Walking home, I was shocked at the fact that I'd even managed to sell all of my paintings. Of course, I had minimal interaction with my customers due to my lack of the ability to speak, but I had managed to have even less today somehow or other. Still though, I had the presence of mind to leave for home before dark that time. Although, I feel it necessary to say that the possibility of waiting until nightfall again and setting off down the side alley crossed my mind. However, I was too frightened that he would not come and I would be left even more desolate than I already was. I wasn't sure if I could handle that. Much more disinterest and lack of activity and I wasn't certain I would even still be considered human.
My feet made very little noise on the cobblestones as I walked nervously down the alleyway to reach the jump that led to home. I did not look to my sides very much, half afraid of what I might see and half afraid of what I might not see. Did that fear have a name? Nothing quite frightened me as much as a lack of words. A world without them was one I couldn't write in, and a world I could not write in had little purpose. Even in this dull and awful state, I knew I could write again if I chose.
Perhaps the solution to this situation was to do just that, regain a sense of normalcy. At that moment, I became determined, a little like my old self. How could I have let this stranger do this to me?! I was myself. Independent. Right that second, I began mulling over new plot ideas, story line and characters began to take shape in my mind, and I had every intention of picking up my pen and doing something about them when I got home. I didn't need him. I didn't need anyone. I had myself.
It was these thoughts I was thinking when I reached my door and absentmindedly inserted the key into the keyhole, dragons and wizards, painters and knights, damsels in distress…
When the door swung open, it took a moment for me to understand what I was seeing. First, I thought that some wild animal had gotten in, but the movements and results were too deliberate and meaningful, so that could not be the case. Then, I thought the landlady might have been looking for something. After all, it was part of the bargain that she had the right to search my room, but she would not have gone to this extent. After that, I considered a burglary, but nothing a robber would have stolen seemed to be missing. The little jewelry I had was left untouched, as were my dishes, all my clothes, and the silver I'd brought from home. So, in the span of one minute or less, I came to this conclusion that this had been done by someone, on purpose, with meaning. And if I hadn't thought they were my enemy before, they most definitely were now.
Paper lay on the floor everywhere I could see, blank sheets of white making the boards appear painted that color. They were all ripped as well into smaller and smaller pieces everywhere I looked. They were useless now. The paintings I had left over from previous days or had created a few nights before to use later were nowhere in sight, save but a few of the worse ones thrown into the corners or smeared over with different colors. All the drawers of my desk were open, the documents or manuscripts inside wither thrown somewhere I couldn't see or town on the floor I was sure…oddly enough, nothing else was touched.
I stepped tenderly into the mess, tears burning in my eyes as I looked around, my lips pressed firmly together.
When I reached the middle of the room, I slowly lowered myself to my knees, my hands shaking as I reached out and began picking up the remains of three of the most important things to me, paper, pens, and paint. I methodically moved out from the center, creating a ring of clean floor that moved outward from the point where I'd begun. It did not take me long to realize that what I most feared had indeed been what had happened, and tears fell soundlessly onto the blank paper as I picked it up and threw it away. They continued to fall as I replaced the pens into their glass on my desk, and the pain cans to their place on my windowsill, next to which sat my now blank easel. The ruined canvases, I placed on the wall in neat lines, I did not have the heart to allow my tears and me to throw them away.
I sat down on my bed and looked at the room, empty like myself. All my work, unfinished and finished stories, poems, simple jotted ideas, and my journal…gone.
He had warned me, and now he'd followed through.