Empty Smoke

"Life is cruel, Eleanor. It's best I teach you this, not the world." Father explained, pacing up and down my room.

I stopped applying myself in my studies. Well, not purposely. Lately, I couldn't find the motivation to do anything. I was exhausted in every sense of the word. I couldn't even find it in me to do the most basic of tasks. I couldn't shower, I couldn't clean my room, I found it exerting to change my clothes.

I love to write. It was a burning urge that filled me with an elation nothing else could. And now, I couldn't even write. A barrier had built in my brain, one of a blank nothingness.

It was terrifying.

Inside, I'm stuck in a void banging on the walls of my brain, begging it to let me out and bring life back into me.

To just move.

Outside, my face, a desolate ghostland.

Day by day, I felt colours dull and fade into shades of black and white.

A candle whose flame had burnt, only tendrils of smoke lurking.

I thought I kept the forest fire to myself, but it's flames were too powerful. Slowly, engulfing every inch of my life. Starting with school. Which my father, of course, realised the second my grades began slipping.

"Okay, father." I reply flatly, having no energy to argue or defend myself. It wasn't worth it, he wouldn't understand.

Nowadays, I felt like no one did.

"Do not brush me off, Eleanor. You're being so lazy. What makes you think you'll be top of your class in Oxford acting like this." He snapped, hands gesturing his words.

I didn't say anything at that. I just stared passed him.

I was starting university in a couple weeks. The college I worked so hard to get into. The college of my dreams where I was to study my passion. I didn't even want it anymore.

"Are you even listening to me?!"

At that, my ears lost the ability to hear.

"Cassius! Leave her own!" My mother's distant voice shouted.

Everything after that was a mess of mumbles and shouting. My mother yelling at my father. My father blaming my mother for whatever was wrong with me.

Being in the maze of life wasn't as daunting when you knew what you were doing. When you had a map in your hands guiding you. But, I had lost my map.

I was stuck. I hated feeling stuck. I hated not knowing what was happening in my life, being so useless.

I pushed myself too far. So when I fell, I didn't know how to get up again.

There were nights where my pillow was too soaked in tears to sleep on, when I had to cover my mouth because now, my weeping evolved into audible howls. When the ache in my chest was too heavy and my body would tremble and legs would kick in frustration.

And then, there were nights I felt nothing. I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling blankly.

I'm no natural. I wasn't innately gifted or talented. I had to try so hard, all the time. And most times, it wouldn't even work out.

I prayed very night that I would pull myself together in time for Oxford. There was nothing more frustratingly aggravating then wanting something so bad but not having the motivation to go after it.

I forced myself to remain strong, I couldn't afford doing anything stupid. I couldn't leave my mother...

Or my father, even if he didn't understand.

When the day to move to Oxford came, I dragged myself up. Ignoring whatever poison dared infiltrate my mind. As unhealthy as it was, I didn't care. I pushed away my emotions. I shoved them into the deepest part of my brain and constructed gates of tungsten to hide them away and imprison them so they may never reach me. I couldn't afford feeling. Perhaps that was dangerous because when I did eventually feel they'd come back like a tsunami and take me with them. I was always stuck between the two. Between feeling and forcing myself not to.

It was excruciating, because it is in my bones. To feel.

Logically, I told myself to never expect much or else I'd be disappointed.

But my foolish self  is more emotional than logical.

I live my life in a constant, migraine inducing paradox.

I dawdled into Oxford.

It wasn't until I entered Blackwells, where I encountered a certain infuriating acquaintance who distracted me from my own life for a moment and ignited a passionate tangent that I felt something. When I found out he was to be in the same class as me, when he began to compete with me...

He irked me. That, for some reason, maybe spite, filled me with a desire to best him.

Striving to defeat him, I began feeling like myself again.

