MONSTER

Do you hate airports? I always did, but ironically, I always loved flying. The feeling of taking off, piercing through the clouds, looking down on the small, almost insignificant details. I sat on a bench, staring at the television flashing the flight number, the destination and the time. Only twenty minutes until boarding. To the left of me, another television played an advertisement. The State Gallery was holding an exhibit showcasing new up and coming artists. It’s flagship piece? An unknown artwork, titled ‘Monster’. Sitting directly opposite me, I watched a man reading the morning paper. ‘Drunk Driver Charged After Fatal Car Accident’ was emblazoned on the front cover. Beneath it, the crumpled wreck of a small white hatchback crushed beneath a four-wheel drive. Sitting to my right, a woman talking profusely on her mobile phone. “Yeah, it’s sad about him going missing. I know… yeah, Liam had gone on that camping trip as well… yeah…”. My eye was suddenly caught by the television, as a news ticker scrolled across. ‘Cape Luthbridge Teenager Charged with Manslaughter After Assault.’ Seeing that, I turned my head to look out the giant plate glass, catching the stare of a fluffy white owl.

Arthur Jenwick was my closest friend, but that wasn’t saying much considering I was his only friend. We had grown up together on the same street, his house being two houses away from mine, although that was still quite a trek given we lived in a pretty rural area. To say he was unpopular would be putting it mildly. He bore the brunt of any and all abuse, mainly verbal, sometimes physical. He was a relatively short, lanky kid, with big, round glasses and braces. It also didn’t help that he spoke with a lisp. Every day at school, he would be subjected to something, whether it was someone purposely bumping into him, or making some snide comment. “Piss off” I would always say, in Arthurs defence. But he would always say the same thing. “I’m fine”. I always wanted to know how he kept so resilient. How he always held his head up high, no matter what happened. And one day, he showed me.

The barn itself was quite unassuming. Painted in a faded red with white pinstripes, it could have easily been mistaken as abandoned. But it wasn’t. Beyond the door, laid Arthurs escape. You see, he was in every sense of the word, an artist. The natural talent that flowed through him to bring even the most mundane to life on canvas. There were paintings of everything, from the coastline of the bluffs just down the road from us, to the heritage listed town hall at the centre of the city and even his parents, who I should add, could not have been prouder of their son. Everything and indeed everyone were brought to life through a marriage of colour and technique. The first time he had brought me in, I was in awe. How anyone could have the ability to paint such intricate artworks, and with such detail, was beyond me. Then, there was his friend, Luna, the white barn owl. “She likes to stay in here and eat the mice. It’s like a buffet for her” Arthur explained with a chuckle. Luna had been there ever since he was a little boy, and they had become accustomed to each other’s presence. Almost like an unspoken bond. Luna was almost like a guardian of the barn. Chasing away any animal that dared near it, protecting her best friend from the horrors of the outside world, as he toiled away, especially with his final artwork. His pièce de resistance. Siobhan.

Siobhan wasn’t someone we knew. It wasn’t someone we had met. In fact, she wasn’t anybody familiar to me nor Arthur. And yet, the way he managed to capture her piercing green eyes, her straight, jet black hair, crimson lips and soft, pale skin. It was almost as if he had known her over a lifetime. Someone he had spent every waking second analysing, down to the eyelashes and soft curl of her smile. This was his final piece he had told me. This was his swan song. Arthur told me about his plans to display it in the art classroom. I supported him. I pretty much forced him to display it in class. And so, he did. His greatest piece of art, although to be fair all of his paintings were masterpieces.

Our art teacher, Miss Banks, was blown away. And Arthur was beaming with pride. He looked like nothing could stop him. It still angers me to this day that his happiness was cut short. That night, some guys broke into the art room. They found his painting, Siobhan, and shredded it to pieces. We never found out who it was, but I had my usual suspects. Coming to school the next day, he was devastated. “Sorry about your girlfriend” one of the guys said tauntingly. It was Chris. Even though Arthur copped his fair share of abuse from a majority of the school, Chris always seemed to be extra attentive to this almost psychopathic daily ritual. Turning around, he pushed Chris. I was surprised to see Chris stumble back a little, but what came next, well… you wouldn’t need a crystal ball to figure it out. By the time the teachers and I pulled them apart, Arthur looked like he had been through a meat mincer. They sent him to the nurse’s office, and I never saw him the rest of the day.

