right hand on the edge of the exit of the pit, and slowly began to lift himself out. The people who had been hanging around the top started slowly backing up. Carefully, he pulled himself out, and finally found himself crawling on solid ground.
His body wanted to give out on him and collapse. His muscles felt like jelly. He was still feeling very lightheaded. His clothes were caked with blood, and his wounds were very visible. He looked like an absolute wreck.
Nevertheless, he couldn't collapse now. There could be no rest for the weary. Not now. Slowly, he willed himself to stand. Many people stood around, gazing at him intently, not moving or making a sound, however, he still couldn't make any of them out. A very thick fog permeated the entire area, making it hard to see anything.
Why was it so foggy? It looked just like in his visions, except it was thicker than ever before, and almost nothing was visible.
He glanced around him caref
ully. It looked like quite a crowd had turned out. All he really wanted was for this crowd to leave him alone, let him get through and find some place to rest for now. It was inevitable, however, that he would have to deal with them first. If that was the way it had to be, so be it. Maybe he would die soon after all. If that had to be the case, he was going to take as many of them down with him as he could.
Someone was making his way through the crowd towards him. He was instantly ready, dagger poised in self defense. As the person started to get closer, he was surprised to recognize who it was. The person had a smile on his face as he walked slowly forward. His arms were stretched out, as if to pull someone into an embrace. The young man looked and noticed that blood was dripping from the other man's right hand, right where he had sliced it just moments before.
In his surprise, the young man found himself almost dropping the dagger. But he regained control of his senses and kept it raised. He was not letting ANYONE get through. He was sure Bleeding Hand's demeanor was a trick. He was not really coming over to embrace him, but to exact vengeance. No, he was not going to let that happen!
Bleeding Hand stopped short, and tried to advance on the young man, but the young man stabbed his dagger out in warning. Bleeding Hand could not get close to him. Finally, Bleeding Hand got
The Pit Page 9