The Monsters We Become

There once was a poor artist, seeking to make a living. He didn’t mind this; in fact, he embraced the humbling situations he was in and did what he could to brighten the black and white world he lived in. But there were evil spirits lurking in this world, and there was little he could do.

I stared at the ceiling of “my” room, the tempting lull of the warm bed beckoning me to stay.  I didn’t want to leave. There wasn’t any point in getting out of bed anyway.  There were only monsters outside of these comforting blankets.

In fact, there was one downstairs right now. I sighed. Sooner or later, that witch would make me get out of bed anyway. I peeked the tip of my foot out of the sheets, barely touching the floor, and shivered at the sudden cold when I dragged the blankets aside. I hopped across the dark, ice-cold floor to the other side of the room, where heavy curtains obscured the room in comfortable darkness. I yanked them aside, glad that it was still dark outside, and started to get ready for the day, pulling on my socks and such as I brushed my teeth.

I wondered how long I would have to live in this miserable slum. Ever since that incident… I stopped myself from remembering. Because remembering only brought sorrow.

And sorrow only brought weakness.

I raced to the kitchen and grabbed some stale bread out of the cabinet. Cecile was already sitting on the couch, clicking away at her laptop, undoubtedly planning my life for the next month or so.

“We’re driving to Washington D.C. for your competition after school.” I ignored her and poured myself a cup of orange juice.

“Are you ready?” Ignored. When will this woman understand that I hate talking to her? I buttered the bread with a plastic knife and started for the door, taking my backpack on the way.

“Is this about your parents again?” My hand froze on the doorknob.

“Leven, I understand that it’s their anniversary, but it’s been three years. You have to�"“

“There’s nothing that I have to do, Cecile. Shut up.” I imagined my voice, hard as winter glass and just as cold, chipping away at her soul. I pictured my eyes, caustically burning, drilling holes right into her very being.

And I felt satisfied.

I turned the doorknob, opening the gates for another hell to take over. But right now, anything was better than Cecile. I took the elevator down ten floors, all the way to the lobby and stepped out to rush hour. Busy commuters dashed by to catch their subways in the regular bustle of New York City. The brisk fall air greeted me as I watched the sun peek out from behind the buildings.

What an interesting mask the world decided to wear today. I took a sip of my orange juice. Then, making sure that no one would notice, I turned around, back towards the apartment building, into the alleyway behind it. I stopped in front of the alley, my shadow blending in with the dark

“Good morning, Lester.”

***

                  I finished the piece with a flourishing chord as the audience clapped loudly. I took my bow and walked off of the stage. The judges nodded and smiled, and I couldn’t help but sneer inwardly.

I had this competition in the bag. Cecile would be happy. Then again, did I care? I walked backstage, blasé and apathetic. As I packed up my violin in one of the rooms, I watched the small television screen in the corner for the next contender. He walked up to face the judges, violin in hand and surprisingly tranquil. He greeted them with a bow and took his place as the stage lights sent shafts of light streaming down onto his fair skin. Wait a second…

I knew that kid. He went to my school. He was a complete jest, smiling and laughing, oblivious to the ever-present torment around him.

Why was he here?

I stared, open mouthed, trying to process what I was looking at. Wait a second…

He plays violin?

That was news to me. But it didn’t matter if he couldn’t play, right? I watched him, transfixed, as he slowly raised his bow, waiting for his time to play. Mozart’s Concerto in G started with a striking G chord, the same one it ended with. It was meant to grab the audience’s attention with the reverberating sound. He finally took his first stroke.

A regular G. Mezzo forte, maybe even Mezzo piano.

Was this kid crazy? I shook my head. I should have known. He kept playing, obviously not bothered by the fatal mistake he had made. How could this amateur just ignore the score completely? He had just ruined his chances of winning. To top that, he had suddenly decreased the tempo. There were just too many things wrong with this. I turned away during his two rests of silence, disappointed and miffed.

The next chord came out of nowhere. Absolute fortissimo, to the point where the audience was silent not out of respect, but out of shock. The tempo skyrocketed out of nowhere, leaving the piano accompanist straining to keep up. I was in utter disbelief. Tempo, dynamics, rhythm, everything and anything, this fool disregarded completely. At this point, no one could tell that it was the same, exact pre-set piece that we had all played. This wasn’t Mozart’s classical work anymore; this was his very own playing.

