Year 12 English
By Thomas Spek | Posted: Thursday November 18, 2021
He Sat Alone
He sat alone. Dwarfed by the opulence and grandeur of the stately parliamentary chamber. The magnificent meeting table, centrepiece of the room and crafted from once mighty kauri and mahogany, overshadowed his frail silhouette.
The ornate plaster ceiling with its crystal chandeliers contributed to the room’s grandeur. The dim ambient light provided little functional light, instead, hiding the dark corners of the room and casting creeping shadows across the sprawling table surface.
The high stud walls lined with aged oak panelling were adorned with portraits of once powerful decision makers. They were the chosen ones, elected for their knowledge and leadership. They had developed New Zealand into a thriving colony of the British Empire. They created the blueprint for the nation. Their stately poses and solemn faces created an impression of wealth, power and intelligence. Thick gold gilded frames contained their presence, reminding spectators that they were great men.
He sat alone, a half-filled crystal whiskey tumbler his only company. William Larnach, Member of Parliament, investment banker, farmer and land baron. A wealthy businessman, he had enjoyed the fruits of his work and investments. His home, ‘The Camp’ sat high on the hill, on top of the world. His appearance, however, did not resemble that of the powerful men who watched over him from their gilded frames.
His slouching posture and unkempt beard were not reflective of his status. His tortured face was like a reference book of failed financial investments and, more significantly, failed family relationships. Strained wrinkles spoke of pain and torment. His frown formed deep fracture lines across his forehead as he sat in deep thought. How had it come to this? A sole tear escaped from the corner of his eye as he held his head in his bony hands.
He sat alone, he felt alone. His successful life was unravelling in front of him, out of control. Economic recession and falling land prices led to the collapse of his timber factory and land speculation venture in Southland. His heavy borrowing from banks caught up with him. He was bankrupt. His castle, high on the hill on top of the word, a testament to his power and wealth was slipping away from him, as were his family and friends.
The loss of his beloved daughter Kate and two wives had drained his spirit. His so called ‘friends’ had abandoned him. They had enjoyed the spoils and cast offs of his wealth and status, like dogs begging for meal scraps. But as his financial and personal reputations suffered, the sycophants fled for more productive pastures. His wife’s love affair with his son was the last straw. He could take no more. The shame and embarrassment were overwhelming.
His hand trembled as he raised his whiskey tumbler to his dry, cracked lips one last time. The ice cubes crackled against the side of the glass as they cooled the Scotch whiskey. The amber liquid glowed in the dim light and warmed its way down his throat providing a numbing comfort before what was to come. The chair groaned as he sat back into it and as he gazed around the room the portraits of the powerful seemed to follow his stare.
He sat alone. From his pocket, he retrieved the small calibre pistol, its shining metal reflecting the room’s dim light into his eyes making him wince. This was his pain relief, his solution to the torture his life had become. He could not face any more rejection or embarrassment. He wanted to be remembered for his wealth and power, not ridiculed for his failure. If only he knew his house on the hill on top of the world would continue his legacy.
He trembled as he held the pistol to his temple, steading the tremor with his other hand. The pistol clicked as he pulled back the firing pin to the engaged position. As his finger squeezed the trigger, he let out a shallow sigh. The gun fired, releasing its fatal projectile into his tortured mind.
He sat alone, slumped on the glistening mahogany tabletop. Blood escaped from his head wound, pooling onto the table surface releasing his pain. The portraits in their gilded frames looked on with their solemn faces as if they were disappointed with his actions. Clouds began gathering at the house on the hill on top of the world.
He sat alone. He was alone.
