Keys to the Kingdom, P.K. Gallagher [best books under 200 pages TXT] 📗

Erik looked down at the white page of his sketch pad, disgusted by its blankness.

Of all the times to hit a wall.

Then again, he thought bitterly, maybe that was the wrong metaphor. After all, he'd been trying to grind out a concept for months now and still had nothing to show for the hours of wasted time other than frustration and a perpetually bad mood.

It hadn't seemed so bad at first. When he’d been unable come up with an idea, he'd simply thought, “To hell with it, there's always tomorrow,” and went on to do something else. However, the submission deadline was nearing now, and tomorrow only brought him one day closer to it with still nothing to bring to the table.

He cursed himself. It was his own fault, he realized; he'd allowed himself to get too comfortable.

A hollow laugh escaped him. How little it took for him to forget where he'd been. One grant and a couple of semi-successful exhibitions and he thought he was on top of the world, as far away as possible from the squalor he'd climbed out of. He looked around at his surroundings.

He was in the bedroom of the one bedroom apartment he'd been living in for the past thirteen months. It wasn't sheer opulence, but it was his, and he loved it. For the first time since graduating high school, he had a complete kitchen, fully operational plumbing, his own washer and dryer, and cable. Life was good and as far from the “starving artist” grind as he'd ever imagined getting. No one had been able tell him anything when he won the grant: Take that, Dad; you said art was for pussies. Take that, Mom; you said a hobby like art could never get me anywhere. Take that, Tanya; you said I was going down and pulling you down with me. Take that, world; I made it without your help.

Fifty thousand over the course of one year was a lot for him: bills paid, food covered, money for extras, and a place near the center of Savannah, a city full of inspiration his to harness and—perhaps even more importantly—far away from the weight of his parents’ criticisms. It had been five years since he'd become a legal adult, and he’d decided then that he was going to do things his way from then on, even if it meant going without.

He sighed.

Looking around at his place filled with his belongings, it occurred to him that he didn't want to “go without.” He wanted to live off of his art, but after a year of not having to scrimp and save, he knew he never wanted to starve for it again.

Irritation shot through him. If these thoughts had come to him months ago when he'd first begun putting this off for “always tomorrow,” maybe he wouldn't be looking at a blank sketch pad now.

He groaned, tossing the pad onto his desk and allowing his gaze to roam the room once more.

His eyes came to rest on the bedroom’s one window, though not because they saw anything particularly inspiring. Perhaps it could be likened to the Train Wreck Phenomenon where a person sees a train wreck or a car crash or something equally unpleasant and doesn’t really want to look but can’t help it. This day was a train wreck day as far as Erik was concerned. It was almost noon, and yet thick nearly black clouds completely hid the sun from view, allowing only the soft, gray-washed light of rainy days to illuminate the empty street below.

Hmm, he thought. Perhaps empty was too light a word. Deserted might fit better. Or wastelandic. The rain, coming down in torrents, had chased all but the bravest souls indoors to take cover. Erik got his inspiration from people: their constant motion, their action, their interaction. He could do nothing with this empty street, and it disgusted him almost as much as his blank sketchpad did.

Suddenly, a small black circle hurrying through the rain broke the uniformity of the desolate street, and Erik watched it in wonder. Why in God’s name would anyone be out walking on a day like this? The glimpse of sneakers he caught as the person moved showed that they were not on business—or at least no business of the typical sort—so what then? It was insanity really. As much as he needed people to be out and about, he didn’t begrudge their staying in. He wasn’t about to leave his apartment that was for sure. The umbrella-shielded person disappeared into his building, and Erik sighed.

He was procrastinating again.

In his defense, however, the train wreck weather, in addition to making him angry, made it hard to focus on much of anything. The steady pattering of the rain on the window pane and the muted lighting made him want to sleep. Or run. He began pacing, suddenly feeling trapped. He’d been able to run away from his parents criticisms, he’d been able to run away from Tanya’s rejection, he’d been able to run away from looking toward the future. That these circumstances wouldn’t let him run anymore terrified him.

He looked over his shoulder to see his sketchpad lying innocently on his desk where he’d thrown it, the desire to rip it to shreds almost too strong for him to ignore. His anger was diverted, however, when there came a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” he called as he walked through his apartment toward the door. “Who is it?”

Really, who is it? He wasn’t expecting anyone and, if he were quite honest with himself, he didn’t think there was anyone who cared enough for him to visit him at all, let alone on a day like this.

He opened the door and thought for a moment that it must be someone trying to sell him religion again. He hadn’t the faintest idea of who the woman standing before him was, though she looked slightly familiar.

She was a pretty, young woman, younger than he was by a few years, with a pale, heart-shaped face framed by amber curls and large brown eyes that bore shamelessly into his.

