The End
September 12th 2007 05:37
It was finally here.
The room was bare over the months it had emptied. It happened mainly through paying off debts through pawn brokers and the general lending of things which had never been returned. This was the way it was but it about to end.
The room of course was actually not completely bare for why would it be any use if it was? About three quarters of the way down one strip of the biggest wall was a defined line of orange paint – acrylic in case you were wondering – which made as you would image quite a drastic contrast with the plain white appearance of the rest of the walls. Nobody cared by the end.
You see it was the place of an artist, a struggling unpaid artist, though still an artist. This was to be the last piece you see since it was coming to an end. Life had been relatively good to the artist accepted him nourished both his mind and body and kept him away from violence. It had failed however as the artist had suffered quite a great amount of pain. The emotional kind that is, not that it mattered now it would all end.
Three objects had been placed on the floor next to the window. These were a torch, a matchbox full of matches, and of course - very predictably - a mantel clock. These were all that remained of the artists passions at the end.
The torch was of very high quality with a good hand grip. It even had a waterproof case (no one really knows why) however it was not here at this moment. The case in question had been lost many years ago long before the end. Even though it was nice to look at the torch was useless, no batteries, go figure. Not that it needed to be used in the end.
The matchbox contained approximately forty three matches (and one broken end). Likewise to the torch they were indeed useless. The artist had never bothered to light them and had no lighter to burn them prior to the end.
On the contrary the clock, though old fashioned and horrendously shabby worked like a charm. It ticked on. It sat there counting down the end.
The window was regular as windows come though the pane had been cracked in a fighting epiphany leading up to the end. It open as far as it would permit, it opened upwards and looked down on the street. The street was busy with traffic and people on their way home from work. To the far left if you put your head out you would be able to see an accident – not serious – where a car had accidentally bumped a tree and in doing so bumped a couple of cars as well. Though the artist was not looking for it was the end.
The artist could of if he wanted to since he was sitting on the sill with his back to the accident and his mind on the sky. He glanced to the objects below him inside the room. After twenty years of life he still had these trivial objects with no meaning or grace. Two had no use while the clock was just a bore. He knew it was the end.
The rhythm of the clock resounded in his head monotonously counting time till the end. The artist had long arms and with these he reached for the torch. Outside the sun was descending, the sky turned an ever darker shade of pink into purple. So the artist sat awaiting the end. There was nothing left to do just a few things the artist wanted to accomplish as he sensed the end.
Hours and hours the artist waited for the opportune moment to end all. Now as night fell he knew now it was the end.
The torch fell at tremendous speed and smashed on the walkway below. Shards of glass and plastic littered the ground as well as the two rusty springs. The end coming closer the light of hope had died, had ended.
The artist knew this would happen he did not bother to look downward. He did not need to see the visual loss of hope that he already felt, one step closer to freedom, one step closer to the end.
Instead the artist’s head turned to face into the room. Looking down once again he leaned into the room and picked up the matchbox. Turning it in his hands he sat on the window sill contently. Then turned the box upside down the artist held it at arms length out of the window above the now vacant moonlit street. Using the index finger the artist gently eased the box open and vacantly as the artist mind was wondering watched the unlit matches fall in mass. They lay on the pavement in a heap all broken except for two. Missed opportunities on mind, the artist did not glance below. The end was ever near.
Turing his attention to the remaining seemingly omnipresent mantel clock the artist lifted this too. Staring quite blankly at the face the artist opened it. As the hand tore from their place the ticking stopped, the time had come and gone and the end had passed. The artist threw the now useless clock with relive to gravity’s will.
He got off the sill into the room. The room was literally empty. Now the artist walking to the door finally now felt free of life.
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