The Artist and His Muse

by TennisWriter456

Everything is over. Everything is gone. There is nothing left for him anywhere. There is only the shadow, twisting and turning and unfurling inside of his soul. The shadow that reaches up and grabs his hand, pulls him down into the abyss of insanity where he can rot. There is only the artist, and he is its muse.

7. Chapter 7

7

I wish that I remembered what it felt like to be unmistakably happy. That's how I want to feel—the raw emotion that is joy and elation. I felt that, I think, in my old home. I felt that when people told me that I had saved their lives, and I felt that when people kneeled at my feet to kiss my hand and call me a hero. But I haven't felt it since then. My mind just stopped processing the emotions that brought a smile, flushed and pink, to my face. All I have are fear, desolation, hopelessness. So as we always do when our lives are slipping through our fingers, I grasp onto anything that's left as tightly as I possibly can. I grab hold and squeeze, more and more tightly, until I am sure that the remains of my life sit nicely in the palm of my hand.

I was once known as the silent hero with the beautiful smile—I don't know if that was my title exactly, but that's what people thought about me. Silent, mysterious, strong, courageous. And I made people swoon when I smiled. It's hard to bring back the feelings of pride I felt in my own smile. I wanted to show it off, let people feel my happiness inside of them, take advantage of the natural abilities with which I'd been blessed. But soon enough I nearly forgot how to smile. I forgot how to feel happy enough to do it anyway. I have perfected my grimace.

Princess Zelda was often reminding me of that fact, too. She would tilt her head and examine my features, with a look of curiosity on her face, then she would touch my lips with the tips of her fingers. She would tell me that I never smiled any more—she would tell me that she missed my smile. And then I would fake it and apologize and hate her even more for it. I should have been grateful, I know I should have, but I only felt deceitful. Every moment in her presence felt like deceit after a little while. And I just stopped trying to feel happy, stopped trying to make things real. I opened my arms and I welcomed the emotions that most would push away in disgust.

And so they've been festering within me: fear, terror, disgust, sadness, loneliness. They've been sitting inside of me, in the wide open space I've given them, and spreading through my entire soul. The worst part of it all (or maybe the best part of it all) is that I don't mind. In fact, it feels good. It feels like I have something to hold onto, something over which I still have control. Because I've lost enough control as it is.