Gone (3 page)

Graveyard

Surf

Lie

Stare

Surf

Sleep

Every single day is exactly the same.

My days never used to be so monotonous. My life used to be in colour. I used to see colour everywhere I went. And I used to want to paint it all. Now I see nothing. It’s not so much that I don’t see it, but rather that I don’t want to. So I never look too closely. My friends ask me out every single day and every single day I think of an excuse, not necessarily a believable one to say no. Before I never had to think of an excuse. The conversation used to go something like this:

“Hey, Josh, fancy coming for a pint later?”

“No.”

“Okay then, maybe tomorrow.”

And that was it.

Now it goes like this:

“Hey, Josh, fancy coming for a pint later?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because. . .” And then I have to think of some excuse why I don’t. Some excuse other than, “Why don’t you all just fuck off and leave me to brood in peace. Then one day, probably in a very, very long time, I may decide to come for a pint. Don’t worry though, I will make sure the story runs on the front page of the local paper when I change my mind so you all know.”

It’s not that I am moody or anything, but you know. I’m dealing with shit. My girlfriend is dead. If that’s not shit and a reason to be left in peace then I don’t know what is. I just wish everyone would go do one and stop asking me stuff. When you going to paint again, Josh? When you going to go to Art College, Josh? When you next going to go to Newquay, Josh? When you gonna date again, Josh? When do you think you will ever be back to normal, Josh? When you? When you? When you?

I’ll tell them when. Bloody never. And that’s it.

Faye will be in shortly to make sure I haven’t topped myself by sniffing all the paints. I wish. They are all chemical free. I’
ve checked.

Talking of paints, I could waste half an hour mixing up all the tubes again. Every time Aunt May comes in she puts them into perfectly blended rows of colour. I don’t like things perfect anymore, so I mix them all back up again, making sure to put the black somewhere in with the yellows and the pinks in with the greens.

Fuck that’s the highlight of my day, every day.

Even I realise how pathetic that sounds. I just can’t be arsed to do anything about it.

Rebecca

Town

There is a huge problem.

The town planner forgot to actually plan a town. I think someone should contact the authorities and let them know.

It has taken us two whole minutes to walk the 'high street.' A pub, a newsagents and a few tourist friendly shops does not make a town. Well not in my opinion anyway.

"Was that it?" I exclaim in despair as I turn on my heel and look back down the path we have just walked. The sun is glaring off the glass pane windows of the limited shops and I’m raising my hand to protect my eyes, causing my bangles to jingle and slide along my arm.

"I think it might have been." Em confirms as she also glances up and down the non-existent high-street.

"For fuck's sake," I mumble under my breath.

"Um, I’m telling, Mum said you weren’t allowed to swear in front of me."

I glare at Emily but her attention has turned towards the shop behind us. Great it's a bloody art shop.

I am beginning to realise this town has been created to destroy what little will to live I still have. One of the two
shops is a Budgens selling stale bread and overpriced milk to the holiday makers. The other is an art shop, the kind of place my sister would happily spend three hours perusing the shelves without actually buying anything.
Bloody great.

"Can we go in?" She bounces on the spot and grabs my hand all eager enthusiasm.

I glance up and down the street again, well aware of the interested glances we, or rather I, am getting.

I’d like to think a village used to holiday makers would be slightly more accepting than most, but you can never be too sure. I might get shouted at sooner than I would wish.

"Okay, but you only get a fiver." Anything has got to be better than standing on the high street for another moment with a growing audience of grannies staring at my shorts and boots combo.

Emily gives a little squeal and bounds into the shop. It is one of those ridiculous twee shops where the door rings a bell as you enter. Just in case you plan to dash in and steal a lifetime supply of 2B pencils.

To be fair, whoever owns this shop is not that bothered about anyone stealing. The music is pounding, and I can't see anyone obviously serving.  Saying that, this shop is clearly run by a lunatic. The paints are all over the place. I know nothing about art, but as I scan my eyes along the shelves, even I can see that there is something wrong with the displays.

Emily glances at me and I shrug in response turning to look at the stock, my fingers itch to put the colours in the right place.  Emily starts to rifle through the paints her head nodding in approval when she sees the colour clash on display. Weird. I turn my attention to the pictures on the wall. I may not be artistic myself but I do enjoy looking at the work of others. I might ask Emily to paint me something to take back up to London. Maybe she could paint the beach I sat on yesterday.

"Can I help you?" calls a voice from behind me.

"Nah," I shout back, not bothering to turn around.

I watch as Emily turns to look at the voice and notice her eyes widen fractionally. I refuse to turn around and look. I point blank refuse to be interested in anything this rubbish excuse of a town has to offer. Instead I continue to stare at the art work. All the pieces are abstract, all of them separate from each other and all in varying styles, but there is something that links them all together. I take a step back, nearly knocking over a revolving stand of tubes of oil paint. Correcting myself and ignoring the sarcastic sounding snigger from behind me, I continue to stare at the paintings.

They are all of the same object. The object being the same person, you just wouldn’t know it because they are only fractured glances of the subject. At a first glance you wouldn’t see it, but stare at them long enough and you can see that the angles and shapes of the limbs are all the same, and all the eyes are all exact same shade of deepest brown.

Together they are like a complete book of poetry where every line has been written with just one person in mind. A never ending love sonnet.

Something about it makes my eyes sting a little and my throat thicken in a way I am not used to. I swallow around it hoping the strange sensation will go away.

