My Favourite Muse

CHAPTER SIX

  Death, in its nature has a gripping effect. It stirs uncomfortable feelings in the hearts of people especially if one is somehow, in some kind of danger. Death threats in movies are less frightening than in real life, and it's worse if some kind of incurable diseases become the sole factor to it. Pam's situation was just one of these.

  "She has Leukaemia." Molly sipped her tea as she told us about Pamela's condition. "It's not the first time she's brought to the hospital, unconscious. She's dying."

  And so we sat around; the three of us, in silence as if one of us was actually the one dying. Our silence, I think, laid a latent premise for varying degrees of thoughts.

  Mother was looking at me with a pitiful face and I knew what she was thinking. She knew I had developed some kind of sudden affection towards the girl I had hated earlier. I think she's right, judging by my late brave behaviours of storming the hospital and into Pam's room.

  Well, I can't really explain what my mind-set was focused on at that time; only that I had to see her.

  Molly was indifferent, for over twenty years, she had seen situation like mine (even worse) and flinched only on a few. So she sat there, drinking her tea without saying anything. As far as she's concerned, her silence was either to play along or give us a moment to marinate on her revelation, or both. I went for both.

  I stood and took the stairs again. No one said anything to me, only my mother's eyes were pinned at me as I left; I felt them like a sticky web. So I took the stairs fast enough to yank away.

  Propping the back of my head with my palms, I watched the wooden ceiling without actually seeing what's up there but what my mind displayed before me: the life of Pamela Graham.

  At such a young age, she's dying. Yet, she seems not to care how her life turned out to be. She goes around making trouble with people as if they were responsible for her condition. It made me wonder what her mind tells her every day. I felt the bigger picture was, she was dying and that enough is killing; but then what? Why would she live the last few years of her life as a trouble maker?

  I looked at the unfinished painting at the far end of my room. The dead colouring had given it a sober look that not only matched the awkward tension I was in, but had also emanated a lifeless image of an unhappy concept. For a moment, I thought of leaving it that way without further colouring.

  The sudden realization of Pam's condition had obviously changed everything: now my mind has nothing to ponder upon, but Pamela Graham.

  Next morning was Sunday. In church, I sat between mother and Molly listening to the priest preaching the usual motivation through the words of God and the struggle experiences of the Prophets. Then the praise songs followed, which soon got wild, streaming spiritual frenzies through the congregation and transforming the place into a theatre. But I didn't feel that energy or the motivation. My mind was preoccupied with what I slept and woke up with; death!

  My dreams the night before, were hell; the most haggard I've ever had. All of it dwelt on horrible scenes of death, exhaustion and terror. There was one where I saw Pam lying dead on the bed, all pale and stiff. Her dead face wore a stern look and with her blond hair, looked like a jinn. Then she was talking to me in a strange tone like she was possessed. Then there was this one where I saw her drowning in the lake and she wasn't fighting it. She just let the water engulf her; she was looking at me. Then came the dream with crusaders on horses. There were a lot of fighting and burning and death; and then it was over and the burial of the dead knights by the sea came. I stood among others, as coins were placed over the closed eyes of each knight before he's buried. Pam was one of them; the guy placing the coins on her was Phil. I guess that was the moment I woke up.

  Now sitting between two old women, skidding to and fro between my dreams and the frenzy in the church, my life at that moment, was in hell of a disturbance. I started developing a headache; and when the priest asked the congregation to pray, I prayed to God to bring the service to an end. I guess He didn't answer my prayer; we left the church hours later.

  Mother had been observing me for a while. Her concern grew from the moment I went up to my room when Molly told us about Pam's health condition. But mother didn't speak to me about it yet, but I know she will.

  I had a shower, changed and came down stairs with Mr Glasgow’s book. Mother was in the kitchen.

  "I'm heading out." I said.

  "Where you off to?" I waved the book; she wanted to say something but hesitated. She knew where I was going to: the Park, the same place the whole trouble began. "Alright. Have fun."

  "I hope so. Later."

  I walked to the door. But just when I was about to go out, she called on me again. Her face wearing the same disturbed look she had the previous day. She came and hugged me. Even without saying a word, I felt all the emotions she had for me with regards to the whole thing. I guess she wanted to show me, though not in words, how concerned about me she was. I felt it too; honestly, I had no idea what I am going to do since letting it go was something that proved very difficult. That was what informed my decision to start reading Mr Glasgow’s book.

  "You'll be alright son. You'll be alright." She patted my back.

  "I hope so."

  Ten seconds later, I was on the road to Roath Park. I walked fast, trying to get my mind focused on the book I was about to read.