The Red Line (one-shot)
I was looking through some old files on my computer and found this short story I wrote for school back in early 2005. I don't think I posted it then, so I thought I'd let it see the light of day.
~ The Red Line ~
The tyranny of the daylight hours had at last yielded to the unearthly silence of twilight. Curled up in the corner of his sofa, Anson yawned and stretched his arms, taking in with bleary eyes the mindnumbing vacancy of his house – the bare white walls, the dying light bulb on the ceiling, the grimy, sealed windows. He eyed the front door particularly closely, a kind of fear rising up within him at the thought of who would be entering through it soon. He contemplated making an early move, but he knew it was important – vital – that he waited. Patience, he reminded himself, was a virtue.
Twilight gradually gave way to the more humane manner of the night. Anson’s wife came home at seven-thirty. She was as aloof as ever, allowing him to give her an ornamental kiss on the cheek before breezing into the kitchen and unpacking the bag of groceries she had come home with. Perched atop one of the barstools facing the kitchen bench, Anson watched his wife in a muted haze. He remembered her when they were twenty-year-old newlyweds, when her platinum blonde hair fell down to the small of her back, and her caramel-coloured eyes gleamed zestfully. Anson blinked. The same girl stood before him, twenty years older, her hair in an irritatingly neat bob, her eyes drained. It seemed like she had aged overnight.
She placed a can of soup in the pantry and turned to catch him looking at her. For a moment, it seemed like she was going to smile, but that infinitesimal moment passed, and instead she grunted, in her usual bland tone, “Did you get the lamp fixed in the end like I asked?”
“Couldn’t. Might be something wrong with the wiring. I’ll get it done later – tomorrow.”
“Good,” his wife replied, returning to her chore, “Tomorrow.”
Their conversational quota for the day successfully met, they returned to the usual silence, however, the word ‘tomorrow’ seemed to hang in the air for some time afterwards.
On any normal night, after greeting his wife, Anson would have been quite content to sit numbly on the stool, waiting for the meal to be ready. However, this night promised to be one of the most abnormal nights of his entire life. He jiggled restlessly on the stool just thinking about it, playing it over in his mind. It was going to happen. He could feel anticipation and readiness coursing through his veins. He had felt it for days now. There was no going back.
Time passed, and the night sky became an entrancing shade of cobalt. At eight, Anson found himself sprawled on the back veranda, staring at the maze of stars above. He considered himself an amateur astronomer. From where he lay he could see the struggling yellow speck that was Mercury, and the even tinier star Deneb Kaitos. The moon had not yet risen.
As a general rule, staring up at the stars calmed Anson almost into a state of trance. But tonight, nothing could calm him. He was too restless. It was getting late. Soon, very soon, he would do it. And then … well, then she would see …
“Tea’s ready,” came his wife’s torpid call.
It was an unwritten rule that dinner was eaten in total, impenetrable silence, broken only by the scraping of a fork or spoon on the china. Anson remained as quiet as ever as he ate his soup, but his wife seemed to have noticed something about his restless misdemeanor – her eyes seemed trained on him suspiciously.
Finally, for the first time in Anson’s memory, she broke the silence and said, “What’s wrong?”
Stunned, Anson dropped his spoon. “Pardon?”
“You seem jittery. Are you all right?”
He hesitated. “Oh … it’s nothing. I’m pretty tired … it was a long day.”
She raised a dark eyebrow, and for a second it seemed that she would say nothing. Then, just as Anson returned to his meal, she cleared her throat. “I can’t imagine how strenuous it must be sitting at home all day,” she said scathingly, “While your wife goes out and earns a living.”
Without thinking, Anson started to his feet. “How can you – you said you understood –”
“Twenty years ago!” she countered before he could finish. “I said that back then. But I expected something. It was supposed to be real –”
“It IS real!” Anson spat; in his forty-one years, he could not remember ever becoming so livid so quickly. “You never believed in me, not ever! If you could just have the decency to wait a little while – have some patience –”
“The decency to WAIT?” Her cerise lips quivered with rage. “PATIENCE? How – how could you – I –” She spluttered hopelessly. Furious, she picked up her half-empty bowl and swept it off the table. It fell to the floor with a loud clink and bounced twice before rolling to a standstill – but it did not break.
She screamed. Her eyes were fiery. She stood up in a rage. “I can’t believe your nerve! I’ve waited long enough, Anson!”
Tears streaming down her face, she stormed out. Anson sat stock-still for a moment, stunned; they had never quarreled before. After a moment’s thought, he stood up and ran after his wife. As he ran, he plunged a hand into the pocket of his jacket, producing the one thing he had kept concealed all day – the one thing he had known he was going to use today. It was time.
“Lucy! Lucy, where are you?”
He ran into the lounge room, but she was nowhere to be seen. Uneasy, he pelted upstairs in search of his wife. He darted about the bedroom and bathroom, into the upstairs living room, but there was no sign of her. There was only one place he had not yet checked – the room he had not entered since that morning.
Anson turned the door handle and pushed the door aside. Immediately he was confronted with his wife’s face: at once, she looked as young as the day they had met; a beautiful blonde swan, yet at the same time, she was an old, withered creature. Anson surveyed the image before him, then grasped more tightly than ever the weapon in his hand. It was ready to be used now. Quickly, he prepared the weapon and, with a swift, deft movement, he swiped it through the air, cutting a savage red line diagonally across his wife’s face.
And then, it was done.
*********
Lucy White entered the studio to find her husband on the floor, sobbing quietly to himself. Shocked, she lingered in the doorway, unsure of what to make of the bizarre situation. His shirt was covered in crimson.
“Anson – are you all right?”
He looked up, his eyes wide and insane.
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling abruptly. “For taking so long to do this. But it was never finished until now.”
Confused by her husband’s strange behaviour, Lucy White stepped into the studio and helped him to his feet. Apparently in a daze, Anson grabbed hold of the canvas before him and turned it around to reveal to his wife.
“Oh – oh – Anson –”
The painting was brilliance at it’s most refined level. It was as simple as it was detailed. It depicted Lucy’s face, aged nineteen – vernal and stunningly beautiful. Yet, at the same time, the face looked as she did now – middle-aged and worn. It was impossible to tell if the woman in the painting was young or old, beautiful or ugly. A thin crimson line rent the painting diagonally.
“ My finishing touch,” Anson muttered vaguely, brandishing the thick paintbrush in his hand.
“It’s – it’s breathtaking,” Lucy muttered, completely lost for words at the painting before her. It was the best piece of artwork she had ever seen.
Feeling as though he was losing a part of him by admitting it, Anson explained. “I did it twenty years ago. But it was never good enough. It always lacked something. And then, this week, I changed it. It is a portrait of you – in the past and now. I just had to add the final touch –” He gesticulated at the red line.
“It’s a masterpiece – you haven’t lost your touch!” Lucy exclaimed, forgetting about her earlier outburst.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting for so long. But it’s done now. This is what I lived for for twenty years – and it’s finished at last.”
Lucy deigned a smile.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Can you imagine how much it will be worth? It’ll be back to the old days – the functions, the parties, the critiques …”
Anson grinned broadly. “I’m not going to sell it.” He paused, then waved his hands before the portrait. “Happy Twentieth Anniversary.”
Stunned, ecstatic, overwhelmed, Lucy embraced him. “I thought you had forgotten.”
Through the broad window of Anson’s art studio, a wide shaft of silvery light appeared; the moon, resplendent and lunate, had risen at last.
Anson smiled, holding his wife close. “I hadn’t forgotten. You just needed to have some patience, dear.
“Patience.”
And Lucy laughed.
Originally Posted by mr_pikachu
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