                  My hands shook in anger.

Was he joking? Playing like this at such a major contest was suicidal. His chances of winning couldn’t even be called miniscule. I could already imagine the judges, spiteful of his complete ignorance.

Competitions were not a place to “express your emotions through music” or any kind of bull like that. Competitions were raw assessments of pure skill. Bowing, rhythm, consistent speed, dynamics: Everything had to be played exactly as the sheet music dictated. The piece should have been as black and white as the score.

Stupidly putting his own colors into a masterpiece that was already perfected?

                  Because of his heretical ideals, this artist was disliked by the other prestigious, famous artists who painted black-and-white portraits for black-and-white people. They did all that they could to keep the poor artist from succeeding. One day, they came up with an evil plan to pull him into ruin.

Sooner or later, those colors would run into each other and ruin the whole thing.

***

                  I strolled briskly out of the venue with the prize money in hand. I had won by a landslide, but I was still slightly peeved by that philistine’s poor playing. What a spectacle. I spied the said person, waiting for his parents by the curb. I sniffed.

How dense could he be?

“Hey you,” I called out. He turned around, bewildered. I rolled my eyes. “Over here.”

He found me in the crowd of people and smiled.

“Hey! It’s you! You did a really good job! You were the person before me, right?” His rambling annoyed  me as much as his playing had. I cut to the chase, making sure he could see the ice in my eyes and how annoyed I was.

“What the heck was that?” He stared at me in obvious confusion, and I huffed in irritation.

“I mean, why did you edit the score?” He thought for a while, and then clapped his hands when he finally understood what it meant.

“Oh, you mean my playing! Well, it sounded pretty with the accents on the second phrase, and I thought it sounded too stuffy in general!” He grinned, relieved to have found an answer for me, but I still wasn’t satisfied.

“You completely ignored the original piece. Are you crazy?” I badgered. He shrugged in reply, and I became angrier still.

“You can’t win competitions like that.” He shrugged again.

“So?”

“If you weren’t even going to play like you were supposed to, why did you enter?” I struggled to keep my voice down. He looked puzzled again and gave his blunt reply.

“Well, the point isn’t to win, is it?” I was enraged. What kind of nonsense was this?

“You imbecile. Does this really mean that little to you?” I spat out the words like venom, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he kept staring right back at me as if he were questioning me.

“No, it really means a lot to me. After all, I get to see the smiles of the people that I made happy when I played.” He laughed sheepishly. Was he being serious? I couldn’t believe the complete foolishness of his ideals. Sooner or later, this industry would ruin him, and these idiotic thoughts would be no more.

“Tch. Don’t kid with me. You won’t last long if you go messing around like a child.” I turned away without a glance back.

The malevolent artists summoned monsters that preyed the lands, and implored them to help eliminate the poor artist.  “Only,” the monsters replied, “If you sell yourselves to us, and become demons as well.” So they infected themselves with sin’s contagious poison, and became monsters of the worst kind.

***

                  Cecile pulled up onto the driveway, her house creating a dim outline in the evening light of the streetlamps. I had been thinking about that annoying brat the whole ride, and the crunching gravel brought me back to my senses. Something so trivial shouldn’t have affected me this much. I eyed the alleyway discretely; Cecile wouldn’t care if I slipped away for a second, would she? She was too busy counting the prize money anyway.

“Cecile,” I mumbled. “I have to do something. I’ll be back later.” She nodded, not really paying attention.

“Mmhmm. You go and do your thing.” I pulled the car door open and then slammed it shut behind me. Making sure that Cecile was still transfixed on her money, I went around the apartment building into the alleyway once again, reaching into the bag slung over my shoulder to make sure that I had enough cat food.

“Hey Lester! Where are you?” I whispered softly, trying not to draw too much attention. A pair of yellow eyes glowed in the dark night. I crouched so that I was eye level with him and opened a tin of cat food, setting it down gently so that he wouldn’t feel threatened. After a while, he finally took the offering and ate the food. I carefully petted his matted brown fur and felt a sense of calmness wash over me in serene, flowing waves.

