Work Text:
The old manor felt vacant, with all servants asleep, and the only light of the moon reflecting off of the crisp snow climbing the tall windows. A man stood towards the chilled arched glass, the shadows of snowflakes cascading down his face. His face glooms as his hands tighten their grip on his arms, one arm feeling uneven than the other. His lower lip quivered and decided it would be best to continue walking. His black dress shoes clicked with each step, the sound echoing throughout the empty hall.
When he reached the end of the long hallway, he lowered his head, as the corner would show the giant painting of the person haunting his mind. His feet move towards the bottom of the shiny, golden frame that held the large portrait. If he looked up, she would be looking back at him, looking through him, with her small, pale smile, and once kind eyes peering out.
Even when he didn’t look at it, it would still be painted into his sight. Her voice still echoes in his mind, exclaiming excitement from the vows they had once exchanged. Her thin fingers could still be felt on the back of his shoulders, the cold sensation making him shiver. He had to stop this dreaded feeling. Another pair of faint, but similar clicking echoes started to sound, too close to where he stood.
“Still staring at this pitiful creation?” He recognized the voice, as it mimicked one he had loved once before. Ignoring it wouldn't have worked, as her voice once made him follow, but he's learned not to turn to the voice. She wasn't with him, physically. He's learned not to speak to it. It's not who he wants. He started to walk again, passing the closed doors of uninviting rooms and sleeping maids, rooms that lead to dusty books and old music, vacant rooms that no longer sparked joy, but deep fear, as she always went with him to each room, and she still does, now, but hauntingly.
Walking around the manor had been a nightly routine, as sleep didn’t come easily to him anymore. Sleep would probably do him some good, except the feeling of a too big of a bed has grown to frighten him. She had comforted him, in their darkest moments, but now that calm and quiet voice was erupt and an intrusion, like a scalpel to the eye.
The faint steps that followed behind him started to lose pace, which meant that the lady in white had stopped following, at least for a moment. When they had stopped, he noticed an ajar door. He knew that room, his room of creativity and ideas. His room of color and emotions. His art workshop, where he had spent his life painting, sculpting, sketching. He hadn’t been there in a long time.
As he stood at the door, he breathed in. He doesn’t remember what state it had been left in, but he knew the door had been fully locked when he had left. Either way, he pushed the door fully opened and headed in. A room of an organized mess. Easels set up haphazardly, paints left open or half empty, unfinished clay creations dried or broken, candles that had burned the wick to nothing, on a wooden desk set in the background. A window was seen in the back of the room as well, presented by the open curtains, that brought in the moon. A once colorful room, now muted and desaturated. An easel stood in the middle of the room, holding a canvas and broken pieces of charcoal. An idea that had been thought, but discarded, when the news had been dropped on him. He moved towards the canvas and picked up one of the charcoal.
His eyes closed as he felt the gritty texture of the dark charcoal. A feeling of comfort, his first tool, his first drawing. A feeling of her staring-
He huffed, wanting to forget all his problems. It wasn't her, but he kept forgetting that. He just needed to get through this night. Creating always took him hours, but they had passed so quickly, she needed to come in and check on him.
He moved his hand and made the first stroke on the canvas. He remembered the news, how he stood for a moment, in disbelief before rushing out of the room. He let his mind wander as his hand drew without thinking. He just needed something on this canvas, something to bring him back to his old life, to his style. Something new, or old, just something to keep his mind off. The sounds of the activated carbon scratching the cotton canvas was familiar, a calming sensation.
As his hand drew, the other gripped the side of his muted easel. The colors crumbling off the wood and dull. When the charcoal moved, he could place the shape of a face, messy, but coherent. A mouth had started to form, a small grin with care, and then a nose began to take shape, a slim one. His hand paused the sketching and smudged some black, bringing shading, bringing dimension. But as drew again, the eyes began to take shape, he realized they were too familiar, too soft, too kind. He stopped sketching and really looked at his scribbled mess. The eyes- peering at him, as if judging what he was doing.
As he choked on his realization, both hands had come to grip the easel.
“This isn’t as good as your other recreations of me,” The dead hissed.
“Leave me to die, you wench!” The turmoiled artist finally spoke, screamed, more like, at the motionless face, and forced the easel that held what he had held dear once, towards the voice he now despised. It hit the desk then tumbled to the ground with an empty clatter, essentially killing what was already dead. His screaming caused his tears to start cascading down his face. In a now fit of rage and insanity, he moved and pushed all his materials off of his desk, splattering almost dried paint and broken pencils onto the ground. The spare easels were knocked over, as his hands ripped down unfinished drawings and paintings that clattered throughout the room. Papers and dust fluttered to the splattered floor, as his screaming turned to hysterical, ugly sobbing. He finally collapsed to his knees and gripped his hands to his wet face.
“Get out of my head! Get out of my head!” He repeatedly screamed to the messy room, his sobs causing him to choke. His hands, no, his entire body was shaking, as he started to continually slap his hands to the front of his face, as the only way he thought to relieve him of his emotional turmoil was physical pain.
“An atrocious display. I can’t believe you thought I had cared.”
As if it was possible, he sobbed harder, as the slapping turned his face numb. All he did was disappoint her. As if she was never fully happy. He was always an emotional mess she had to put up with, she had to be tired. She was his muse, but he held her too high up. He shuffled his way over to the desk, dragging his knees through the various paints and lead. There were three drawers on either side of the spruce desk, each containing different tools. The drawer he had been aiming for, however, held the tools for clay sculpting.
"Your arm has no more room for any of your depressing messages. What other limb shall you ruin now?" The voice hissed, seeming to be closer to him. His hand was in the drawer, searching blindly, slightly scratching himself from the unprotected utensils. He finally felt the triangular blade of his sculpting knife, and shakily removed his coat as he retrieved it. Under the coat revealed his battered arm full of ugly scarring. Torn writing carved in from hysterical emotion, only partially healed when one of his servants found him passed out covered in blood. The blood still lies where he collapsed, dried, and mixed in with past paint.
The feeling of arms embraced him, cold and mellow.
"Will you finally join me in the reigns of Heaven, my love?" The voice had softened now as if coaxing him to sleep in their bed as she used to do. He couldn't take this voice of softness and scars anymore.
"Your voice wouldn't reach me in the depths of Hell," he whispered, as he looked into the small blade, and saw the deformed reflection of his teary face, and moved the knife down to his throat.
The snow outside falls swiftly, the sparkling white reflecting the setting moonlight into the tall windows of the cold, empty manor. The servants still sleep, while the man no longer stands to the tall windows.