Damn it. This was no good. He simply couldn't find focus. As he so often did lately, Michael reflected on his life and wondered what was wrong with him. He considered his accomplishments and achievements. He had once been proud of them. Now they seemed paltry and meaningless.
His parents had pulled him out of public school when he was twelve, ostensibly to give him a better education at home. What that ultimately amounted to was him living in solitary confinement for six years. His mother had made a half-hearted attempt to teach him the first year, but soon gave up and left him to his own devices. Everything from then on, he had taught himself.
Six years, he reflected bitterly. Six years with only his immediate family for companionship. No wonder he was so fucked up. That must be what was at the root of it. When he was in school, he was just like anyone else, but six years of solitude will change a person. When he had gotten free and gotten his first job, he was completely socially maladjusted. He was the odd, quiet guy. He finally had freedom, but had no idea of what to do with it.
A month before he turned nineteen he enlisted in the army. As his academic credentials were non-existent, he had had to earn a GED. He learned from his score that he was well above the typical high school graduate level. This was confirmed when he took the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery of exams. So, he wasn't unintelligent then. That was something at least.
As he suspected, the army was a culture shock. It was, he reflected, just what he needed. The camaraderie of military life helped ease the loneliness that had been consuming him. The constant interaction with others gradually wore away his introversion. He eventually even made friends, but no girlfriends. Men, he learned to talk to and even command, but women remained a complete enigma. He still lacked the social graces needed to connect with a woman. In four years he had only managed to kiss a woman. He had burned with shame with the constant reminder that at twenty two, he was still a virgin.
It was during his tour in Iraq that he decided to get out of the army. We wasn't realizing his potential as a grunt. Most of his friends and even his commander asked him why he was in the army. He was smart, and he was a talented artist. Why was he wasting his life in the military when he could be making money as a civilian artist?
Michael was always faintly offended at the comments. They implied that the military was only for people who could find no vocation elsewhere. To him, it was one of the most selfless and honorable professions a person could have. At the same time he ,was flattered that they thought so highly of him. It was the hair raising experience of combat that convinced him that he needed to go out and experience life.
After he left the army, he applied to several colleges and was accepted to most. He eventually decided to attend the state university. It had a reputation as having the most female coeds. It also had an excellent art department, but he privately admitted that was a secondary concern. When he saw the campus, he was amazed. After army life, it was like setting a feast before a starving man. Never before had he seen so many beautiful women. They were everywhere, all shapes, all sizes. He never wanted to leave. Somewhere here, there must be someone for me, he thought.
He had not been a success. Oh, his grades were good, but his social skills were still atrophied-at least as far as women went. The confidence had had built evaporated in the presence of a woman. The man who had commanded soldiers in war was reduced to a stuttering, mumbling mess when he tied. He wondered if he lacked some essential quality needed to connect with a women. Perhaps he was defective in some way, perhaps lacking the gene that gave men their instincts when pursuing a woman. He eventually managed to ask a few out on dates. Those that didn't reject him outright never saw him again.
Then the dreams had begun. Well, begun again, he had been having them since he was thirteen, but they had receded for years. Now they were stronger, more intense. All he remembered were half formed images of a woman. The same woman every time, he was sure of it though her features were always obscured. Only the vaguest impression of her. She was calling to him, but her voice seemed always to come from a distance.
For more than a year the dreams and images had plagued him, increasing in frequency until he thought he would go mad. That brought him to the present, twenty-seven and still less than a man. Alone in an empty apartment day after day with only phantoms for companionship.
He abruptly stood up from the half-finished sketch he was working on and stalked to his bedroom mirror. Frustrated, he ran his hand through his short blond hair. "What is wrong with you?", he asked his reflection bitterly. He examined the man before him with a critical artist's eye. Not a model, but not hideous either. Deep set dark green eyes peered out from straight brows set in a square jawed face. People said he resembled a young Keifer Sutherland. He was short but powerfully built. He had continued to exercise over the years, and he was in better shape now than he had been at nineteen. His shoulders were wide and heavily muscled, his chest was broad and lightly covered with fine blond hair that led down to a flat, defined stomach.
He glared at himself. He wanted to lash out and destroy the mirror in frustration. The loneliness and desolation he felt were growing worse. Lately, he hadn't been able to sleep as thoughts of failure and worthlessness plagued him. He had sometimes entertained the idea of visiting a prostitute, jut to see what it would feel like. He always quickly dismissed the notion with revulsion; he had no intention of being with someone who didn't want to be with him. He smiled humorlessly into the mirror, his image smiled back. That didn't look like it was going to happen anytime soon.
