Short story: Seeking the truth

Seeking the truth

Joseph Leon got into his bright red BMW convertible in the heart of Surrey. Monday Morning’s cloudless blue sky was smiling to itself shyly in the smoothly shimmering lake and the silk green lawns rippled occasionally in a cool gentle breeze.  

Joseph Leon was a fantastically successful television presenter for the English National Lottery, as well as being one of England’s top accountants. You could always rely on his wide toothed smile to make a triumphant return to your television screens every Tuesday night. This charmingly loquacious man was indeed, credited for changing the lives of thousands, forever.

Behind the television screens, the Armani suits and the make-up …You could say he was as alone as a forgotten Christmas sweater sewn by your grandmother. He often stared down into his breakfast bowl and wondered whether it would be possible to marry a cornflake as his second wife. His first wife had died tragically due to a brain tumour, and nothing had been the same for Joseph since.

A cobweb hung across the corner of his rear view mirror, slowly swaying in the wind. The light shone like rich butter giving everything it touched a slight golden sheen. Normally, he would listen to old eighties pop songs. But today the car was silent; the only sound that seemed audible was his heartbeat, which was rapidly quickening the closer he got to the television studio. His face was blank and emotionless. His green hazel eyes which normally glittered like those of a cobra ready to strike, had lost their twinkle.

As he parked, he took several deep breaths and then he cautiously stepped out of his car.  A slow chilling air followed him. He greeted the security guards with a tremendous smile...A bit too tremendous but never the less, it worked. They were totally under the impression that today was going to be another ordinary day…and so they thought.

Hastily, Joseph walked to the studio. After meticulous planning and days of telling himself that his plan was in fact conceivable, he was ready. He plunged himself over to the metal machine, which would pick up numbered balls at random. He then started to paint the tops of some of the numbered balls silver. He was in his own little word, endeavouring to paint the balls as fast and as neatly as possible. His long gloved fingers were clenched so hard, they were cramping and his tanned forehead was creased and alive with sweat. His lips, pursed together so hard that his teeth felt wobbly. Joseph was only painting the balls which had the same numbers as the ones shown on his lottery ticket, which he had bought yesterday. The machine would of course, favour the balls with the metallic, silver paint. And so, tomorrow he would be crowned England’s next lottery winner…He was done with being altruistic. It was his turn, he thought to himself malevolently.

As he walked back to his car, he felt somewhat lighter. He sunk into his black leather chair, winked at himself in the rear view mirror and then drove off to HSBC. Accountancy, what a joke he thought to himself.        

Joseph’s fingers ached with slow prolonged beats of misery. He was most certainly ready to throw away his calculator. But at least he was tranquil; his eyes were back to their inviting warm hazel and he was wearing cologne. He looked like a proud television presenter.

Joseph arrived at exactly seven pm to film the live draw of the lottery; but only to find the building surrounded internally and externally with commotion. A wash of perplexity danced over his face like fireflies on a hot summer’s night. Suddenly, he realised something had gone drastically wrong. He felt hazy...too many questions wafted through his mind. On impulse, he returned back to his home.

Joseph stomped in to his living room; every step he took on his shiny mahogany floor was like a sharp gunshot. He turned his television on to the news, eyes effulgent. His whole body clenched up and was ablaze with dark fire…Every single cell in his body was whispering “lottery”. He clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms and a trickle of blood dropped to the floor. His lips trembled as the realisation hit him… Hard. Fury raced through his body, heating him to his very core and igniting a flame so hot within his heart, he almost screamed in agony. Hot tears trickled down his face in a rage so strong it clouded his common sense. A cruel practical joke that was all, he said to himself. Joseph heard a scream. And it did not stop. It went on and on. Then he realised. It was his own. With a large thud, he collapsed onto the floor in a thunderstorm of emotion. The lights of the TV still flickered and the sound of a shocked England filled the room. Joseph was going to be arrested for fraud. He had been videotaped, injudiciously painting the silver balls and it had been leaked to the English press…Luckily for Joseph; he had already floated away to where his wife was waiting for him.

Velvet brushed against his bare feet as he treaded lightly on moss covered ground. Sweet untainted air filled his lungs with neither the feeling of heavy fumes or icy bitterness, engulfing his body with sweet gentle kisses. Great, brown pillars loomed above him, reaching out to grasp the beautiful green gems, only succeeding in brushing them with the very tips of their fingers. Cracks of light seeped through the trees in a sparkly silver stream from the heavens, forbidding humanity more than the pleasure of sight. He saw her in the corner of his eye. She carried herself gracefully towards him like a queen, high and regal. And nobody would ever know why Joseph Leon, the epitome of Mr Perfection and England’s favourite television presenter, felt the need to ruin his ‘blissful’ life.