“I honestly don’t know why I keep coming back here. Must be your way with the ladies, hm?” I chuckled. This cat, a stray I had found on the street a few days ago, seemed to be like my only oasis away from the rest of the world. It was a chance for me to just relax for once, a chance to get a away from the cold hard truth. Cats didn’t bring your world crashing down into a mess. Cats could scratch you, but they would heal.

The scratches that the world left on me still hadn’t closed.

***

                  Over the past few weeks, I participated in the competitions and concerts that Cecile stacked high; with all of the prize money I had won, it was quite strange that our living situations hadn’t improved one bit.

I continued to see that brat in many of the events. It infuriated me at first, how he continued to skew piece after piece, tuning it to his own arrangements. But then I noticed something, at a winner’s concert one chilly November day.

The audience seemed to become… alive when his bizarre playing was presented to them. They clapped the loudest for him, and were always enraptured in his irregular playing.

It confused me to no end. Didn’t they know what the piece was supposed to sound like? The very idea of playing like him was utter blasphemy.

So why did it excite them so much? I sighed and stretched where I was. Cecile had booked me a performing slot for this concert. Just a minute ago, the concert sponsor had announced intermission. I walked outside for some fresh air and, breathing in the cold night air, lapsed into my thoughts when I felt a presence behind me. I turned around to see the very person that had been on my mind.

“Hello, Caleb.” He waved and gave me his trademark grin.

“Leven, right?” I curtly nodded.

“So I guess you’re playing today,” I muttered.

“Yep! And you are too!” I sighed wearily and asked the question that had been pestering me since the day that I saw him at that competition in Washington.

“Why won’t you play like you’re supposed to?” He shrugged in reply, a gesture that felt mildly déjà vu.

“You have to lose some to win some.”

“Seems like you’re only losing so far.” A half-smirk started to inch its way onto my face.

“There were fights that you never signed up for.”

“And I can say the same for myself.” I retorted coolly. He raised an eyebrow.

“Really, can you?” By then, I had a full on smirk.

“You wouldn’t know because you never signed up for them.” He sighed and inwardly, I grinned.

“Well, I guess I’ll just say this: there are winners and there are losers. Maybe I’m a loser, but even beneath me are the quitters.” My inner smile disappeared, and I reverted back to my cold, hard self.

“I merely gave in to an inevitable force; in time, you will too.” He looked at me, his expression unfathomable: Sadness? Pain?

Pity?

“You’re so cold. Everything about you: your playing, your eyes, your smile. It’s like you’ve been carved from ice. But you know, Leven, there are people that care about you.” People that cared about me? I sneered at his innocence and laughed.

“You’re right. There were a few,” I acknowledged.

“But do you know what happened to them?” He listened on, and then I blew up.

“Three years ago, when I was just ten years old, my mother, my father, MY ONLY FAMILY, they died in a freaking car crash! I was so, so, devastated you see?” I finally went over the edge; it was too much. I was screaming, I was wailing, I didn’t know what I was doing, but all I knew of this pent-up acrimony was that it was finally being released.

“And the catch?” I took a shuddering breath, trying to calm myself with the cool night air, but I still felt feverish and warm. I couldn’t stop the endless stream of words as I tried to reach out, just once, in desperation.

“That Machiavellian witch wouldn’t even let me go to the funeral! A full day of concerts and competitions. For every note I played a tear would fall, and every stroke I took with my bow felt like a saw at my heart. It hurt. It hurt so, so much!” I was crying now, something I hadn’t done since the day my parents passed. Caleb watched in silence as I let the tears fall. I felt so weak, so powerless, and I hated it. I was gulping air like a dead fish now, struggling to calm down. I wiped away my tears and refused to look at Caleb. How could I show so much vulnerability in front of someone that I barely knew?

“My brother.” His voice was quiet.

“It was leukemia. It was torture to watch him suffer for so long. In the end, he lost his battle.” His voice became hard.

“I was once like you, Leven. I thought that the world was against me; I thought that everyone would leave me. But you’re wrong. One day there will be someone who will cherish you as much as your parents did.” I let out a shaky laugh.

“It’s too late for me, Caleb. I’ve already accepted it, haven’t I? The poison of the world’s ideals, the toxins of our way of living. There’s no going back anymore.” Caleb shook his head fervently.

“There’s always something to hold on to. Maybe you just haven’t found it yet, but you will. I promise.” Can I believe in you?

