Concrete Honey

A man sits on a seat opposite mine, profusely sweating and wincing, making his way through a book. He’s reading a paperback with a soft blue spine and front cover art that portrays a ragged boy with ginger hair hurriedly licking honey off a concrete wall. I notice that this art, although impressive, brings about an aching feeling in me that I cannot stand.

I reach out to the man, “Please! Stop reading that! Put it away!” hoping that my words will be enough to pry him of his focus and disavow him of this book. Whether he’ll take it as a warning or as a threat I cannot be certain but, as any compassionate human would, he will surely recognise the distress in my voice and be moved to action.

I wait, but he remains same. Still suffering, no recognition of my interference.

One could have expected that. After all, it is not normal to see anyone, no matter your preconceptions of them, compulsively scowl through a book to the point where they are visibly suffering, with a rainfall worth of glistening sweat riding down their face and their body contorting, abdominal muscles rising and quaking, as the pages turn, while they generate a putrid smell capable of making even the most stoic and merciful of people unsympathetic.

Why was I so confident just moments ago that he would hear my call to aid? What brazen arrogance or desperation has over taken me, to cause my disregard of concern for him? And what right do I have to judge that his base human “compassion” towards me should be the basis of his ability to break free of his suffering?

The boy’s fingers are clawing into a small crevice in the concrete wall, desperately digging out honey trapped inside. “Put it away! I beg of you please! Put it awa–”, I force my mouth shut but whatever has stirred within me will not give up. “I’m sorry- I- I- need you to stop!” the anguished yowls continue, muffled beneath my palms. My trapped screams race back down my oesophagus for another exit. They swirl and stew and scrap in the base of my gut, pressing and tugging against my sides until I am flung to the ground.

I am left dazed on the floor. In my left peripheral - the contour of the sick man looms. His presence, although immediately out of sight, is heavy. I fight and struggle against an invisible mass but find myself stuck, anchored to the ground. The man grunts, wails and convulses. And launches a spread of his phlegm towards me.

Why am I faced with this immense pressure? Purely by inertia I am in this state. Grappling with the injustice of this pain I’m facing, my mind goes to a karmic explanation. Did I bring this upon myself? Was my intention to interrupt this man so corrupt that I deserved to be violated in this way?

Appealing to my logical side, obviously there can be no moral compass guiding the punishment I am facing. But my tortured, suffering soul can take no reconciliation in that. As I writhe here in pain I want to believe that I deserve it.

But, re grounding myself in this moment, I manage to recall the aspects of the world around me that do not belong to this man, or his suffering. Mixed with the man’s foul odor is another scent, the artificial but soothing smell of wet paint. And beneath the man’s twitching feet is a smooth marble floor cushioning his body.

The weight on me alleviates. I slightly lift my head and see before myself a long line of opposing chairs. The chairs are all wicker, with some coated in a layer of white paint. The weight lessens again and I wrestle my way onto my knees.

The floor beneath me does extend forever. The white marble drops off, at which point there’s a sheer cliff face down into pure darkness. A group of silhouettes move rhythmically at the cliff’s perimeter. An assembly of faded Ghostly figures. They move back and forth, above the void.

As waves, they paint the air, leaving new patches of pure white marble floor in their wake. The ghosts themselves are uniform in their appearance but their brushes and painting techniques vary wildly. Some move jerkily, wielding thick handled brushes with dull bristles, while others glide delicately, caressing the air with compact brushes and soft strokes. No matter each ghost’s approach the resulting marble floors they create are of the most outstanding level of quality.

One of the ghostly figures gently drifts towards me. The white veil draping its body is loose and wavy. The figures have an anthropomorphic build. I note in myself an inclination to identify the gender or characteristics of the figure. At times I am able to spot a curve from the figures’ solid form where the veil is taut - but each time I get a look the form beneath the veil it seems to be different, its mass is constantly in flux. They are meshes of clay that haven’t yet been set.

An oval mask with a vertical line down the middle covers what you could call the “face” of the figure. The figure twists to orient itself with myself on the ground and an ethereal voice manifests in my head, “Do not worry. We are here for you now.” The figure slides its veil beneath my knees and around my back, cradling me. Effortlessly, it raises me back into my seat and spreads itself to block my line of sight of the man.

The figure brings out its brush from beneath its veil and starts to paint. The veil is tight around where the figure grips the brush and for a fleeting second I see my mother’s fingers in how it holds the brush.

“Have we met before?” I ask. “No. But it is common to feel that way.” the figure responds.

