Encounter by Douglas R. Turek

Encounter

by Douglas R. Turek

The smooth and defined curve from her chin to her shoulder shone deliciously pale in the daylight streaming in through the tall, thin windows that lined up on every wall, guarding the room with light.
An angular, flat aimless line was brought into existence on canvas by a shaky hand and a cheap brush. The nervous artist contemplated his work for a moment, then drew his brush across again, making it more natural and human, though it did not shine deliciously pale with an odd dot of sweat slowly coursing down a pillar of a neck towards a field of flesh that his eyes were so trained to stay away from, but now tried to capture in paint.

His was a cold and flat painting, born from a cold and flat talent that had sprung from the first few cracks in a rock of a soul, the need to excorcise pain.
He'd made one good painting, though. It was a watercolor, bright and lively and frail, of a delightful meadow in France marred by a solitary figure flailing limbs in a death dance. It had actually happened t him; he'd really seen it. It was an enemy soldier dying after a gas attack. A day after a gas attack. All he could think about when he came across that pitiful figure, that strange wandering body that somehow still stood, was how much it must hurt to choke to death for an entire day, till you had maneuvered yourself away from the battlefield in search of fresh air and found yourself in a sunny meadow encountering another enemy.
In the painting, the man's face was a brown and grey blur that was half-obscured by a loose gas mask. The man's face at the meadow had been a dirtied,bleeding open sore, misshapen by swelling and cuts. There had been no gas mask, only a constant choking cry that was eerily dulled by the throat that produced it. In light of the terrible gases used at the time, his mind was plagued by empathy, as he imagined the throat was inflamed, swelled, puffed up until the man's throat was throttling itself. His own throat began to itch.

The man approached him. He was, despite his training, terrified, even of a half-blind choking gas victim. He hardly had any spare bullets left for his pistol, which he then pulled from its holster. The man put his hands into the air, where they shook and convulsed in sudden limb hiccups. He trained his pistol on the man and ran up and retreived his opponent's pistol, still snug in its own holster. Giving it a cursory inspection, he noted that it was the same make and model of his own and in that moment realised an awful truth. A moment later, he realised another. The man was pointing at his own head with his outstretched right arm.

His eyes searched the man's face and found only eyes shut to slits by hives and swelling, a cut traversing the man's brow, and shaking puffy lips that failed to hold back that awful constant choke, a stifled itchy wheeze that hurt to listen to.
He raised the pistol to his enemy's head, which nodded in response. Uttering a small prayer in german and broken french, saw a tear squeeze its way out of the confinement of heavy lids, and forced himself to fire the pistol into the forehead of his enemy. The body crumpled and fell to the ground. He fired again into the head, just to be absolutely sure. He stood there in shock, shaking.
The smell of the pistol, bitter and burnt, mingled with the oily spice of gas infused clothing burnt his nostrils as the lullaby breeze and abrupt chirping of birds soothed back the echo of shots in his ears. He felt suddenly as though his service in the war was now over, his having served both sides. He wandered away crying.

Four days later, on May 25th, 1923, the war was formally ended by the European Cessation Treaty, which began the European Common Court and International Congress. Under the terms of that treaty, he had emigrated to Britain to go to school and study art.
Now he stood before a canvas with the barest of paintings on it, with a nude artists' model lounging on a couch, looking more and more bored.
"Alright, Daphne, I am through for the day. Merci." he drifted to his small table and poured himself another cup of tea. She bounced up off the couch and pulled her clothes on.
"it's about time. You know, my legs were almost starting to fall asleep. Do you want me back on friday? Will you get your next grant by then?"
"Oui, yes yes. I will. I shall see you then, the regular time." She waved him bye as she went out the door, no doubt on her way to another studio.

He sipped at his tea, ignored his cigarettes, and wandered back to his canvas. He picked up a brush and began to touch up his morning's work. Absentmindedly, he began dotting the space around the sketchy nude with dabbed-on flowers. Soon, before he realised what he'd done, she was in a meadow. He felt better already.