Rupture [Short Story]

[Photo by @vaughndemont, edited by @cizzo]

Jane snuck under the chain. Her black boots crunched through patches of white snow. Salty air brushed her face and filled her nostrils—a welcome scent on an uninviting cold and grey morning. She reached the end of the pier and stood under a gazebo. The scene of countless excursions they had embarked upon. A fitting end.

The ferry. The picnics. The long walks and conversations about the future that would stretch into the dying sun. His sweetness that she had welcomed in those days. Now it was like child’s candy, too sweet for a matured pallet.

The pier creaked and groaned under the stress of the sea. Annoyances that had built up over years she categorized in easily accessible compartments in her mind. She dwelt on them now. For composure. For courage.

His art style that first struck her as full of life had grown stale. She told him to work on his technique and not rely on cheap tricks. But he would never take his art seriously and forever be doomed to menial retail work.

Jane checked her watch. Almost 7 a.m. She eyed the second hand as if to order it to speed up.

She heard the jingle of chain and the crunch of snow. Jack was unorthodoxly punctual.

“Hello,” he said from behind her.

“Glad you made it.”

Jack stopped beside her. He had on his heavy black backpack, no doubt full of sketch pads and pencils. She glanced at his face. Dark sunken eyes that watched the waves.

“Look,” Jane grabbed Jack’s slender hand. “This isn’t working.”

There it was, sudden and abrupt. Jack’s hand felt cold and limp in hers. She peered into his eyes.

“Don’t cry.” She pulled his body towards hers, held him tight and immediately regretted her sudden burst of compassion.

She gently pushed him off and took his shoulders in both hands. His head tilted down towards the cold planks of the pier.

“You knew this was coming. We’re from two different worlds.”

Stifled in their apartment, wanting to escape. And she did, time after time, without him but not without heaps of guilt. All he wanted to do was lounge around and draw.

“We’re just not compatible.”

He leaned into her. His head rested on her shoulder and she stroked the back of his neck. His body shook and quivered but he made no sound.

Jane watched ghostly figures appear at the end of the pier. They stopped, and getting a good sense of the scene, carried on.

“Don’t leave me,” Jack whispered. “I can’t live without you.”

The same old song and dance. Next would come the assurances of change. But it wouldn’t work this time. Months of solidifying her plans would not be undone by desperate pleadings.

“No. I can’t do this. I loved you, but not anymore.”

Jack pulled away. For a split-second, Jane felt he would jump into the icy water. He unburdened the backpack from his shoulders and knelt over it, his body shielding it.

“I still want to be in touch. I still want to be friends,” she said to the back of his head.

He stopped rifling through the backpack and looked up at her. His face hardened, lips pursed, teary blue eyes now cold as ice. He took one hand out of the backup and waved her away.

“I’ll call you later,” she said.

She walked back up the pier and stopped for a final look. He was still rummaging through that stupid backpack, no doubt looking for the right pad and pencils. Good—he would take the pain and make art.

With each step, Jane felt lighter, freer. She might even call her ex. They had been exchanging flirty messages the last few days. A successful lawyer that climbed mountains, amongst a myriad of awesome hobbies, none of which involved drawing or art of any kind. Right then and there she decided whatever happened, she was done with flimsy artist types.

She swung back down under the chain and grabbed keys from her coat pocket. She stood in front of her car and took a deep breath. Mission accomplished.

Before Jane could close the car's door, the crack of a bullet, it’s direction unmistakably coming from the pier, pierced through the fog.

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This is my entry for TWB Art Prompt Writing Contest #12, inspired by @vaughndemont's photo above.

Usually, I don’t like to give background on my stories and let the reader decide the meaning but since it's quite a bleak tale I will in this case.

Story Eulogy

The story is somewhat of an allegory of the creative process. Jack is the artist but we take Jane's point of view, a well-meaning friend/family/partner. They might have good intentions of helping their budding artist but they can also suffocate or even sabotage the artist's desire to create by being overly harsh or critical. Now, it does fall on the artist to push through these challenges but sometimes this can take years of “creative recovery”, and sometimes, as this story illustrates, one doesn’t recover.

I hope you enjoyed this piece. It is a bit of a departure from the usual story structures I like to use but I couldn’t help myself with the bleak and excellent photo prompt.