Gargoyle A succubus with a lovely face who offers a poisoned cup
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses, and
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
e.e.cummings
“Tell me about Jessica.”
Elias sits back brooding, herringbone lines of rain shadows submerging him in a dark current.
I don’t know why I come Thursdays—perhaps, because it’s Thor’s Day and I need a hammer-wielding god to help me battle the giants in my life.
And I don’t know if Elias is up to a scrap, but he’s adept as a shrink and has probably kept me sober thus far—if you count eighteen months as a milestone of sorts—and if you disregard the fact I still have bad dreams.
So it seems reasonable enough to suppose that I need an advocate to intercede for me—a pontifex maximus, a builder of bridges.
After all, I’m prone to hallucinate anything—even faces coming out of walls—or so he thinks
But then again, maybe Elias isn’t a high priest, but a lesser, albeit still potent daemon—certainly not the President of the Immortals, but perhaps a member of that pantheon of weather gods that controls our moods and keeps in check the dreadful pudder above our heads
And maybe that explains, whenever I see Elias, it rains.
“Jessica,” he cues me.
I shrug. My oracle hides in shadows —I wish I could.
I shift uneasily in the leather wingback chair—it's not a couch, so that’s a plus, I muse grimly
“What can I say? You don’t think she’s real. You say she’s something I made up in my head—a manifestation of delirium tremors.”
“And what do you think?” he parries.
“I think I’m perfectly sane—except, of course, for those rare occasions when I have nightly conversations with my refrigerator.”
He doesn’t laugh—not even a smile. He can be pretty bleak—frightening as a gargoyle on a buttress, and depending on my mood, scaring me toward or away from help.
“I want to know what she means to you, Theo.”
“Don’t you mean what she represents—as in some repressed need or unexpressed libidinous drive? C’mon Elias, you see her as a projection of my subconscious wishes, or some damn mumbo-jumbo disorder in my brain.”
Now I get a sardonic grin.
“Well, let’s look at that for a minute. Jessica Skye is a Thirties silver screen goddess who’s been dead for half a century—yet you have clandestine meetings with her and are convinced she’s in love with you. Is that about right?”
My fingers tighten into a ball and a flush creeps up my neck.
“You left out the part that I also have a Thirties speak-easy concealed in my basement that has a portal to go back in time to a now non-existent wing of my house. Yes, goddamn it, I know—I sound certifiably insane. But bloody hell, Elias, it’s true.”
“If it’s true, you ought to be able to prove it. You know as well as I ghosts are never seen by two sets of eyes.”
“I can’t talk to you,” I groan.
I go to leave, but then, a thought hits me.
“Say, you’re always telling me this is an anxiety disorder—that I’m suffering from PTSD. Well, if that’s the case, then why the hell would I choose to go back and put myself in harm’s way when the whole damn experience scares the bejeesus right out of me?”
“Why do you keep going back to Maya?” he smiles.
I have no comeback for that.
He sees my life as a ship in a storm—and I’m embarked on some improbable quest, with Maya the tempest, Jessica the Siren and Elias as the lighthouse.
But he’s not. He’s no light in my darkness.
A foghorn perhaps—but not a lighthouse.
“Why do you fight me, Theo?”
He says it calmly and turns off the tape recorder, crossing one leg over the other. It’s going to be one of those conversations.
“Maybe it’s because you oppose me. You don’t help. Or maybe it’s because whenever I see you it rains.”
“Yes, I know you get hung up on that. It may be something like Jung’s theory of synchronicity.”
“Or it may be the god damn fact the universe is trying to tell me something.”
“Maybe it is,” he smiles.
So smug, so self-assured—well, good on him. But what am I thinking?
Ta, da!…a banner day. Elias smiled again. We should declare a holiday.
But Elias is back to frowning now, scrying my countenance like tea leaves in a cup, and no doubt coming to dire conclusions.
“You seem to be hung up on water, Theo. It seems to symbolize something to you.”
I bristle. “I don’t what you’re talking about.”
“Well, it’s kind of like your life—London fog and a mystery tale—the two go together. And with you, it’s watery wraiths that inhabit doorways and meet you in a garden in the pouring rain.”
I sigh. I’ve told this man too much—all the secrets of my life—pearls before swine.
“Why would I keep going back to something that frightens the bejeesus out of me?”
“That’s easy—the Grotesque. Men are drawn to painted devils—hence, your attraction to Maya when you know she’s bad for you.”
“But that’s just it, Elias—Jessica isn’t bad for me—she brings out the best in me. I want to get well so I can be with her.”
“She’s a chimera, Theo—seeing her causes you anxiety—causes you to shake with fear, and then drives you to booze to self-medicate.”
I throw up my hands in despair.
“You see—that’s the problem. You see me as a raving dipsomaniac who’s prone to delusions.”
“I see you, Theo, as a man with a physical dependency that goes far beyond mere thirst. You’re searching for an ideal. But I will grant you this much—maybe I was wrong to call Jessica a Grotesque.”
“Well, that’s better,” I concede.
“No wait—let me finish. She’s not a Grotesque, but a Gargoyle.”
“Okay, Elias, I’m done. Now you’ve gone too far.”
“Hear me out,” he says, offering up empty hands, I suppose, as a gesture to reassure he holds no weapons.
...As if.
“I’m not trying to diminish Jessica, but to explain your relationship with her.”
“It bloody well doesn’t sound like it,” I retort hotly—I mean, a gargoyle, Elias? How the hell did you think I’d react?”
“Please, try to be patient, Theo. You may not know this but gargoyles on buildings served a useful architectural function. They weren’t there as simple gothic adornments—they concealed pipes that channeled water from the roof through the open mouths of the statues. They vomited it away from the structure.”
“Oh, that makes me feel much better,” I reply drolly. Such an endearing image,”
“But you don’t get it, do you, Theo? Jessica provides you with drink. She seems benign, but unlike a gothic gargoyle that channels fluid away, she does the opposite—she undermines your attempts to be sober.”
His analogy stops me dead in my tracks
It’s a possibility I never entertained—that in some way, Jessica could be toxic.
“All I’m asking is you consider it, Theo. You know Maya is toxic—maybe Jessica is more of the same.”
I leave his office perplexed and troubled, and, of course, drive home in rain.
I need more than anything to confront my demons—drink being the greatest of these—but Jessica as a purveyor of noxious potions? That’s a notion I will have to scan, seeing that at this point in my life, she’s the only reason I continue to exist.
I shake my head at my predicament.
So conflicted—so torn between need and desire—and the object of my quest? A gargoyle with a lovely face offering me a poisoned cup.
Wormwood, nothing but wormwood.
intriguing...a labyrinth of hidden motives and secret passages
thank you, @cicero
Nifty!
Upvoted
@shayne
thank you, @shayne!
Such a nice treatment of the writing challenge!
Didn't know that about gargoyles... :) 😄😇😄
thank you, @creatr ... most of the time my allusions and symbolism operate so far down in the subtext I doubt anyone gets them...but I forgot that you usually do...and your comment on Vignette...well, I think only a few on here would pick up on that one :)