Chapter 10

Ray skipped his usual lunch stop today. He wanted to work on a couple things for himself. He was lucky enough in his timing that everything seemed to go just like plans ticking off a checklist.

He found the office as easily as if there were neon signs and a giant arrow pointing down from the sky. He knocked on the open door and heard a distracted, "Come in."

He walked in and said in the friendliest voice, "Phillip Marriot?"

The other man looked up. He had dark good looks and he seemed to be in his mid-20's. He looked young and fresh. He looked crisp like a new twenty that was un-battered and un-crumpled.

"Yes. How do you do?" the man asked. He stood. He was about Ray's height maybe an inch or so shorter. His build was on the lean side.

"Very good. I'm Ray. I am interested in taking your class."

"Okay. Which class? The introductory to watercolours class?" Phillip Marriot asked as he sat down looking at a schedule of some sort.

Ray ignored him and walked to look at the painting on the wall.

"Is this one of yours?" he asked.

"Uh yes. So which class was it?" Phillip Marriot asked again.

"What is it of? The Day Ends, that's the title, huh?"

"Yes, it's a painting with a setting sun against the mountain top and a couple looking at it from the cliff edge."

"I just love the colours. Vibrant reds. Very rich and earthy. Do you know what it looks like?" Ray asked.

"Uh, no."

"It looks like you painted with blood Phillip Marriot."

He heard the man gasp. There was a silence as Ray watched the painting with his back to the other man.

"What is your name again?" the other man finally asked.

"I knew a guy once. He hated this writer. This guy was good at only a few things. But unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your point of view, hate was one of those things. He felt that the writer had wronged him. Had hurt him and his family. And you'll never guess what he did. It was actually kind of funny," Ray said with a small chuckle.

His voice was soft. He wanted Phillip Marriot straining to listen to every word he said. He wanted the man to think about it. To concentrate hard enough that he would recall not only each and every word that Ray uttered, but how he uttered them. Even down to each breath he took.

"What?" the painter said with a petulant voice of a paper tiger.

"Well this guy decided to pay the writer a visit. Go to his office one day. And make his intentions known. Then he paid the writer a visit later that night at home. He asked the writer to write a passage for him. You need to know this man. He was not your bruiser type. But when he was angry, he wasn't very nice. Some would say he was mean. Some would even say downright dangerous. Oh not that kind of dangerous that married women swoon over with pent up longings. But dangerous like a cougar playing with a puppy. Do you know what the passage was about?"

"I think you need to leave. I will have to call campus security."

"So the writer had to write, 'I have trespassed and I have hurt others. I am so sorry. I deserve no mercy for I am a truly despicable human being.' And you know what happened next."

"You're him aren't you? You're that Ray?"

"And then the guy took out this Bowie knife. It was probably 10 inches long. With a width of 4 inches. Really more like a small sword than a knife. The kind of blade that you can hammer with. You know, step on it for leverage. Really get behind it. He pressed the knife to..."

"Listen man."

"... the writer's hand and cut off all the fingers of his right hand. It was like a guillotine falling. It was one hard chop. All that was left was the bottom joint of the writer's thumb and pinky. It was really funny. I still laugh about it sometimes."

"Ray I don't know what you think you're proving by coming here... , " the painter said.

"Don't call me that. You don't know me. Dana doesn't know me. Both of you can call me nothing. I am not Ray to you. That guy with the knife was kinder than I would have been. The writer was left handed. And the guy let him keep his eyes. There are very few professions that require a person to have a hand and eyes like writing does. Huh? Phillip Marriot can you think of another one?"

"You think you can come in here and threaten me? Do you think I am going to be scared?"

"You may have convinced yourself that you are not scared now. You may have convinced your hand not to shake. And you may have tricked your bladder into not vomiting its contents in your pants. But when I come back here to commission a special painting by you, I have a feeling that you'll change your mind. And I haven't threatened you. Not once. I told you about a friend I know. And I mentioned hiring you."

"I'll call the police."

"And tell them what? That I came to your office to talk art. Or hire you. Go ahead. I even have a couple friends in the department that I can let you talk to."

"Listen, get out. I've had it."