“Hello, Mr. Sinclaire.”

Her greeting was polite and uninflected, but something, maybe the tilt of her head or the curve of her lips, made it seem like she was laughing at him. He was suddenly all too aware that he was wearing only a white tank that had seen better days and sweat pants, though she herself sported only a tee-shirt, soaked jeans, and running shoes.

“Uh…hi,” he said.

The girl gave him a small, knowing smile. “Don’t tell me. You have no idea who I am, do you?”

He leaned against the doorjamb, giving her his best shit-eating grin to hide his uncertainty. He hated beautiful women. They were always catching him with his pants down and then making fun of his size. Vindictive bitches, all of them. “Guilty as charged,” he drawled. “Don’t suppose you’re a strip telegram?”

She gave him an amused look that was not at all the affronted reaction he’d been expecting—or trying to instigate—and shook her head. “’Fraid not,” she said mildly. “Nice to see you haven’t changed.” She shifted the huge bag she had shouldered and gave him a pointed look. “Well?” she asked. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“I would,” Erik said slowly, wracking his brain for a sarcastic comment to hide how uncomfortable her directness made him. “But I heard somewhere that I’m not supposed to talk to strangers or freely invite them into my home. For all I know you could be an axe murderer or a psycho rapist or something.”

“That you should be so lucky.” She reached into her bag, pulled out what looked to be a brochure of some kind, and handed it to Erik.

It was a pamphlet for an art gallery featuring “emerging artist and New Talent Grant winner Erik Sinclair’s ‘Scenes of our Song’ anthology, a collection of never before seen paintings created solely for this gallery”. Scribbled next to this pithy little blurb in Erik’s own messy scrawl were his address and an old phone number.

He remembered now. That art show had been part of the prize for winning the grant. It was his very first and to see people standing there admiring his works had been the most bizarrely wonderful experience he’d known at that time. His parents hadn’t come.

Erik painted to tell stories, to show things as he saw them, and not necessarily for any one group of people or audience. Still though, most of the patrons of the gallery had been on the older end of the spectrum. That’s why she’d caught his eye. That and the fact that she was utterly beautiful.

He looked at her, wondering what she could possibly be doing here. After the fact he’d wondered why it had never crossed his mind that she could be there merely to admire the art like everyone else. Maybe that just seemed too innocent for such a pretty girl, especially one looking at his art. She turned around to look at Erik, surprising him.

“You know it’s not polite to stare don’t you?”

He was instantly on his guard. She’d spoken to him which meant she wanted something from him. They always wanted something from him. “Sure I do,” he said in his customarily bored-sounding burr. “And you? Don’t you know it’s illegal to trespass?”

She reached into the breast pocket of her jacket and pulled out her ticket to the show, waving it before him mockingly. “Indeed I did,” she nearly sang. “Lucky for me though, I actually paid to get in this time.” She laughed and Erik’s blood ran cold. She was gorgeous when she laughed. “And since I’m on my very best behavior today, you’ll be unable to get rid of me until I’m good and ready to leave.”

“I could claim sexual harassment,” he said, voice thin as he realized she was showing no signs of wanting to leave despite his rudeness.

She shook her head, causing her curls to swing a little, and giving him a smile that to him seemed painfully patronizing. “That you should be so lucky,” she’d said. “Are you always this gracious to your fans, Mr. Sinclaire?”

He raised his eyebrows a fraction. “If I knew I had some, probably. I’m too underground to have fans. How do you know my name?”

She laughed and handed him the pamphlet for the gallery open to the page dedicated to his pieces. There was a picture of him on it.

“Oh.”

She giggled. “And sorry to inform you Mr. Sinclaire but you’re not edgy enough to be underground. I’m familiar with the New Talent Grant competition. You’re getting a nice little payday for this. That’s okay though, I love you anyway.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a painting, apparently oblivious to the stunned look on Erik’s face. “Come on,” she said. “I really want to know what you were thinking of with one of your paintings.”

Erik barely heard her. He needed to get out of there. He needed some fresh air, the feeling that he’d just inhaled a poisonous gas gagging him. Something inside him however wouldn’t let him pull away from this girl though. But then again was that anything new?

No.

Not really.

She led him to the centerpiece of his display. This was his winning painting, the one that had secured the grant for him. It was of a small boy struggling down an empty road, his back to the viewer. The road led nowhere. Around the boy’s ankles and wrists were shackles that connected iron balls and winding around the boy’s small frame were barely visible strings that flowed up to the sky. One of the boy’s arms was stretched out toward the horizon, hand reaching, fingers grasping. The landscape was a barren wasteland with dry, vegetationless ground and an