Life in Paintings

Chapter 18 - Barge Haulers on the Volga

Chapter 18 – Barge Haulers on the Volga

There's a fraction of a second that I'm aware in between Gustave's painting and the next and I'm filled with the greatest sense of dread I've ever experience. Even in the face of my gruesome death in previous paintings I've never been this scared.

I'm not just scared for myself, for what's coming for me in the following painting. It's more than that. I'm devastated by what I've just given up now. I've given up on Gustave. I won't see him again, I won't ever be able to hear his laugh, see his smile and he won't ever know how I truly cared about him. The last image he'll have of me is of me killing myself. I'm scared of what that'll do to him.

I'm scared of what I've done to me.

I shouldn't have panicked like that.

But I did, and now I need to face the consequences.

My eyes are closed when I'm in the next painting. I don't open them right away. I let the feeling of an overbearing weight on my shoulder wash over me, the scorching warmth burning my skin, the exhaustion the only thing I can truly feel.

I open my eyes.

I'm on a beach.

I'm not looking towards the water though, I'm facing the opposite direction and I'm surrounded by men in tattered clothes that look as miserable as I feel. We're pulling something. There are straps around our shoulders and chest and everyone is holding on to them, pulling. I don't know what's behind us. I'm too exhausted to even look back. It's incredibly heavy though, that's for sure.

If this is my penance, I'll gladly take it. I prefer this harshness. I prefer the concreteness of this pain, rather than the nonsense I felt earlier. At least I think it does. I look back to see what it is we're actually pulling.

I stop for a second. I get dragged forward by the guy in front of me but I don't care. It takes an incredible amount of effort for me to simply turn my head to look back but I do.

God dammit.

We're pulling a boat. A goddamn boat. And not a small bark, no, an enormous sailing thing. What's wrong with whoever painted this? Why are we pulling a stupid boat? Can't it sail on its own?

Sure, I kind of prefer having to do manual labour rather than being senselessly tortured, but it's still ridiculous that the kind of work these stupid paintings make me do are absolutely bonkers. I couldn't be digging trenches or carrying rocks to build something.

Stupid paintings.

I'm sure Gustave could explain to me what this painting is all about.

I feel like crying now. My eyes fill up with tears.

Gustave... he'll never explain it to me now.

I take a deep breath and start pulling again. I haven't talked in this painting yet. Usually I would be arguing with the other men around me, telling them how ridiculous this whole thing is and how we should probably go on a strike. It just feels like I've lost my spunk.

This whole curse thing hasn't made me appreciate paintings, it's just made me hate my life. I hate this. I just want to get out of here. I want to go back to my shitty life.

It would help a whole freaking lot if I knew what's the point to all of this.

I doubt I'll be finding a great answer in this painting though. I might as well just do some physical work and empty my head while doing it. The last thing I need for now is to think. About the paintings, about the curse, about my life... about Gustave.

So I just keep working. I wonder if I look as pitiful as the men working with me. Everyone around me seems dejected, seem like they've given, except the youngest man sharing our burden.

He's standing straighter than everyone else, and there's still a spark in his eyes. He doesn't look as hopeless as everyone else. I don't get it.

This feels like slave work, but maybe he chose this lifestyle, maybe that's why he doesn't look that desperate.

I should ask him. If I want to know what all of this means I should talk to him, I should talk to the men around me, but I don't want to.

If I hadn't talked with Gustave, if I had just ran away the first time I saw him, when he was just a teenager, then maybe I never would have been in the last painting. I never would have felt what I felt. I could have been spared all this pain. I don't want to talk to this kid and suddenly get attached. I don't want to suffer when things turn to the worse.

I'm tired of this pain.

So, I don't talk with anyone, I just keep pulling. I pull and pull and pull, until the weight becomes too much to bear and I fall to the ground unconscious.