"Bex, what are you staring at?" Emily pulls me from my reverie with her words and I come back out of my zone. Giving my head a sharp shake I glance again at the paintings.

"Would you like to buy one?" the voice asks from behind me. This time the voice sounds bored, like it’s already over serving the public.

"Yes please, which one costs a fiver?" I turn around to see who the bored voice belongs too.

It’s the doodle guy from the beach. I feel my mouth fall open slightly, and for the life of me I can’t make myself shut it.  Even though I didn’t see him clearly yesterday across the beach I know it is him straight away. The dreadlocks give it away, but my eyes are quick to scan over the rest of him. Low board shorts, snug vivid green T-shirt, and eyes of the deepest green I have ever seen. Contacts, he must be wearing contacts. I don’t even know why I am thinking this. Who gives a shit if he is wearing contacts? Doodle guy is obviously waiting for me to stop staring because he has one eyebrow cocked a little, an eyebrow ring glints in the light through the shop window, and I stare a little more, completely fixated. He doesn’t look amused though. He looks pissed off.

“So do you?” I push.

“Do I what?” Doodle guy, places his hands on his slim hips and appraises me with a bored look.

What a tosser.
He’s not going to win any prizes for customer service. “Have any paintings for a fiver?”

He makes a snorting noise. “No.”

“Okay then.” I am glaring back. Jesus this guy doesn’t even know me and he is being rude. Normally people at least give me half an hour before they realise I am not worth knowing.

“So are you buying anything?” He creases his eyebrows into a full on frown, his wide lips turned down at the edges.

“Well how much are the paintings?” Not that I really want an abstract picture of someone’s elbow, but I can’t back down now.

The green gaze slides over me again before clearly finding me unappealing and glancing off to the side.

“More then you could afford.”

Prick.

"Emily, have you got what you want?" I call out as I tear my gaze away to find my sister. I don’t have to look far. She is standing at my right elbow grinning at me.

"Yeah, I think so."

Scrunching my hand into my shorts pocket I thrust the crumpled money at her, and turn for the door.

I am just pulling the door, making the bell ring when I turn back and catch him frowning at me some more. “You’re completely shit at customer service,” I shout as I step out onto the sunlit pavement, before he can point his death stare in my direction again.

Rude much. I want to make a complaint.

God I hate this town.

"He said you walk like a percussion instrument." Emily grabs my elbow with an impish grin as she catches up with my pacing.

"What?"

"He said you’d give anyone a headache."

"Who does?"

"That guy in the shop, you know the sexy one who made you blush." She nods her head back to the art store.

"Shut up! He did not!"

"Did not what? Say you sound like jingle bells or make you blush?"

I stomp away from her down the street, after a few paces I screech to a halt and wait for her to catch up.

Mum would kill me if I lost her on our second day here. Hell I would kill me if I lost her on our second day here.

The whole way back to the cottage I stew on what I could write in a customer complaint letter. The loud music for one. The terrible organization, for two. Thirdly, very rudest sales assistant ever.

Joshua

The Curse of Holiday Makers

Five pounds for five hours stuck in a shop, and the only two customers who come in are holiday makers. That’s just painful on any level. On all levels.

My dislike for holiday makers is widely known. Why I work in a shop where I have to try and be nice to them is one of the many ironies of my life.

The customer today was Dan’s grade nine from the beach. Oh that girl’s got attitude alright, just like I guessed yesterday. My mood wasn’t actually that bad, for once, but she’s completely fucked me right off offering me five quid for one of my pictures. I tried to give her the intimidating stare I give to all annoying customers, but she just stood there and stared right back.
What the fuck?
She wasn’t intimidated at all. A good couple of minutes passed with us just watching one another and the whole time I found myself noticing things about her. Her outfit was some crazy statement, asking for, no not asking, begging, for attention. I found myself wondering who she wanted attention from but shook it away. There was a pulse in the base of her neck, right in the dip where her collarbones meet. The hair on her arms is so fair it glimmered in the sunlight. Her skin was covered in a thick layer of make-up, and her wrists were adorned by more bangles then I could count.

Obviously I didn’t want to notice anything about some shitty holiday maker, so it just pissed me off even more. Then I got even more annoyed when she was stomping towards the door in her boots and turned to catch me watching her legs stride away. The glare she shot me was a killer, but if she didn’t want guys staring at her legs what the fuck was she wearing those fishnets for? She may have some serious attitude problems but those legs are fine, long, slender and never ending. But that is the only good thing about her.

Bex. That’s what the other girl called her. Bex with the attitude.

I’ve been so bored the rest of the day I've actually given in and blended some paints, nothing major, just a dib of this colour and a dab of that. The music has been pumping and I’ve been maintaining a steady out of tune singing session all day which I quickly stop when I hear the doorbell chime again.

“Heard you outside,” calls a voice I have known since I was five.

“Kiss my arse, Faye, you love my singing.” I turn and face my oldest friend, a grin on my face. There is only one person who has singing skills worse than mine and she is standing right in front of me. I quickly notice she is not looking at me but at the board behind the counter.

“Josh, when did you start painting again?” She sounds surprised, but then I guess she would be. Six months ago I swore I was never going to paint another stroke.

“What you talking about, dumbass, I haven’t.”

She raises her eyebrow and I turn and follow her glance to the board. It’s covered in a rainbow streak of palest yellow to deepest gold.