The melting man

A Strange Day In July

"My name is Archie, Archie Smith"…

I could do nothing more then at his beauty. I felt stupid and I hated the feelings clouding my better judgement. The fear, the pride, the admiration and the nerve of whatever else I was feeling numbing my brain and rendering me utterly useless to myself. A series of unexplainable dreams is now calls himself Archie Smith. The knowledge not helping me move on from my unmistakable crush on a painting, not even a fictional character but a painting. His smokey eyes intensified they gaze at me. I was not ready for his words.

"Let me tell you our story"…

He said the words like his knows me like the back of his hand, every vein, every capillary, every finger. We knew each. He was familiar. We share a connection, one that grows stronger by the minute. His good boy name may have suited the way the rest of the country saw him. I know the darkness in his eyes and the very small glow of fire within them. It was not enough to kill the fear and doubt I had in a haunting painted man. I. Do. Not. Trust. The. Melting. Man. A.S.

He turned to face the door which I had tried to throw him out of. I tried again this time. I threw him out with all my might but he only locked the door. He turned around and skipped on right back into the room, his hand dragging me with him. He was at home there like a talking, walking, hand holding man from a painting is just a part of life. I resisted him. I resisted for all reasons. His strength overpowered me as he effortlessly seated me down in a school desk he slid in the desk afterwards.

Frustrated because it was obvious who was in control of this dream. His mob curls combed flat on his head and it was so strange seeing him any other way other than the way he was painted. He stood for South Africa true to the word. We are all corrupt criminals here. Playing dumb is an art engraved into the roots of all of us. Our mob curls, mispronounced words and confusing sentence structure will have you willing fall into an abusive situation where all you do is give the abuser more power and control over your life and mind.

"I know everything about you, Karen Abrahams. You think you know me. You think that I am just a painting on the wall of some art museum. You think that I am just some picture printed at the back of your textbooks. You think that I am just a picture for you to trance when you bored but you are dead wrong."

I stared he right in the eyes trying to force my power from him, "then what are you Archie Smith?" I spray the words out with the same venom of a black mamba, my nails clawing into flesh.

"I am your nightmare, I am your true, friend"

"Huh, Friend, you must be a clown"

The sound of cynical laughter sent a string of electricity throughout my hondervaller. His amusement was just the most wonder filling sound in this weather. He thought he know me but he did not know that I liked the fear I felt when I was with him. The intensity of the atmosphere was what attracted me to him with each intense stare into his fire flame eyes. I was attracted to fear. I was attracted to the truth, deep within the small candlelit flame.

The candlelit flame that glowed had only true in it. I was foolish enough and acted like the moth that I am. I was eventually burnt with the warm bitter coffee taste of truth in his eyes. I had to swallow it up and take it all in.

"Oh, how I missed us", he said getting way too weird for my liking.

"Am I missing something?" I was now dying inside.

"I am your imaginary friend, Archie Smith, don't you remember? Of course not you were only three when we last saw, wait wrong choice of words, when we talked"…

"That was before I was an image in the mind of a starving artist, shame, she did mean well."

A moment of blind rage came over me and I slap the melting man, right into next week. The nerve of this man. Emotions had climbed my mind and carried my actions. I found myself dipping wet as the sky matched my frustrations with the down pour of rare water beginning to flood the ground the roads becoming rivers. I stood against the wall of the boat and I threw a stone into the river, I then threw another grey stone.

I threw with all my might, but the third stone came skipping back. I had knew at that moment that dark coffee filled eyes where waiting behind me. I turned around to take in all the addicting atmosphere that surrounded me. I breathed him. He smelled like paint. Why did I like it so much. I cried out to God, please leave me alone. Why will you not leave me alone? I breathed again, the smell of rain making everything even more unbearable. I hated this time of season. His hair held tiny drops of shiny water hostage within them.

I had the need to comb threw his curls with my fingers, but feel corroded my body and I could only breathe.

"No running this time, we hate 'rivers'"

"Say what you want and melt away again, I am tired of this shit it is getting boring. I wanna get this over with." I said sounding surprisingly calm.

"Karin, don't be so man, you were a lot more fun when you three. We played poppe huisie. We even play soccer outside and that one uncle made ball Kerrie. Those were the days. You loved me. It was always just us."

"You joking right"

"Of course, I only met you three times, now included, don't be so serious"

"I can't believe you, that's why it's like your whole existence is a lie"

"Well if this isn't true friendship I don't know what is real"

"I don't evens know you"

"Archie Smith, the melting man and your new BFF"

I watched him dripping wet from the rain, water sat on his body like children taking turns on the sliding board in the parkie. Happy and over excited sliding all at once. It was a sight. The hot air ascending into the heavens.

The air was being pulled towards him and I had a strange feeling of dé ja vu. This time the lids of my eyes refused to move themselves not even willing to blink as my hair hair lifted from my shoulders and touched the face of Archie and I had once again faced the familiar line of pale thin lips pulled onto the face of the melting man. This time his closed closed and I had watched the movement of his eye lids with the fascination I always had when and it came to the man in the famous painting.

He had uneven eyelashes that didn't know if it was long or short in a way it always made you stop and wonder if it the flimsy mistake of the artist. Mismatched eyelashes had been it's unique standout point and we were never told if it had been painted that way on purpose and we were never taught what it might have symbolised in the painting. It has become one of those unanswered questions, when it came to Van Wyk and the ever growing fog surrounding all that she had left in this world. She just needs a little light.

A little warm light to clear away the fog. The movement of his eyelids blinked open like that of a butterflies colourful wings. It had a silent softness to it. If you were not seeking it out you were most likely blinded by the rising alarm of fear in your way. The wetness of this horrid weather had it beauty. I have never denied the beauty in grey skies and moist soil. Beauty is the most effective disguise. The damp of dripping rain on the mismatched eyelashes added to the beauty of them. I had imagined living in those eyes.

I had gotten sick of the sight of him like that. I held his warm hand and lead us back into the school containers the both of us soaked to the bone in rain water I had to ring my hair out like the washing when the washing machine stops working due to the frequent blackouts Eskom hands out every once in a while.

"So why are you here?"

"To show you, your truth"

"Am being haunted by a painting"

"Hey I am no ghost, am a friend to you"

I rolled my eyes at the ridiculous man, "whatever, Casper".