I didn't want to think of that though.

~~~

Sitting on the steps of the museum, I wait for Silas. He told to meet him here, for what, I don't know but I never knew anything with him and when I asked, he refused to tell me as if he relished in my panicking.

"I think a deserve a kiss for how hard I've been working." His complacent voice delivered.

"Maybe I'll give you one." I tease, standing up.

"Really?" He asks, shocked.

"No." I answer. "Now, tell me what you found out and why were meeting here?"

"My heart." He clasps his chest dramatically in mock hurt. "You'll find out when we go inside."

Rolling my eyes, I stride into the building. A waft of history, beauty, and humanity hits me. Historical objects, sculptures, scripts from every era of time. Artworks and paintings from all over world, detailing the intricacies of life and being human with mere brushstrokes and colours.

The only thing that came to mind was...

"The human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." -Dead Poets Society.

That was it. I felt the life, the ambience, the people chattering- connecting. The power of everything in this place surge through me, embrace me.

It's a shame how much hate we harbour, how much corruption there is, when humanity is so unfathomably beautiful. We are capable of such destruction but such beauty as well. If only we focused on the latter more.

Gazing at my surroundings in awe I whisper, "Isn't it beautiful?"

"It is." He says, looking at me intently.

"Now, what's happening?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, still looking at me.

Snapping my head toward him, he answers.

"Yes, right. I looked into Kavish Dalal. At first, I couldn't find anything about him. It seems that he is a very private man. However, I went back to his old school records that I stole from Humphries office and found out that he owns this museum. I visited last night to see him walking out at around 5pm, most likely going home. Just in case that wasn't enough, I looked into his schedule to find out he is leading an art exhibit today... and got us two tickets."

Wow.

I was impressed. "How did you manage to get two tickets on such short notice?" I questioned.

"Just because you pretend to be immune to my charms doesn't mean others do." He smirks.

"Of course."

He offers his arm which I reluctantly take before he guides us to the art gallery.

We enter the hall, classical music pervading the air, luring us closer in. We both scan the room looking for Kavish Dalal. Our eyes pass couples admiring paintings together, strangers seeking each others opinions on the art.

Silas nudges me, "That's him."

I discreetly steal a look at who he's signalling to. A short, older man with brown skin, dressed in an expensive suit.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please. Thank you all for attending this momentous occasion to admire these beautiful pieces. I would like to bring your attention to a very special piece." Dalal announces, pointing to a piece covered in a white cloth.

People gather closer, intrigued. He grabs the edge of the cloth and yanks it revealing a painting. To which the crowd replies with oohs and ahs of admiration.

A painting of a dove with the wings of a crow.

My grip tightens on Silas' arm. "That artwork. It's Vincent's." I whisper.

Before Silas can reply, Dalal's speech continues. "The attention to detail. The emotion. This is a one of a kind, thus it will be pricey."

An auction. "Let's start with £1000. Do I see £1000?" He yells, pointing at people in the crowd.

"£1000! Do I see £2000?"

All too fast, Silas raises his hand. "£2000! Do I see 3000?" I jerk my head to him, my eyes questioning him. He remains calm and composed.

"3000! Do I see 4000?" Dalal points to another person, Silas' hand doesn't leave the air.

"4000? Do I see 4500?" He offers.

"4500 going once, going twice. Sold! To the gentleman over there." He finishes, congratulating Golding.

I bite my cheek from the inside, not understanding what the hell he's doing.

"Are you crazy?" I accuse.

"Trust me, Love." He whispers.

"You're an idiot!"

"An idiot whose hand you've been holding this entire time."

I immediately let go.

Tilting my chin up, he slithers. "Now, be the clever girl I know you are and put on that pretty little smile of yours while I go and sign those papers."

And with that, he saunters off, leaving me speechless.

I move slightly closer to eavesdrop on the conversation between Dalal and Golding.

"You're very lucky to have this painting, sir." The former says, shaking the latter's hand.

Golding wordlessly signs the papers to give ownership of the artwork to him.

"Tell me, Mr. Dalal. Why are you selling such a unique piece? Especially when you can wait a few years and sell it for much more." Silas asks.

"Well, we have many artworks coming in everyday, its important we lighten the load very now and then." He explains, his lying awfully blatant.

"May I ask where it's from?"

He scoffs for a moment, "Certainly full of questions, Mr..."

"Golding. Now answer my question."

"It was imported from Italy." A monotone response.

Silas looks at him with an unfaltering stare. "Thank you for your time."

I swear Dalal let out a sigh of relief when he turned around.

"Let's go." He says under his breath, putting a hand behind my back as we leave.