“Promise?” I sounded like a child, hopeful and trusting underneath my mask of doubt. He smiled reassuringly.

“Promise.

***

                  I hummed quietly to myself as I strolled out of the apartment building with a bounce in my step. Even this late at night, there were still people mulling around. After coming back to Cecile’s house, I had immediately gone back downstairs to see Lester. Again, Cecile didn’t care. I rounded the corner and stopped at the usual alleyway with cat food in hand.

“Lester!” I called out, waiting for the familiar yellow eyes and brown fur to surface from the quiet shadows. When there was no reply, I cautiously entered the alley, trying my best to find my way in the dark.

“Lester?” My voice quavered; where was he? I couldn’t see anything in this darkness. I walked back out to think. He was probably sleeping, or maybe just didn’t want to be bothered. I sighed. I guess I would come back tomorrow. I treaded back to the apartment building, wondering when I would see Caleb again when I spotted a brown bundle of something on the side of the street. Bundles of something were pretty normal in Manhattan, but a voice in me seemed to whisper, Go over there. See what it is.

I got closer to the brown thing. It remained unmoving.

Is that…

The brown was fur.

No…

Matted, thick fur that reminded me of how I would pet Lester.

This can’t be…

A tail was sticking out like a stubborn cord.

Please, it can’t be!

My heart started to pound as I kept staring at the pile of fur.

But you promised, Caleb.

Two empty yellow eyes stared back at me, not a trace of the comfort they had once held for me.

The poor artist traveled long and far, striving to paint the world in his vivid colors.

But when the colors faded to black and white once again, the monsters around him devoured his soul.

I chuckled bitterly.

“I should have known.”

 

The Monsters We Become

There once was a poor artist, seeking to make a living. He didn’t mind this; in fact, he embraced the humbling situations he was in and did what he could to brighten the black and white world he lived in. But there were evil spirits lurking in this world, and there was little he could do.

I stared at the ceiling of “my” room, the tempting lull of the warm bed beckoning me to stay.  I didn’t want to leave. There wasn’t any point in getting out of bed anyway.  There were only monsters outside of these comforting blankets.

In fact, there was one downstairs right now. I sighed. Sooner or later, that witch would make me get out of bed anyway. I peeked the tip of my foot out of the sheets, barely touching the floor, and shivered at the sudden cold when I dragged the blankets aside. I hopped across the dark, ice-cold floor to the other side of the room, where heavy curtains obscured the room in comfortable darkness. I yanked them aside, glad that it was still dark outside, and started to get ready for the day, pulling on my socks and such as I brushed my teeth.

I wondered how long I would have to live in this miserable slum. Ever since that incident… I stopped myself from remembering. Because remembering only brought sorrow.

And sorrow only brought weakness.

I raced to the kitchen and grabbed some stale bread out of the cabinet. Cecile was already sitting on the couch, clicking away at her laptop, undoubtedly planning my life for the next month or so.

“We’re driving to Washington D.C. for your competition after school.” I ignored her and poured myself a cup of orange juice.

“Are you ready?” Ignored. When will this woman understand that I hate talking to her? I buttered the bread with a plastic knife and started for the door, taking my backpack on the way.

“Is this about your parents again?” My hand froze on the doorknob.

“Leven, I understand that it’s their anniversary, but it’s been three years. You have to�"“

“There’s nothing that I have to do, Cecile. Shut up.” I imagined my voice, hard as winter glass and just as cold, chipping away at her soul. I pictured my eyes, caustically burning, drilling holes right into her very being.

And I felt satisfied.

I turned the doorknob, opening the gates for another hell to take over. But right now, anything was better than Cecile. I took the elevator down ten floors, all the way to the lobby and stepped out to rush hour. Busy commuters dashed by to catch their subways in the regular bustle of New York City. The brisk fall air greeted me as I watched the sun peek out from behind the buildings.

What an interesting mask the world decided to wear today. I took a sip of my orange juice. Then, making sure that no one would notice, I turned around, back towards the apartment building, into the alleyway behind it. I stopped in front of the alley, my shadow blending in with the dark

“Good morning, Lester.”

***

                  I finished the piece with a flourishing chord as the audience clapped loudly. I took my bow and walked off of the stage. The judges nodded and smiled, and I couldn’t help but sneer inwardly.