A book floats towards me from where the figure has finished painting. The back cover of the book is turned upwards. From my brief glance, I can tell it is a hardback with red fabric and that there is medium size block of black text for the blurb. Quite understandably I am very hesitant to investigate further. The figure picks up on this and draws itself closer to me, “It is okay. Turn to the cover.”

Before I can weigh up whether to flip the book over, it rotates on its own. Expecting the cover art of my book to be as evocative as the sick man’s, I brace and close my eyes. The voice from the figure instills in me, “You have agency in what lies on the page.”

Peeking at the cover, I am surprised to see that there is no finished art work. Merely a mess of different strokes of paint. The figure wraps its paintbrush in my hand. And despite the fact I am staring into its blank featureless mask, I receive an expression of a smile from the figure.

I move to place my brush on the cover. Should I let my hand go free and feral, or instead be civilized and contemplate each gesture? What responsibility do I owe these figures, in the image that I make here? “We trust you,” the voice replies to my thoughts. But it can’t be that there are no wrong strokes? The man opposing me, didn’t he create the image that disturbs me so? I do not mean to blame him for this but– “I think you have my book,” a raspy laden voice interrupts.

To the left of the figure’s veil I see that the man is now standing. The figure darts again to obscure him from vision, moving like a puppet anxiously yanked to the side by invisible strings.

“Do not listen to him. He is not well.” The figure retorts, its voice notably less calm than before. The man grabs hold of the figures’ veil and violently steps into its mass. He forcibly tears its down and I watch as the life drains from the figure. The figures’ mass dissipates, leaving a limp curtain resting on the floor.

The man’s gaping, bloodshot eyes lock onto me. His book hangs to his side from one page, pinched between his finger tips. “Please, let me see my book.” Your book? I apprehensively and inadvertently communicate back to him with a narrowing of my brow.
“Sir please. There has been a mixup, you have my book.” “What about the book you are holding?” I say in rejection. “Yes I have this book, but you see it is not MY book. That is why I am in such pain.” He pauses.

“Please, let us both at least see your book so we can confirm whether there is an error.”

Before I can make any decision, the man lunges forward and claws at the cover of my book. On the man’s contact with the book, the previously limp figure whips into the air above, like a kite jerked into the sky by a strong gust.

Amidst the shock, one of the other figures drops their brush at the edge of the marble. Dark, cracked asphalt spawns where their paint has smudged the air. Out of the cracks geysers of dirty honey start to spew. The figure responsible recoils and hides its face in its hands, “I’m sorry!” its distorted voice loudly cries in my mind.

The neighboring figures flock to aid of the guilt ridden figure. Honey has stained the bottom of its veil. The others drag the figure free from the rising pool of honey and begin to comfort it. Some try to scrape the honey off using their brushes, to no avail. They console the infected figure in unison, “We are here for you. Do not cry!”

I fall backwards off my chair. The man clambers over me, begging and breathing heavily. He stammers, “I’m sorry– I- I need this!” I slip my leg out from his sweaty grip and hurriedly make my retreat. Near the infected geyser, one of the figures beckons me over - their arms open wide. I hug my book close and sprint as hard as I can into the figure’s embrace. The man’s pants grow louder and louder behind.

The figures, now in a frenzy, chaotically huddle around me. They rapidly weave around, creating a protective storm of white fluttering sheets. The man cannot breach the barrier they have made for me. Exasperatingly he bellows, “Please! This can’t be all there is!” Through a small opening in the cyclone of veils, I see the defeated man. He stands at the cliff edge, solemnly and looking out at me. We share a moment of connection.

I realise that the figures have taken me away from the marble floor, they have carried me in this blizzard and I now stand floating above the void. I drop to my knees and start to cry. The man has returned to being lost in his book. The artwork from his book, although harder to make out from across the void - still creates a residual pain I cannot distance myself from. I look down at my own book and see that part of the image on the front cover has been filled in. One of the figures pats my head with their veil, and wipes my tears.

In the corner of my front cover there is now a small illustration. A small girl in a winter coat is treads across a snowy field. The figures compel me to turn to the first page. The opening paragraph reads:

You were born a child of a mother and father. Though you grew to inherit their traits, you appreciated from birth that we all begin blank slates. In your youth, it was your judgement that we are all accountable for how our soul is coloured, though you did not always apply that same standard to others. Is it always compassionate to give others leeway based on how the world has treated them, or is it reductive? You want to believe that you enmeshed your ego with martyrdom, but how will you cope when you realise the world has afflicted that trait onto you?