He needed to get his mind off of it. He needed a distraction. If he stayed here he felt he would go mad. He rubbed a hand over his chin feeling two day's worth of stubble. The numbers on the bedside clock radio glowed blue. Four thirty in the morning. He was sweating slightly, he felt feverish. He had to get out. Fuck it, he decided. He pulled on a loose red shirt and gray sweatpants. Maybe a run would clear is head. He grabbed his helmet and pulled on a leather jacket as he headed out the door.
The cool early morning air soothed his hot skin as he walked toward his bike. It gleamed black under the pallid street lamps. It seemed to crouch like a hunting cat in the shadows awaiting a chance to spring toward hapless prey at his command. Michael depressed the starter and the machine instantly awakened with a throaty growl. With practiced ease, he swung a leg over and eased out of the lot.
Out on the road, the machine became a part of him, instantly responding to his commands as if it were hardwired to his brain. The growl of the exhaust became a banshee's wail as he raced along the deserted streets, the cold wind became a biting caress as he urged the machine beneath him to greater speeds. This was when he had his greatest moments of clarity, with nothing but the wind and road. His body and mind relaxed as sped through the darkness.
He reached his destination on the outskirts of town. He had run this route before but never in the darkness. The lonely road ran a serpentine course through the deserted area. There used to be a few homes and businesses here but the buildings were now dark and empty. Michael felt a vague prickling, as if someone else were near. Ridiculous of course, but he nevertheless peered into the inky shadows along the road. Nothing. As he began his run, the sensation passed. Now he felt totally alone. It was a feeling he was accustomed to.
He hated running, but it served as a distraction. He limbs pumped as he doggedly ran along the desolate road. The cold air burned his lungs and his breath came in ragged gasps, his legs felt like burning lead weights, but he continued on until exhaustion caused him to slow and finally stagger to a stop. Despite the cold air, he dripped sweat as he fought to catch his breath. He had been running for almost an hour. As he walked back to his bike to cool down, he again felt a presence nearby, as if someone were walking beside him. He had learned to trust his instincts, but there was simply nothing there.
A gust of wind gently pushed against him ,and brought with it a faint aroma. It was pleasant, but he couldn't place it. Fragrant and slightly spicy it was decidedly feminine. He inhaled deeply, trying to identify it, but it faded and was gone. Something about it tickled the back of his mind, as if he
should
recognize it. He tried to dismiss it, but it clung stubbornly to his mind.
Tired in body, but refreshed in mind, he climbed back on his bike and started home. As he tore through the darkness, he realized he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. What was it? He tried to pin down the unfamiliar emotion. Inspiration. That was it. Inspiration and building excitement. He felt an overwhelming urge to draw again, to create.
The quick shower invigorated him, but the urge to draw grew greater. Hurriedly toweling himself dry, he threw on some clean cloths and threw himself into his work with an intensity he had never felt before. From the first few strokes, he already knew that this would be a masterpiece. His pencil glided over the pace in swift, sure strokes. He had no concrete idea of what the final product was going to be, just a nebulous image that slowly grew clearer as he worked. He was acting purely in instinct. There was nothing else in the world that mattered besides the image forming on the sheet of paper before him.
His excitement grew as the image in his mind sharpened in concert with the drawing at his fingertips. It was the portrait of a woman. His hands were shaking. He took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. Hours passed, but he took no notice, the portrait before him was all consuming. The features took shape and were finalized. Careful shading was applied, and blended until the pencil strokes were invisible. Finally satisfied, he stepped back and studied the completed picture.
He knew he was talented, but the image before him was a quantum leap forward in terms of quality. It was a portrait of a woman. A beautiful woman. An achingly beautiful woman. Dark hair fell in perfect shimmering waves past her shoulders. The picture was in graphite, but he knew that if she were real it would be a deep, rich chestnut kissed with highlights from the sun. His fingers itched to trace the line of her jaw. Her large eyes were dark and alluring, framed by long, thick lashes beneath flawlessly arched brows. The gaze was smoky, yet demure. He nose was small and delicate, almost sculptured in it's perfection. Her lips were lush and full, and incredibly tantalizing. They were parted slightly as if inviting a passionate kiss, yet curled in the slightest of smiles.
