Short Story: Sould of an Artist

       “Why are you crying?” the boy asked and stared at the white light around the shadow. It didn’t move nor did it make a sound, but he flinched as if he’d heard a terrifying cry or scream.

         “Why are you crying?” he shouted again.

         A few people had turned to him but no one dared to comment. They all stood quiet and watched him changing from a normal guy to a clueless crazy man, totally losing all common sense. They peeked at the white spot on the wall. It was lit by the arclight but there was nothing but the boring film playing. And for certain, nobody was crying.

         Yet, he kept shouting. He kept repeating the dull question over and over again. He obviously was expecting an answer – his face purely gave that wish away. “Why are you crying?”

         “Because of you, love,” a female voice whispered in return.

         “Who are you?” he changed the question.

         Laughter. Derision. Mockery.

         The students in the room still stood in silence, the voices of the film’s characters went on the background. He couldn’t tell whether they heard her, but he didn’t’ really care, for he did hear. Even though the room was dark, he could see her cat green eyes. He sensed her slim body slipping around, hiding in the shadows, for she was a shadow herself. He felt her cold breath on the skin of his neck and her unearthly grip around his shoulders.

         “Not who, love. It’s what,” the softness of her voice lacerated his ears.

         “What are you, then?” He turned around and stared into the blackness before him.

         “How come you don’t know me, love? You were the one to create me, you were the one to give me life. Yet, you were the one to abandon me. And why? For whose sake?” she laughed coldly. “I loved you,” her voice broke and ice shivers went down his spine.

         “Who are you?” this time he asked in a whisper.

         “I am you, love. The part you created and deserted. The part you need, so you can keep pretending you’re like them, the part that makes you normal.”

         “Who are you?” A single tear dropped down his left cheek and fell upon his heart.

         “I’m the story you wrote before you went to bed. I’m the painting you drew on a rainy day. I’m the artist you killed when you decided they were better. And then, instead of writing a poem, you chose watching TV; instead of playing with your little sister, you chose playing with a lifeless machine; instead of smiling, you chose to grumble. You replaced the book with a computer, you sold Christmas for presents and made yourself believe faith meant only religion.

         “And you forgot about me. You forgot about all the beauty of life and stared into the dull white picture that the scenery offered. But the world doesn’t end with the sunset – there are numerous wonders behind it…  I’m one of them.

         “You used to visit us; you used to understand us and love us, and now you only love yourself. I’m not here to make you come back to us – I’m here to make you remember… and to give you a chance to change your mind. So it’s your choice now, love. You decide where you want to belong.

         “And choose wisely.”

         He opened his eyes. The movie was about to end. Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the screen. But he couldn’t stand it, for it was a story read and presented by someone unknown who didn’t care about others’ point of view. That film wasn’t a form of art the way movies were supposed to; it was someone’s idea of money making… That wasn’t what art was all about.

         He stood up and walked out of the room. His decision had been made.