Chapter 1

 

Andrew Rowly stared into the Emerald Forest. Smears of black reduced the first trees to nothing more than smudges and shade. Only Glib, the blue-skinned demon, remained untouched, crouching in the foreground, his two fierce yellow eyes burning into the room. Andy couldn’t bear to look at the monster for more than a few seconds, yet he was too afraid of the consequences to take a paintbrush to the miscreant–his miscreant. As such, the demon remained unblemished, bloated and proud near where the paint faded at the edges of the mural.

Andy shifted where his right foot had fallen asleep, his legs crumpled beneath him on the disheveled single bed. He wiped the mess of tears from his face and returned his attention to the painting. He hardly recognized it anymore. The huge stain appeared to come from its very center. It was a dark heart with poisonous arteries. Blackened roots bled from the heart, ensnaring the nearest trees. He had never painted the stain or the serpentine tendrils. At least he didn’t think so. It was as if the darkness possessed a life of its own. He squirmed as he tried to recall what had happened. There was so much he couldn’t remember. It was as if the blackness on the wall was inside his head too, and it was getting bigger, flooding him and drowning his memories. He couldn’t be sure whether the cancer in the mural had started with the nightmares or after he painted Glib, but one thing was certain, painting the demon had only made things worse.

Andy stared at the wall and knew the demon was to blame, only he couldn’t face it, couldn’t accept that he had brought the monster to life.

How could Glib be real?

His head hurt to bursting point just considering this.

Eyes throbbing, Andy continued to regard the blackness. His thoughts sharpened, piercing the undercurrent of unease until he felt lucid. He remembered the day Grandpa encouraged him to paint the mural. Back then he had felt happy, weightless even.

Grandpa.

Andy rubbed his face and tried not to think about Grandpa. Instead he thought of his parents, of what another life might have been like. The notion kept creeping in. It had always been like this. What if? He didn’t want these thoughts, not one of them. Grandpa had been so good to him, but things had changed. The blackness was spreading everywhere.

The alarm sounded and Andy blinked, startled. The numbers on the clock came into focus. It was seven AM. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there staring–minutes, hours, maybe longer.

When was the last time he had even left the house?

Andy numbly watched the jumping clock play out its hysterics. He should move, switch it off, but he didn’t. What had he been thinking when he set the alarm? He wasn’t ready to go back to Aquinas yet. It was too soon. His gaze returned to the mural. The alternative was another day here. He sighed and, shaking a little, reached out and shut off the wail.

Dazed, he climbed off the bed and staggered around his room like a zombie until he found clothes that would suffice. He pulled on the faded jeans and the Trainspotting t-shirt Grandpa had bought him last month. Grandpa had wanted to see the film, and Andy suspected the t-shirt was intended to motivate him to leave the house. He hadn’t. He couldn’t bear to think of himself in the darkness of a cinema with so many people close by.

His attention drifted to the small circular mirror fixed to the chimney breast beside the mural. It was designed to resemble a porthole on a ship and beneath it sat a dust-covered fire made from cast-iron, set back in an old, brick fireplace. Beside it was a bookcase where he mainly stored his paints and art supplies. He felt a sudden urge to cross the room and face the mirror, to run a comb through his hair and find some semblance of style. Instead he remained rooted to the spot, his bare toes curling into the carpet. He sighed, and purposefully avoiding his reflection, collected his sketchpad, pencils, brushes and the frayed Gerald Brommer textbook. He bundled them into his rucksack but already his breathing felt shallow and doubts crept into his head about whether he could get through the day. His trainers were by the base of the mural. He focused, enough to put them on, making sure he didn’t look at either the black stain or Glib.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, Andy told himself as he continued to get ready. He knew if he didn’t go in then people from the college might start asking questions. He couldn’t afford anyone snooping around here. Plus he enjoyed art. He might be able to lose himself for a while if he got to paint.

Andy put on black socks then knelt and tied the laces of his trainers. His resolve faltered as the whispers of his old classmates at high school returned to him. Grandpa was a pedophile or a dinosaur or a day away from death. The noise inside him was relentless, and it was as though a tear in his chest had reopened. He sniffed, bit hard on his lip and fought off the tears. He hadn’t felt like this for years but these last days had been different. Still, college was easier than high school. He was anonymous there. They would simply ignore him. He could handle that, would welcome it.

Andy stared at the door until he felt dizzy. This was normal sometimes, as if nothing was real, as if he looked at everything too hard, so hard his vision blurred into something corrupted. He became aware he was leaning on the wall, the dark stain just inches from his fingertips. Shivering, he withdrew his hand, gave Glib one final sideways glance and gathered his rucksack. He left the bedroom, descended the stairs on trembling legs and paused in the hallway. The curtains were drawn in the sitting room, the lights dipped. It was gloomy, a nest of shadows. Channel 4 played quietly on the TV, something about Orangutans. Grandpa stared ahead.

“Bye, Grandpa,” Andy offered as best he could, the swollen ache excruciating in his chest.

Grandpa didn’t answer as Andy left the house.