Back in time to participate in this week’s Prompt. Thankfully, I just read Wicked and the phrase Deb asked us to use fits with something I had brewing in my head.
And with that, here we go:
I’m continually living somewhere between Here and There. I shuffle between worlds of my own imagining and that created by others. It’s not a bad way to be if one’s an artist, I suppose, but it certainly doesn’t make it easy on those around me. So, is it any wonder that a fight erupted between me and another, the sort of fight that causes one to go flying through the streets like a trail of fiery rage that quickly burns out of sight?
It all began innocently enough. There I was, minding my own business, working on a project that simply had to be finished on time when the client stormed into my studio. She was one of THOSE. You know, the kind of woman who has too much money and time on her hands, and far too little taste or any sense of reality. Okay, I could relate to the last bit, but the rest was beyond my comprehension. As was the idea of treating anyone in the manner she chose to treat me that day. From the moment she commissioned me to create not only a stunning family portrait (consisting of her sour face and those of her equally lemon-sucking offspring and a husband who appeared terribly constipated), she also wanted me to design a family crest for her, I knew she was trouble. It was written all over her face. Privilege and entitlement were her designer “labels” of choice. But being a painter and possessing the ability to use my imagination amply, I worked diligently for the last several months, adding smiles where there were none originally, bringing an air of class where there was but a snobby, wrinkled nose. There were constant “consults” from the client, as well as frequent requests for changes to the painting as well as the crest. I needed the money and she had plenty of it, though it often crossed my mind that I was in over my head.
“I want the children to be taller so they don’t seem so…diminutive,” she sniffed.
“How much taller would you like Muffy and Chas? After all, I can only stretch a four and six year old so much before they begin to look…odd.” I replied.
“Well, I certainly can’t be made to appear any shorter! Heaven forbid someone should see me as anything less than statuesque!” She really and truly said that to me. At 5′4″, she was scarcely statuesque. She’d also requested a more regal bearing. Oh well, it was her fantasy. My own involved wrapping my hands around her carefully reconstructed (read: wattle-removed) neck and constricting quickly.
The crest itself underwent multiple morphs as her interests and her husband’s portfolio changed. Every color of the rainbow served as the background at some point. And the placement of each symbol was altered so many times it was impossible to count the reams of sketch paper involved. However, since the client was paying and the client was always supposed to be right, I went along with her requests.
That is, until today. As she stood before me, threatening to sue me, threatening to withhold further payment, my head began to pound. I tried to find an escape hatch to whisk me off to There, but the only ones I found were double bolted from the other side. As her pitch went higher and higher, my face began to burn and the urge to throttle her grew stronger.
When she reached the point where she asked me to scrap everything I’d done thus far and start anew, I’d reached critical mass. Eruption was imminent. Destruction not far behind.
Had I not desperately needed the two remaining payments, had I not already turned down other commissions, had I only trusted my initial gut reaction and said no in the first place, I wouldn’t be on the verge of becoming a cartoon character with a lobster red face and steam coming out of my ears. But I hadn’t and I was one word away from ricocheting like a crazed pinball through the studio.
“You incompetent fool! You idiot! Hack! I insist,” she began, following those words quickly enough with a string of expletives…and that was it. She crossed the line.
Suddenly, I was the Wicked Witch of the West. Yes, how trite, I know. But really, that’s how I felt and there really isn’t any better example of fury, is there? I imagined fireballs zinging from my fingertips, my eyes burning red with rage, and my body shaking with an intense hatred I’d never felt in my life.
“Get. out. NOW.”
She stood, stammering, “but, but, I need this done in time for the party!”
“Get. out. Before I unleash the hounds of Hell on you.”
“How dare you! Do you know to whom you speak?” she bellowed.
“I know you’re nothing but an ungrateful and unreasonable biddy, incapable of tact or kindness. Leave. LEAVE! LEEEEEEEAVE!” I screamed. I half expected her to wither under my glare, but she just stood there, mouth flapping like some bloated and dying fish. “GET OUT!”
“You miserable beast, you! You’ll never work in this town again! I’ll make sure your name is…”
“GOOOOOOOOOO!” And in one long stride, I was across the room, going after her, grabbing her arm, spinning her around, pushing her out of the room. With a final slam, the door shook and the small window shattered. Through it, I could see her face hardened with hostility, her mouth still agape.
“Get out of here, you old cow! Get!” Bile was rising in my throat as I rushed the door. I saw her cringe and knew I’d won this battle. She cringed, then ran as fast as her tight skirt and designer heels allowed, face pinched and unsure of what to do. I got the feeling no one had ever said no to her, never told her off.
My anger continued to boil and bubble over. I grabbed my car keys and flung the door open, charging down the stairs. The client saw me and I’m sure she thought I was in hot pursuit. Fortunately for her, I just wanted out. Out of the building, away from her, away from the toxic environment she’d created in my studio, my haven.
She screamed, “Leave me alone, you bitch! Help! HELP! Someone help me!”
“Shut up! Get the hell out of my way!” I reached the bottom of the stairs, gripped the handle of the door, and stepped into There…