I had this competition in the bag. Cecile would be happy. Then again, did I care? I walked backstage, blasé and apathetic. As I packed up my violin in one of the rooms, I watched the small television screen in the corner for the next contender. He walked up to face the judges, violin in hand and surprisingly tranquil. He greeted them with a bow and took his place as the stage lights sent shafts of light streaming down onto his fair skin. Wait a second…

I knew that kid. He went to my school. He was a complete jest, smiling and laughing, oblivious to the ever-present torment around him.

Why was he here?

I stared, open mouthed, trying to process what I was looking at. Wait a second…

He plays violin?

That was news to me. But it didn’t matter if he couldn’t play, right? I watched him, transfixed, as he slowly raised his bow, waiting for his time to play. Mozart’s Concerto in G started with a striking G chord, the same one it ended with. It was meant to grab the audience’s attention with the reverberating sound. He finally took his first stroke.

A regular G. Mezzo forte, maybe even Mezzo piano.

Was this kid crazy? I shook my head. I should have known. He kept playing, obviously not bothered by the fatal mistake he had made. How could this amateur just ignore the score completely? He had just ruined his chances of winning. To top that, he had suddenly decreased the tempo. There were just too many things wrong with this. I turned away during his two rests of silence, disappointed and miffed.

The next chord came out of nowhere. Absolute fortissimo, to the point where the audience was silent not out of respect, but out of shock. The tempo skyrocketed out of nowhere, leaving the piano accompanist straining to keep up. I was in utter disbelief. Tempo, dynamics, rhythm, everything and anything, this fool disregarded completely. At this point, no one could tell that it was the same, exact pre-set piece that we had all played. This wasn’t Mozart’s classical work anymore; this was his very own playing.

                  My hands shook in anger.

Was he joking? Playing like this at such a major contest was suicidal. His chances of winning couldn’t even be called miniscule. I could already imagine the judges, spiteful of his complete ignorance.

Competitions were not a place to “express your emotions through music” or any kind of bull like that. Competitions were raw assessments of pure skill. Bowing, rhythm, consistent speed, dynamics: Everything had to be played exactly as the sheet music dictated. The piece should have been as black and white as the score.

Stupidly putting his own colors into a masterpiece that was already perfected?

                  Because of his heretical ideals, this artist was disliked by the other prestigious, famous artists who painted black-and-white portraits for black-and-white people. They did all that they could to keep the poor artist from succeeding. One day, they came up with an evil plan to pull him into ruin.

Sooner or later, those colors would run into each other and ruin the whole thing.

***

                  I strolled briskly out of the venue with the prize money in hand. I had won by a landslide, but I was still slightly peeved by that philistine’s poor playing. What a spectacle. I spied the said person, waiting for his parents by the curb. I sniffed.

How dense could he be?

“Hey you,” I called out. He turned around, bewildered. I rolled my eyes. “Over here.”

He found me in the crowd of people and smiled.

“Hey! It’s you! You did a really good job! You were the person before me, right?” His rambling annoyed  me as much as his playing had. I cut to the chase, making sure he could see the ice in my eyes and how annoyed I was.

“What the heck was that?” He stared at me in obvious confusion, and I huffed in irritation.

“I mean, why did you edit the score?” He thought for a while, and then clapped his hands when he finally understood what it meant.

“Oh, you mean my playing! Well, it sounded pretty with the accents on the second phrase, and I thought it sounded too stuffy in general!” He grinned, relieved to have found an answer for me, but I still wasn’t satisfied.

“You completely ignored the original piece. Are you crazy?” I badgered. He shrugged in reply, and I became angrier still.

“You can’t win competitions like that.” He shrugged again.

“So?”

“If you weren’t even going to play like you were supposed to, why did you enter?” I struggled to keep my voice down. He looked puzzled again and gave his blunt reply.

“Well, the point isn’t to win, is it?” I was enraged. What kind of nonsense was this?

“You imbecile. Does this really mean that little to you?” I spat out the words like venom, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he kept staring right back at me as if he were questioning me.

“No, it really means a lot to me. After all, I get to see the smiles of the people that I made happy when I played.” He laughed sheepishly. Was he being serious? I couldn’t believe the complete foolishness of his ideals. Sooner or later, this industry would ruin him, and these idiotic thoughts would be no more.

