"THE PAINTING" in "SHORTS"

I’d never thought it would’ve happened to me.

It all started from my extreme exhaustion from reality. A real-life suffocation. I’d just got fired from my job. Not only that, my girlfriend Aida told me that she was pregnant. No, I wasn’t ready. I was afraid I’d never be.

I know, I’m a cowardly man. Running away to that remote motel by The South Beach which they claim to be haunted. Aida’s big brother Andre had threatened to kill me if I refused to come back and marry her out of mere responsibility. Oh, Aida. I hope you can forgive your chicken-shit of a boyfriend.

What do I do now? Not much. Just lying down in my motel bedroom, staring at a painting on the wall. It was a picture of a beach, with greenish-blue, sea-water that seemed calm. It looked like a made-up scene, completely different from the beach outside my window.

At the beach in that painting, a man in black swimming trunks was sitting on a beach chair under a red-and-white, stripy umbrella. How generic. He was wearing sunglasses and seemed to be enjoying the view. He was smiling.

I still remember what I’d thought then:

If only I could be in his shoes…

Then I fell asleep. I was dreaming. I was at the beach.I came up to that man sitting on the beach chair. I stopped when he turned to me and smiled.

“Hi, there,” he greeted me warmly. “You seem to be tired. Wanna try sitting here?”

I simply nodded. The man stood up and I sat down. The chair did feel comfortable. He even handed me his sunglasses.

“Just relax,” he said brightly. “I wanna walk for a while. I’m feeling all stiff.”

“Okay.” It did feel nice. The sun was shining warmly. The soft, calm waves of the ocean in front of me was like music of nature in my ears.

I leaned back and closed my eyes…

— // —

I thought I’d fallen asleep in that dream. Strange. Does that mean I’ll wake up back in the real world, facing my real world and all my problems there?

My eyes opened. Wait, something’s odd. I was still at the same beach. That man hadn’t returned yet.

I tried to get up but I couldn’t. Not only that, but my arms - and entire backside - felt completely glued to the chair.

And the sun was shining more brightly, even more piercing…

“Hel…” I realised that my voice wouldn’t come out. I still couldn’t get up.

I was trapped in that painting…forever. Unable to get out, unless another fool out there would come around - wishing to be in my position right now…

R.

(Jakarta, 16/10/2014 - from The Couchsurfing Writers’ Club Meeting @Anomali Cafe, Setiabudi One, 8:00 - 11:00 pm. Theme: “Horror”.)