The Shattered Canvas

I woke up to silence.

It wasn’t peaceful, like the kind of silence you get when everything feels right. No. This was the kind of silence that pressed against your chest, like something was waiting for you to notice it. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? When you’re waiting for something, and it’s not coming.

I rolled out of bed, the sheets sticking to me like they were afraid to let me go. The floor creaked under my weight, and for a second, I thought it might give out beneath me. It wouldn’t surprise me. Everything else seems to be falling apart.

I stumbled over to my desk. My last project was still there, half-finished, like some twisted relic of a past life. It was a hodgepodge of broken metal, welded together in a mess of sharp edges and contorted shapes. I used to think it was brilliant. A masterpiece, even. But now? It just looked like a pile of scraps—a symbol of everything I couldn’t fix.

I ran a hand across the cold surface of the metal. My fingers lingered over the jagged edges, feeling the burn of it against my skin. It felt good, in a way, but it was also starting to feel… wrong. Like it wasn’t supposed to exist. Like I wasn’t supposed to exist.

I hadn’t touched the piece in days. Hell, maybe weeks. I don’t keep track of time anymore. Time is a luxury I don’t have. But I knew I had to do something. I had to finish something. But what? I didn’t know. Nothing came to me anymore. I didn’t have the energy to search for inspiration.

Then, something changed.

I don’t know if it was me losing my mind, or if the metal was just… moving on its own. But when I looked back at the twisted mess of metal on my desk, it wasn’t just a pile of junk anymore. The pieces were shifting. Very slowly, but unmistakably. They were… assembling themselves.

I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was some kind of trick. But no. The metal was moving. It was twisting and bending, forming something that felt wrong but familiar. Something I had seen in my nightmares. Something I had created.

The shape started to take form. Something vaguely humanoid, but twisted, its body too long, its proportions off. It was like looking at a broken reflection of myself. I took a step back, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it.

It wasn’t finished. Not yet. But I could see it, clearly. The face. God, that face. Or what passed for a face. It was… it was wrong. Too wide, the eyes too black. No pupils. Just… emptiness staring back at me. It wasn’t just the metal that was wrong. It was everything. I could feel it—like something in my chest was pulling away, like I was being drawn into its orbit. It knew me. It was me.

I reached out, fingers trembling, not sure if I wanted to touch it or destroy it. But when my hand brushed against the metal, a shock ran through my whole body. Like an electric pulse, followed by a deep ache in my chest. I recoiled, pulling my hand away, but the figure didn’t move. It just stood there, staring at me, as if waiting. Watching.

I backed away, my heart pounding. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be real. But everything about it felt too real. I could hear the scrape of metal against metal, the faint ringing sound of it grinding itself together. It was like the thing was… alive.

I grabbed my sketchbook from the desk and started to draw, hoping to exorcise whatever was crawling through my head. The lines came fast, almost uncontrollably, like my hand was possessed. I drew the figure, its distorted limbs, its unnatural angles. I drew the face—those empty, hollow eyes.

But the more I sketched, the more I realized something was happening. The figure wasn’t just staying on the page. It was coming to life. The more I drew, the more it became real. I could feel it watching me through the paper, its presence pressing against my mind.

The room started to shrink. Or maybe it was just me. The walls were closing in, or I was falling apart. It was hard to tell. My breaths grew shallow, my chest tightening with panic. I could smell the metal, like it was burning. Not from the torches. No, this was different. This was something inside me, something deep, that was starting to burn.

I pushed away from the desk, but the room didn’t stop spinning. The figure—no, the thing—was right in front of me now. Its body was huge, its twisted metal limbs stretching out as if they were trying to grab me. Its eyes—those dark, endless eyes—were staring straight into mine. I couldn’t look away.

I couldn’t breathe.

The sound of the metal was deafening now, scratching and clanging like it was trying to claw its way out of my head. And then I heard it—no, I felt it. The thing in front of me didn’t need words. It was like it was speaking to me directly, inside my mind. It was saying something I couldn’t understand, but I felt it. I felt it like an echo deep inside my bones.

You made me. You created me. And now… we’re the same.

It hit me then. That this—this thing in front of me, this creature—wasn’t just something I had made. It wasn’t just a work of art. It was… me. The broken pieces of me. The fears I couldn’t face. The desires I couldn’t contain. It wasn’t just art anymore. It was a living, breathing manifestation of everything I had buried. The terror I couldn’t escape. The darkness I had ignored.

And now it was coming for me.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My mouth opened, but nothing. The pressure in my chest was unbearable. I stumbled back, but my legs couldn’t hold me anymore. I crumpled to the floor, my vision swimming, my body shaking with the force of it.

I could feel the thing behind me, right in my ear now, its cold breath on my neck.

You’re mine now. You can’t escape.

I closed my eyes, trying to block it out, trying to shut it all down. But when I opened them again, the thing was still there. And this time, it wasn’t just watching me. It was smiling. That twisted, metal smile.

And I realized something: there’s no difference anymore. Between me and it. I am the artist. And I am the monster.