Participants:
| Scene Title | To Prevent the Death of Marat |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Following his newest vision and the news of Kain's death, Roderick makes an important decision. |
| Date | November 12, 2010 |
Dorchester Towers: Roderick's Apartment
There are times when ya just know you gotta bugger off for awhile.
“That's the last painting?” A portly man comes to stand near a painting on an easel, tucking hands into the faded blue overalls, that identify him as a part of a moving company. His head tilts to one side at the image before him, as he stand by the shorter scruffy form of his customer. His forehead is dotted with sweat, forcing him to swipe a wrist across his forehead, blotting at the moister with the cuff.
“Yeah. But this one ain't goin' with you.” Roderick Sweeney states blandly, his eyes unable to tear away from whatever is on that canvas. He hasn't moved from this spot much, since he got the phone call.
Especially, when fate throws you a clue so blatant, that you would be a fool ta ignore it.
This clue is so bold, I can't ignore it, mate.
The rotund man leans forward and squints at the painting, brows furrowing. He needs glasses clearly. “Hey ain't that…” He trails off, turning to look at the short blonde, as if to gauge his reaction. “I mean… it looks an awful lot like – “
“It's'not.” The response is quick to cut the man off, Roderick's blue eyes shift from the painting to the mover. Retrieving his wallet, Roderick folds it open carefully and thumbs out some bills before handing it to the guy. “Done, yeah? So bugger off.” It's harsh, but the mover isn't going to complain.
Hands come up as if warding off a blow. “Alright, buddy. Ain't no skin off my nose. Pleasure doin' business wit ya.” The large gentlemen pockets the cash and gives a sharp whistle to alert his men that it's time to go.
Not sure Mista Linderman will understand, but it'sa chance I have ta take.
I hope he does.
Once the front door shuts behind the work men, Roderick removes a knife from his pocket, thumbing the blade open slowly. Pulling the painting in question off the easel he carries it with him over the the couch, dropping to sit there.
He had gotten the call, not long after finishing the painting.
In fact, he had spent the night of the riots in a precognitive coma. When in that state, he is oblivious to the world around him, so he was lucky no one showed up and shoot him too. So very lucky that whoever did in his friend and boss, didn't decide to do the same to him.
I shoulda never sold that paintin' to you, Kain.
We shoulda burned it and forgot that I ever painted it.
Slowly he draws the knife along the edges of the canvas where it wraps tightly around the frame. It pained him greatly to do it, but this painting he didn't trust to a vault. This painting would stay with him at all times.
This painting was his fate.
He could hear the muslin fibers give under the sharp blade, released from the tight hold of the frame it was stretched across by his own hand. He made his own canvases, it added to the fact each painting was his creation. He always made sure to have several blanks ready, just in case the visions hit him.
Maybe then, you wouldn't be dead and Tess wouldn't be wit out her da.
You would still be alive ta have those drinks and bitch about my latest prank.
Holding up the painting now loose from it's frame, his brows tilt upward. At a glance, one would think he had stolen the painting known as 'The Death of Marat' from the museum that housed it. A painting depicting the assassination of John-Paul Marat a journalist from the French Revolution. A famous painting at that.
A closer look, however, would reveal the truth. It wasn't Marat's towel wrapped head in that picture. It wasn't hard to see it was Roderick himself that was slumped in the tub, that messy mop of blonde hair not hard to miss. But unlike Marat who was plainly murdered, the figure in this painting had slashed wrists and seemed to be holding a suicide note, which read:
"I can't live with the knowledge that I have destroyed so many lives with my gift."
It was disturbing and even now made his skin prickle with goosebumps.
I lost a good mate and now my own future isn't lookin' so good.
With a soft sigh, Roderick slowly starts to gently roll the painting up, treating it delicately. It's then tucked into a tube made for protecting paintings, since he can't allow it to be destroyed. The strap gets slung over his shoulder as he stands, feeling the plastic tube bounce against his back.
It was time to go.
Starting for the door, Roderick stops at a shelf that holds an envelope for Linderman and he sits it up a little straighter.
Even if he feared that Kain's death was Linderman's fault, he owed the old codger an explanation of his reason for running — minus details such as having painted the fall of the old man.
No, he'd find a photo of the painting of Roderick's death and a note that simply stated, 'I'm not gone forever, I'll be back when the air clears. I don't want this to be true.'
He owed him that much.
Gonna miss you, Kainy me boyo.
Gonna miss you a lot
Standing at the door, Roderick gives the room a slow glance. He was leaving it all behind. His lush lifestyle, his mates. Only he was taking with him were the paintings and those would be tucked away in a vault.
He couldn't let what he's painted for that past few months get into anyone's hands.
He already did that and look where it got him and his friends. Especially, Kain.
Eyes close against the pain of regret and guilt, he didn't want to believe it would be enough to make him take his own life, but he was too scared to find out. Eyes slide open again slowly and Roderick turns his back on the apartment slowly closing the door behind him.
Click
But I'm not ready to join you in hell just yet.
When I get where I'm goin', I'll go to the pub and raise a cold one in your honor, while shoutin':
"To Kain Zarek, tamer of geriatric polar bears."
