For Oblivion

William Pierce

TW: Drug Use

I was about five years old when the painting first appeared. I don’t know where it came from. probably some yard or estate sale. One day it was just there to confront me when I returned to my room. Five-year-old boys revel in the regalia and culture of knights and kings. Drawn to the medieval barbarism of the past. Empowered by the subtle ideology, “a boy is to be strong and in charge.”

However, this painting was not like the posters or paintings designed for children. Those had gleaming armor, bright tapestries, and large, brawny men alongside petite, long-tressed princesses for whom they championed. No, this painting measured four-feet wide, and just as tall featuring a realistic court scene in some forgotten king’s throne room. Painted in oil, its colors were muted and faded with age.

My parents had not told me of the painting. Did not ask if I wanted it. I came into my room and found it hanging there above my dresser. Offset towards the corner of the room, I could not see its detail from my bed or most of the room, but mainly while getting dressed in front of the standing mirror, which was bracketed by my low dresser holding folded clothes and the tall wardrobe where clothes were hung.

I stood in front of my dresser, next to my mirror, like any child seized by curiosity and fascinated by legends like King Arthur and Sir Lancelot. But these figures were not featured here.

The painting was designed to funnel attention to the king. He sat in prominence upon a gilded throne on a dais. Draped in rich brocade robes which spilled to the floor, he held a bejeweled goblet in his left hand as he stared back at me with a hauteur that took my breath away. Unable to meet those eyes, I let my gaze drop, and sought comfort in the tiny figure of the queen who sat upon a smaller throne situated off to the right of the king. Demure, she perched on the edge of her seat, spine erect and angled away from the dais, her face turned from the revelry below, eyes averted in studied ignorance.

A central aisle led from the bottom of the painting up to the king. It traced through an open floor filled with musicians and dancers, which ended at a series of raised platforms culminating at the stage of the king who sat as lord above all beneath him. Each platform was filled with tables piled with food and drink and benches crowded with people.

The first platform, directly beneath the king, was filled with old men, most sporting gray beards and rich silks. Many brandished goblets, as though toasting the king, and platters holding whole roasted boars and fowls filled the tables. Young wenches served here, many pawed at by the lechers, some even pulled onto laps as their false gaiety was wielded as a weapon. Did they ply the food and pour the drink with such abandon in hopes to subvert their debauchery through inebriation? And more important, were those women the gifts the king was being toasted for?

Uncomfortable with these questions, and like the silent queen, I chose to avert my eyes from these disturbing sights and thoughts. I lowered my eyes to the next platform where the vaunted knights were finally found. However, their armor did not gleam, nor were they clean­ shaved with square jaws and strong eyes. No, these knights were large, coarse men with full beards and long wild hair. Their armor was marred with scratches, well worn, and recently used. Light gleamed only on the grease on their hands and faces, as they scoffed from flagons of wine and gorged on legs of meat. The women serving here did not sport the fine silks and lace of those above, but through the flare of their hips and full-bodices, they wielded a strength the women above could never pull off. Their lips quirked in response to the ribaldry around them, their sauciness an armor against rough hands and overwhelming strength. Their hands proffered food and drink while their painted faces promised future delights. But their eyes... their eyes did not gleam with the merriment of the men, but with the calculation of those engaged in their own battles.

I ran from those eyes, my vision fled from this same haunted look I often saw in the world around me. Naturally, my gaze was guided by the artistry of the painter, led unavoidably back to the imperious figure of the king. Sitting there, separated and above everyone else, his bearing and aloofness displayed his arrogance and superiority as much as the sneer of his lips.

I cringed beneath his contempt. Recoiled from his judgment. Retreated to the safety of my bed and dreams. With the blankets over my head, cocooned in the comforting warmth and darkness, I sought the welcome oblivion of sleep.

It was with reticence that I climbed from my bed the next morning and walked over to my dresser and wardrobe to dress for the day. I kept my head bowed, quailed before the discerning glare of the king: naked. weak, unworthy.