“Tch. Don’t kid with me. You won’t last long if you go messing around like a child.” I turned away without a glance back.

The malevolent artists summoned monsters that preyed the lands, and implored them to help eliminate the poor artist.  “Only,” the monsters replied, “If you sell yourselves to us, and become demons as well.” So they infected themselves with sin’s contagious poison, and became monsters of the worst kind.

***

                  Cecile pulled up onto the driveway, her house creating a dim outline in the evening light of the streetlamps. I had been thinking about that annoying brat the whole ride, and the crunching gravel brought me back to my senses. Something so trivial shouldn’t have affected me this much. I eyed the alleyway discretely; Cecile wouldn’t care if I slipped away for a second, would she? She was too busy counting the prize money anyway.

“Cecile,” I mumbled. “I have to do something. I’ll be back later.” She nodded, not really paying attention.

“Mmhmm. You go and do your thing.” I pulled the car door open and then slammed it shut behind me. Making sure that Cecile was still transfixed on her money, I went around the apartment building into the alleyway once again, reaching into the bag slung over my shoulder to make sure that I had enough cat food.

“Hey Lester! Where are you?” I whispered softly, trying not to draw too much attention. A pair of yellow eyes glowed in the dark night. I crouched so that I was eye level with him and opened a tin of cat food, setting it down gently so that he wouldn’t feel threatened. After a while, he finally took the offering and ate the food. I carefully petted his matted brown fur and felt a sense of calmness wash over me in serene, flowing waves.

“I honestly don’t know why I keep coming back here. Must be your way with the ladies, hm?” I chuckled. This cat, a stray I had found on the street a few days ago, seemed to be like my only oasis away from the rest of the world. It was a chance for me to just relax for once, a chance to get a away from the cold hard truth. Cats didn’t bring your world crashing down into a mess. Cats could scratch you, but they would heal.

The scratches that the world left on me still hadn’t closed.

***

                  Over the past few weeks, I participated in the competitions and concerts that Cecile stacked high; with all of the prize money I had won, it was quite strange that our living situations hadn’t improved one bit.

I continued to see that brat in many of the events. It infuriated me at first, how he continued to skew piece after piece, tuning it to his own arrangements. But then I noticed something, at a winner’s concert one chilly November day.

The audience seemed to become… alive when his bizarre playing was presented to them. They clapped the loudest for him, and were always enraptured in his irregular playing.

It confused me to no end. Didn’t they know what the piece was supposed to sound like? The very idea of playing like him was utter blasphemy.

So why did it excite them so much? I sighed and stretched where I was. Cecile had booked me a performing slot for this concert. Just a minute ago, the concert sponsor had announced intermission. I walked outside for some fresh air and, breathing in the cold night air, lapsed into my thoughts when I felt a presence behind me. I turned around to see the very person that had been on my mind.

“Hello, Caleb.” He waved and gave me his trademark grin.

“Leven, right?” I curtly nodded.

“So I guess you’re playing today,” I muttered.

“Yep! And you are too!” I sighed wearily and asked the question that had been pestering me since the day that I saw him at that competition in Washington.

“Why won’t you play like you’re supposed to?” He shrugged in reply, a gesture that felt mildly déjà vu.

“You have to lose some to win some.”

“Seems like you’re only losing so far.” A half-smirk started to inch its way onto my face.

“There were fights that you never signed up for.”

“And I can say the same for myself.” I retorted coolly. He raised an eyebrow.

“Really, can you?” By then, I had a full on smirk.

“You wouldn’t know because you never signed up for them.” He sighed and inwardly, I grinned.

“Well, I guess I’ll just say this: there are winners and there are losers. Maybe I’m a loser, but even beneath me are the quitters.” My inner smile disappeared, and I reverted back to my cold, hard self.

“I merely gave in to an inevitable force; in time, you will too.” He looked at me, his expression unfathomable: Sadness? Pain?

Pity?

“You’re so cold. Everything about you: your playing, your eyes, your smile. It’s like you’ve been carved from ice. But you know, Leven, there are people that care about you.” People that cared about me? I sneered at his innocence and laughed.

“You’re right. There were a few,” I acknowledged.

“But do you know what happened to them?” He listened on, and then I blew up.