A week later, he called me up. I went over to his place, and into the barn. As usual, Luna, his faithful white barn owl, was positioned on her favourite truss, and beneath her, to my surprise, I saw Siobhan. Arthur had spent the past week recreating her. Only, there was something different. She still looked amazing, as if she could walk right off the canvas, but there was something in the eyes. An almost emptiness behind those piercing green eyes that didn’t match the rest of the background. It was sad, really. But Arthur seemed animated, especially given the events from the last couple of days. He wanted to try and get his artwork displayed. This time, going one step further. I asked my father, who happened to work for the local government, if the painting could be put up at city hall. He gladly accepted, and so I relayed the news to Arthur. His joy was contagious, and I was proud of him, for not letting fear rule his decisions, for showing his talents to the world. The city hall had an opening on a publicly available auction wall, where people could buy artworks. Arthur and I watched as they hung Siobhan up, for all to see. Many people marvelled at the artwork, as it took prime place in the marble foyer. The sunlight glistening off the floor, creating a warm embrace surrounding this mysterious figure. It seemed almost ethereal. Afterwards, we both left, heading our separate ways. I’m grateful that the last thing I ever got to say to Arthur was how happy I was for him. I hope it was the last thing he thought of, before that four-wheel drive crossed onto the wrong side of the road. Before the force of two and a half tonnes of metal slammed into him. The paramedics said he wouldn’t have survived the accident. I found some odd solace in the knowledge that it would’ve been over for him instantly.

I was the only one from school to attend his funeral. The funeral itself was a simple affair. He had many relatives fly in, many aunts and uncles, and even his grandparents, who I remember meeting when I was only ten. Yet again, I saw how loved Arthur was, how supported he was, how appreciated he was and how he managed to keep everyday going in his stride, come what may. At the altar, a mahogany casket laid there, with a bouquet of white roses resting on top. To the left, a large portrait of Arthur rested on an easel. His easel. An easel which had seen many a wonderful creation being brought to life, now carrying an image of its’ former owner. There is just something so incredibly unnatural to watch a parent bury their child, an almost sick, twisted joke by God, although at that point, I had found myself so far removed from the idea of a God. I had heard later on that his parents were going to be moving. Good, I thought. They should go someplace better than this awful town.

Four days after the funeral, I went over to Arthurs barn. I still had the spare key that he had entrusted me with. His parents were more than happy to donate the entire collection to the town hall. I had honestly thought Luna, the white barn owl, would put up a fight. Swoop me as a defence mechanism to protect her friend’s legacy. But she didn’t. She watched from the ceiling trusses, as I carefully took each painting and placed it into the back of my car. As I began loading the final painting, Luna gracefully swooped down to the floor, and watched, as I loaded the last piece of artwork, before driving down the dirt road. I can still remember seeing her in my rear-view mirror, how lonely she looked as she watched me drive off, tears welling in my eye. I think she knew.

A couple of weeks later, nearing towards my graduation, I had heard from my dad that three guys broke into city hall. They hadn’t taken anything, but instead, broke the glass casing of one painting. I didn’t need him to finish the sentence to know which painting they were after. Fortunately, they didn’t do any serious damage, apart from slightly nicking the lower edge of the canvas. Apparently, a security guard chased them off, before checking the painting, and had reported an almost hairline mark from where the glass scratched it. I thought it added character to the artwork, almost like a talon had made it’s mark on it. It didn’t take long for the police to identify the three guys who broke in. Chris, Kyle and Patrick. Three guys I knew all too well. I knew they were the ones who originally destroyed Siobhan, and now they were going in for round two. Unbelievably, they were only charged with a misdemeanour, and got off after paying a fine.

I didn’t want to attend graduation. I almost felt sick at the idea. Fortunately, my principle was more than accommodating, willing to send my certificate by mail. I was grateful for that. That was the last time I ever saw that school, and I was all the better for it. Two weeks after graduation, as I began the packing for the cross country move to my college, I heard from a friend that Chris had punched Kyle after a heated argument. Apparently, Kyle was trying to impress some girl by attempting to pet a white owl that they had found. Chris was not happy, given that the girl was his girlfriend. Kyle ended up with bleeding on the brain, and was most likely going to die, while Chris was being charged with murder. I couldn’t care less. It was on that same day I got a call from my dad. A perspective buyer on behalf of the state gallery was interested in purchasing Siobhan for twenty thousand dollars. The phone call caught me by surprise. I knew the painting was fantastic, but twenty thousand dollars? Although, I’m not exactly an art connoisseur. I said yes almost immediately, but on two conditions. The painting was to remain anonymous, and was to be retitled, to Monster. That painting was the physical embodiment of everything I hated about the town it came from. The people that its painter suffered under. The ridicule and bullying. Yeah, Monster was a more fitting title.

The transfer was done and dusted. I was never planning on keeping the twenty thousand dollars. Instead, asking them to send it to Arthurs parents, who I still kept in touch with from time to time. They were just as shocked as I was, as they had never known Arthur was publicly displaying his artwork. They thanked me and wished me luck with my university studies. It was on the car ride to the airport, where I was mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, when I stumbled upon my schools group page. A notice had been put out that Patrick had gone missing. Apparently, he had been camping on a farm with some guys on the footy team before disappearing into the night. All they found was a broken shard of glass in his tent, a hairline trail of blood leading into the forest, and a white feather, from a wild barn owl.

Sitting here, at the gate, staring back at the white barn owl, I look back on what brought me here. The lengths that everyone undertook to make his my friends life a living hell, and how it was all done. That everything would be alright. That Arthur was at peace now, and that nobody could hurt him anymore. Nobody could hurt Monster.