A gruff voice downstairs jolted me into action, instantly energizing my limbs into the automatic action of dressing, only to be drained of all momentum when I caught sight of the king, for it was my father's features which stared back at me!

I don’t know how long I stood there, but it was again the sound of voices downstairs which jerked me back into action and I jumped into my clothes and fled to school. Haunted by the painting and my father, the king.

My hatred of the painting and His Majesty began that day. Like any five-year-old I was filled with excess energy and imagination, which inevitably led to trouble. A note accompanied me home from school, which my mother silently read before handing it to my father. Sitting in his chair, his words thundered through the air, and I was banished to my room. I stormed upstairs and hurtled into my cell. Launching my bag across the room, I railed against the injustices of life.

Finally, I stood before that horrid painting, my chest heaved and blood boiled. I stared into the hateful and scorn-filled eyes of the king, and in a fit of childish pique, I did the worst thing I could think of doing. I flipped him off! My middle finger shot up in the air and I put it right in his face. I put all of my anger and disgust into that one gesture, my arm taut and shaking with the force of my emotion.

Empowered by this action, I spent the next thirteen years heaping abuse on that loathsome painting and its vile ruler. I would shout. I would threaten, expending every bit of energy I had before finally crawling into bed and seeking the oblivion of sleep.

I left that house at eighteen and for the next seven years I did not think of that painting. At least I tried not to. Drifting from friends' couches to motel rooms and back, my life became a series of broken relationships and continuous drug use. I searched unceasingly to leave the past in the oblivion of today. But when my mother called and told me that my father had died. I knew that I couldn’t avoid returning home.

Walking into that house, filled with mourners, I fled to the bathroom in an effort to avoid people and memories. I didn't want to talk about my father or hear people tell stories that didn’t match the man I knew. His hand was never too heavy in their minds, and of course they wouldn’t remember that he drank too much. They were never present for his apologies and professions of love the next morning, nor the lash of his tongue and punishing blows that same night.

The small prick of the syringe was my only comfort now, dulling the memories and easing the ache. With it I can see my father at my games, clapping and whistling when I get a hit. I try not to think of his silence and smoldering anger when I get caught stealing second, wanting desperately for his approval and praise, instead rewarded by his sudden need for a beer to alleviate his disappointment.

A tap at the door interrupts my ruminations and administrations. My mother, ever wan and demure, calls for me to make an appearance, to be downstairs in five with shirt and tie. I wait for her to leave before exiting the bathroom. I have to cross the dreaded threshold of my bedroom to fetch a tie from my dresser. The dresser which sits directly below the painting. The painting with its haunting king and disturbing thralls.

When I enter my room, I walk straight to the corner and pull out a tie, turning to the mirror to put it on. I do not look at the painting; instead, I examine my own haggard figure in the standing mirror. Too thin from drugs, too pale from lack of sun and recent shock. I settle the tie around my neck and follow the loops and tuck as my father guided me years ago. Reinforced by the routine, I finally dared to peer up at the pernicious painting.

The throne was empty! The king. that contemptuous patriarch who sat in judgment above his subjects, was gone. My mind spun and my body lurched as I climbed onto the dresser.

Desperately I searched the painting, examining every face, peering beneath the tables. The queen still sat as before, quiet and silent, turned away from my attention. The merchants and knights, servants and ladies, all of them continued unchained and unchanged.

Stunned, numb, I climbed off the dresser and staggered downstairs. The refrigerator still held my father’s favorite brand of beer. The can was cold and comforting. I don’t remember walking through the house or speaking to anyone, I only recognized the solace that my father’s recliner gave as I sunk into its cigarette-smoke-scented softness. I raised the can to my lips and savored the salty bitterness. I looked around at the people and furniture. I saw my father in every picture and decoration, and I waited... for oblivion.

William Pierce is an avid reader and writer who loves all animals, though he feels penguins get too much play on television. He was published for the first time last spring in Ninth Letter. William is currently pursuing his Bachelor’s Degree with Eastern Illinois and hopes to work towards a degree in the future in Education.