Keys of Life

Chapter Three: Keenan

Chapter Three: Keenan

   I watched as a fairy floated down the stairs, too wrapped up in mysteries only she could see to notice me slouching on a kitchen counter. She moaned softly as the coffee machine spat a noise of refusal before the question of caffeine was even asked. Dancing lightly over to the gleaming marble of the sink, she poured herself a glass of water, sipping the liquid that was sparkling in the golden rays of sun.

   I couldn't help myself. I coughed.  

   Whirling around, the glass smashing against the white tiles with a decisive crash, she glared at me accusingly. Her eyes gleamed with anger that would never be released; would never be allowed to claw an escape. She closed her eyes for a brief second, denying me access to the doorways of her soul.

   "Who are you?" It was almost a conversational tone, but the wave of irritation that washed underneath the pleasant manner gave her away. She didn't seem surprised, or shocked; it was as if the power of her fury was so intense that it removed any other emotion she was capable of handling.

   "Keenan." I could almost feel the smooth wood of a paintbrush in my hands, the bold, clear lines tempered with hazy blurs that would make her come to life. The delicacy, the intricacy making it so real you could touch her, only to be met with the flat wall of canvas...

   It wasn't until I saw her lips move that I realised she was actually trying to hold a conversation. Pulling myself out of my world of brushes and turpentine, I glanced down at her bare feet just centimetres away from the pool of broken glass and water.

   "Faye. Tea or coffee?" Her voice held no trace of her former resentment, just a wistful note that held an awful sadness, ingrained deep into the very core of her being.

   "Tea. Your coffee maker doesn't sound like it's up to the job." The machine let out another pained gurgle of agreement. She gracefully inclined her head in a gesture of accordance. "Aren't you going to ask why I'm here?"

   "I figured you were one of the new artists at the gallery. It isn't the first time someone has forgotten to mention there would be an extra guest for the next few days. You needed a place to stay?" I nodded. The rent had been due a few weeks ago, and my landlord wasn't overly forgiving of mistakes. Especially after the seventh. Faye's mother had given me a roof to put over my head when I asked if I could sleep at the gallery. She had been outraged at the suggestion, telling me that I simply had to stay with her. I had been surprised when she told me about her daughter. She didn't seem to spend enough time at home to even dream of having a child.

    "Did someone give you the tour last night?" Faye shuffled her feet, seeming as if she didn't expect anyone to have taken the time.

   "Yep. Your mother did the honours." She hadn't, but I liked to find things on my own.

   "Okay." Her eyes glimmered with disbelief, but she said nothing. I took in her short blonde hair, softly textured and shining, her eyes the colour of emeralds and the long thin body that accompanied them. She would be perfect for my next piece.

   "Would you mind sitting for a while so I can paint you?" She glanced quickly at her watch, her eyes calculating time and inclination, before settling back on my face.

   "Sure. You have three hours. I need to run some errands."

***

   Her lips mouthed the words she was reading, her hands gripping the book tightly as it came to its final chapter. The excitement in her eyes and the smile that broke across her face were an artist's dream. Or, more accurately, my dream.

   "Good book?" I rested my eyes back on the canvas. My hands seemed disconnected from my body, as if someone else was making the black strokes of charcoal that captured her expression.

   "Yes. It was such a nice ending." The happiness that her tone portrayed, the joy reserved for babbling brooks and larks made me wonder if 'nice' was an underestimation.

  I focused on the tilt of her chin, the angle of her arm, the distance from her nose to her mouth. I hadn't asked her to do any kind of pose, just watched her as she pounced on the bed, tossing pillows and duvets out of the way to get a more comfortable perch. Yet at the same time, there was a sense of unease and disquiet in the way she pushed the door open gingerly, as if at any moment it might snap shut in her face. I couldn't blame her. The house was unfriendly, hostile. In no way could it really be called a home, no matter how many cheerful photographs and strategically placed books it held.  I didn't fit in here. Neither did she.

   I thought about the flat I had left behind. It was strange to say it, but I was almost relieved that I didn't have to live there. The cold draughts and the colder decor had had no place in my heart, and I hated every second I had to spend in the cramped rooms. I probably could have paid the rent, if I'd started into my savings and the couple of hundred thousand pounds my parents had given me to make my way in the world. 

   To say my family didn't approve of my artistic tendencies would have been an understatement. I could have gone to any university, done accountancy or law, and they would have been happy. Instead, I had chosen to leave school at sixteen, to paint and work some bad jobs to bridge the gap. They still loved me; it wasn't as if they had disowned me. They just didn't know what to do with a son who didn't want riches, who was happiest behind an easel. I decided to head to Dublin for 'new sights and inspiration'. It was a sprawling city I could so easily get lost in, but it meant there was no one looking over my shoulder for the day I would confess I had made a mistake, to beg for forgiveness and ask for a rather large donation to be made to a prestigious school in my name. There had been times I was tempted, I'm not going to lie.

   Art is like marmite - some people liked it, some people didn't. Watching your creation get dubbed as worthless time after time was soul crushing, as if God had a master plan to squeeze every last drop of originality and enthusiasm out of your body. I wanted to be able to say that I could rise above all that, could accept that I didn't need the admiration of people who thought they knew about art. I would be lying. I was just used to it by now, accepted the way things were when I couldn't stop the tears leaking out of my eyes one night. I had just gotten back from my own personal tour of all the galleries I could think of in the north side of Dublin. My arms were screaming with fatigue from carrying my paintings, and every alleyway I had turned down stank with the reek of disbelief and failure. I had known the road was going to be hard. I hadn't realised how emotionally fraught it was, how heavy the burden of hopes and dreams could be.

    I concentrated on recreating the soft lines of her hair. The velvet ends shimmered in the golden light, a glow of warmth bathing her face. I set, once more, to work.