“Three years ago, when I was just ten years old, my mother, my father, MY ONLY FAMILY, they died in a freaking car crash! I was so, so, devastated you see?” I finally went over the edge; it was too much. I was screaming, I was wailing, I didn’t know what I was doing, but all I knew of this pent-up acrimony was that it was finally being released.

“And the catch?” I took a shuddering breath, trying to calm myself with the cool night air, but I still felt feverish and warm. I couldn’t stop the endless stream of words as I tried to reach out, just once, in desperation.

“That Machiavellian witch wouldn’t even let me go to the funeral! A full day of concerts and competitions. For every note I played a tear would fall, and every stroke I took with my bow felt like a saw at my heart. It hurt. It hurt so, so much!” I was crying now, something I hadn’t done since the day my parents passed. Caleb watched in silence as I let the tears fall. I felt so weak, so powerless, and I hated it. I was gulping air like a dead fish now, struggling to calm down. I wiped away my tears and refused to look at Caleb. How could I show so much vulnerability in front of someone that I barely knew?

“My brother.” His voice was quiet.

“It was leukemia. It was torture to watch him suffer for so long. In the end, he lost his battle.” His voice became hard.

“I was once like you, Leven. I thought that the world was against me; I thought that everyone would leave me. But you’re wrong. One day there will be someone who will cherish you as much as your parents did.” I let out a shaky laugh.

“It’s too late for me, Caleb. I’ve already accepted it, haven’t I? The poison of the world’s ideals, the toxins of our way of living. There’s no going back anymore.” Caleb shook his head fervently.

“There’s always something to hold on to. Maybe you just haven’t found it yet, but you will. I promise.” Can I believe in you?

“Promise?” I sounded like a child, hopeful and trusting underneath my mask of doubt. He smiled reassuringly.

“Promise.

***

                  I hummed quietly to myself as I strolled out of the apartment building with a bounce in my step. Even this late at night, there were still people mulling around. After coming back to Cecile’s house, I had immediately gone back downstairs to see Lester. Again, Cecile didn’t care. I rounded the corner and stopped at the usual alleyway with cat food in hand.

“Lester!” I called out, waiting for the familiar yellow eyes and brown fur to surface from the quiet shadows. When there was no reply, I cautiously entered the alley, trying my best to find my way in the dark.

“Lester?” My voice quavered; where was he? I couldn’t see anything in this darkness. I walked back out to think. He was probably sleeping, or maybe just didn’t want to be bothered. I sighed. I guess I would come back tomorrow. I treaded back to the apartment building, wondering when I would see Caleb again when I spotted a brown bundle of something on the side of the street. Bundles of something were pretty normal in Manhattan, but a voice in me seemed to whisper, Go over there. See what it is.

I got closer to the brown thing. It remained unmoving.

Is that…

The brown was fur.

No…

Matted, thick fur that reminded me of how I would pet Lester.

This can’t be…

A tail was sticking out like a stubborn cord.

Please, it can’t be!

My heart started to pound as I kept staring at the pile of fur.

But you promised, Caleb.

Two empty yellow eyes stared back at me, not a trace of the comfort they had once held for me.

The poor artist traveled long and far, striving to paint the world in his vivid colors.

But when the colors faded to black and white once again, the monsters around him devoured his soul.

I chuckled bitterly.

“I should have known.”

 

 

 

Author's Note

This is a piece from my narrative unit in school.
Criticism is welcomed.

Reviews

[alifeacoustic]

I had the very same problem with highlighting not so long ago. It happens when you copy and paste a document. If you try copying and pasting it again, but before you do so, select all and change the highlight colour to white, it should disappear.
"Because of his heretical ideals, this artist was disliked by the other prestigious, famous artists who painted black-and-white portraits for black-and-white people".... I like this, it has a feel of the dystopian about it. It says much more than the few words it took to write. It paints a picture of the people and their attitudes that chapters could miss.
"The audience seemed to become… alive when his bizarre playing was presented to them. They clapped the loudest for him, and were always enraptured in his irregular playing"...Even when we are told what to do, it doesn't mean we have to like it. What we like can never be eradicated.
This was a really well written and enjoyable read. Thank you for sharing.

[AverageThinker]

Thank you so much! I'm glad that you found it enjoyable.