Ray heard the squeak as Phillip Marriot pushed his chair back getting ready to stand. Ray launched himself from the painting. He spun as quickly as a boy dodging a whip and careened to the desk to face the artist. In a hard continuation of the motion he used the momentum of the turn to slam the palm of his hand hard on the desk.

The clap was loud and Phillip Marriot gasped his surprise as he threw himself back onto the chair wheeling it away from the desk. He fled back in a cloud of spicy aftershave and cologne.

"Stand up, please to god stand up" Ray muttered at him through gritting teeth. "Just ask me to show you what pain is about. I know pain. I know how easy it is to make someone cry. Rage makes it easy. Stand up Phillip Marriot. After I get you to paint that picture for me, we will become so close, you and I. That I may even feel like I know you well enough to call you Phillip. And you can call me Ray. Wouldn't you like to get me to know you that way? Don't you want to become my blood brother?"

Ray leaned in across the desk. His head was on the same level as Phillip Marriot's. He never blinked. He said everything with spit flying from his mouth. He could feel the saliva running down his chin. It was thick. It wasn't until he said 'blood brother' that he let his tongue wipe at his chin. Ray could feel the pleasure. The pleasure of this insane anger racing through him And it was not unselfish. And much as it took, it gave. It gave euphoria.

"You're crazy," Phillip Marriot gasped. "Just go. It's done with. Just go." He said the words as he back-pedaled his chair as far as he could go.

"Maybe you do know me after all. Probably better than Dana does. I, too, am only good at a few things. I will tell you that forgiveness is not one of them."

He looked at the other man till the artist looked away. Ray turned and sauntered away. He smiled nursing the stinging pain of his hand.

He went back to the office.

He chuckled out a 'Hello' to Kylie.

"I am glad that you seem to be in a better mood," she replied.

"I don't think I'm in a better mood. But I did something that was rather satisfying."

"Oh what was that?"

"Got in touch with my artistic side," Ray said laughing to himself at his lame joke.

Ray sat in his office thinking about the previous night.

"And his body what you sought your only solace in... , " he recalled saying. Even now the scent memory made his stomach clench. He could almost feel a dry heave start deep in his lower belly trying to force the me mory out of his body.

She had gasped. It was almost a groan of pain.

"What?" she said.

"Do you think I don't smell him on you?"

"Who?"

"I am not a fool. I may play one often enough, but sometimes it is just an act."

"Ray, I can explain. It's isn't, it was. Let me explain."

"There isn't anything to explain. You and Phillip Marriot can just do whatever the hell you want."

"Phillip, how?"

"But when you decide what that is, I want you out of my life. Go away. You're unstable."

"Ray please. This isn't, it is and it isn't. Please Ray listen," she responded.

"I can't Dana. I can't listen. I've heard too much. Not from your lips but from everything you've done tonight. It speaks of the saga that you have never told me about."

She cried. It was a night for crying. It should have been a cold night. It should have been bleak with an owl hooting on a dying oak somewhere. The moon shone brightly mocking them all.

"Dana. I thought we could have made it. The good times with you were so good. Nothing in my life has ever been sweeter. But the bad times have hurt more than any pain I have ever felt. More pain than even someone as imperfect as me deserves."

She tried to reach to him. Her mouth open, her cry silent, as she searched for gulps of air. She tried to wrap her arms around him.

He pushed her arms away. Not in anger. Not even in hate. He pushed her away in regret. It was a pit of stinging regret that allowed no forgiveness.

"No," he said as a sigh. "I lied to myself. I knew for so long. I feared it. I said I didn't want to know. I couldn't bear to know. Why couldn't you leave it be? Why couldn't you leave him be? I do mean so little to you, don't I? That in your moments of despair, Dana, you seek someone else. Someone stronger. Someone who can talk to you the way you want to? Someone who can share his soul? Someone who can listen and understand? And maybe he can soothe away the rough memories that hurt like the barbs of hook pulling you down. I can't lie to myself any longer. I can't wonder if you are with me. I can't think that all I have is the shell and he has the heart. When you look at me Dana? When you love me? Is it me? Is it me?" Men don't cry. So he bit his lip till he could taste the copper sweetness of his blood. Pain was easier to deal with.