Beauty Beheld

I hadn’t a clue of the time in which I was born. Whether night or day, month or year, I was brought forth with the most providential of strokes. Senses sprang upon me. Sight, sound, smell, touch, emotion. The first thing I heard was the rumbling, the pittering of rain, the clinkings of piano keys illuminating the room in which I was created. The first thing I saw was a deep wrinkled face. A man. Grey hair, gravely thin, a grimace contorting. He looked at me and I looked back. Tears welled in his eyes, his narrow and sunken shoulders drooped, hands trembling. 

“It won't do.” A shake of his head.

“It just won't do.”

He lumbered from the stool he had been sitting on, hobbled to the doorway and flicked the light switch. Darkness. I could still make out his silhouette as he closed the door without a word, never once glancing back to look upon me. It was cold, silent, both experiences which I had only learnt of in that moment. The silence was loud and the cold was encompassing. I would grow greatly accustomed to them as I sat in that black room, alone and cold and quiet. I would often hear voices from the room across, of the man and a woman speaking. Tones of passivity, of appeasing and fatigue. Their words were murmured, muttered, unintelligible from within my confines. However, with each instance upon hearing them my heart leapt, for it reminded me that I was not truly alone. That there were others out there, others to look upon and hear of. Something other than absence. I don’t know how long I was left there in that room. There was no light, no indication of time. It felt as if an eternity had passed before the room had yet again been illuminated.

“You never told me you made another one.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you just said?”

“It's disgusting.”

“Don’t say that.”

The door to my confines inched open, rays of white light spilling into my abyss. A hand slipped through the door and flicked that same switch that had cast me into this existence for so long. My excitement was immeasurable, my heart fluttering at the sight of something other than a void. 

There he was again, the very same man which my eyes had first opened upon. The very same one who had brought me into existence. He looked more frail and fragile than I had remembered. There was a woman beside him. Grey and wrinkled, just like him. They both stared at me for a period in silence. The man crossed his arms and shook his head.

“It's no use.”

“Don't be silly.”

“Look at it.” 

“I think it's charming.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“You wouldn’t believe me unless I agreed with you.”

The man grunted.

I had never seen a sight so beautiful, so pure. The two of them standing there, shoulder to shoulder. I thought them to be deities which had casted upon me my life. I hadn't the notion of how to speak, something which I later learnt I was not capable of, nor would I ever be. Not in the sense that these two did. And never of my own accord, and never in my own words. But if I could, I would tell them all about their beauty, their perfection in creation. Tell them of the possession they held over me. I would thank the man, thank him for his generosity, for his stroke which had birthed me. But I couldn't, instead relegated to languishing in my horrid restrictive silence.

“I don’t know why I bother.”

“Yes you do.”

“There's no use. Not anymore.”

“It's charming.”

“It's ugly.” 

“Do you wish me to admit that it's not your best work?”

“I wish you to be truthful.”

“Fine. It's not your best work. But they never are.”

They left the room.

Plunged back into darkness, I felt sorrow for the first time. I was ugly. I was not the first. I was not the best, nor was I close to. The man who had brought me here, who had created my existence, felt nothing but disdain for me. For them I thought of nothing but love, adoration and warmth. It was not returned. Then, for the first time, I felt pain. Another compulsory in life I would inevitably grow accustomed to. 

Isolated I stayed, succumbed to darkness. Alone. The voices a room over still roused me with great excitement, however that excitement turned to pain at the thought of their irreverence and dissatisfaction with me. I thought often about how I must look. About what it was of my appearance that had made me so ugly to them, so horrible that they refused to return here to gaze upon me once more.

The occurrence of their voices grew few and far between, until they stopped. Sometimes I heard footsteps roaming around the room outside of my own. They were always on their lonesome. Sometimes I would hear one voice, one side of a conversation. That too stopped. I could only occupy myself with the rumination of my appearance. Why I looked the way I did, if I could ever change it. Perhaps it was my skin? My eyes maybe. Perhaps it was everything. They were beautiful beings, those two, I could never imagine them to be ugly in any form. So what was it that made me so ugly? I thought like this constantly. Over and over I went, until my image of self was a scrawled disgusting mess. I grew to hate myself, hate that I had caused so much pain. Hate my horridness.

Sometime passed before I heard voices again. Three of them this time. Unfamiliar. My heart leapt, however still burdened with the shackles of my appearance which had only distorted further. They grew nearer to the door and I felt for the first time apprehension. I did not wish to be looked upon. Not again. 

The door opened, the light flicked on. The same woman from before, though different. Now thinner, weaker, definitively grey. Accompanying her was another much younger woman and a boy. They were all gorgeous.

“This was his last.” 

“It's haunting.” The young woman said.

“I thought it was charming.”

The boy took a step closer.

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes washed over me. 

I wished direly for them to be gone, to leave me be. To return me to my darkness lest I glimpse my own putrid reflection in their eyes.

“I want it.” He added.

“You want it?”

“Yes.” 

“But why?” 

He paused, eyes still on me. I looked away. “I guess it is both those things you say.”

The two women looked at him.

“But mostly, it was his.”

I was carted out of that room for the first time in my life, pressed to the side of the boy until I was then again thrust into darkness. I witnessed many things for the first time during that short trip. The room across from mine, a cat, art, pottery, the outside; all of which stunned and shamed me with their beauty. An opposing clash of extrinsic love and intrinsic hate, of wonderment and shame. I felt hope for the first time. 

I rumbled along in darkness, shifting with the swaying of my environment. There were grumbles from outside my nook, similar to that of the one which I resided within. This trip too was short lived, as I was again released to the light greenery of the outside. Birds chirping along with more grumbles and whistling wind. I was brought inside, brought through a hallway. There were many voices in this house. Another two. A man and a girl.

Further in I was taken until I was finally placed upon a wall by the boy. A window beaconed yellow rays inside the room. After having rested me in my place, he took a step back, his eyes washing over me once more. He stood that way for a while, just looking at me. His eyes teary, his lips quivering. I caused this boy pain just at the sight of me alone. What was wrong with me? 

The door opened, and in came a man. The one I must have heard before. He stood by the boy, placed a hand on his shoulder and stood looking at me along with him. They looked so alike, yet so different. Their beauty astounded me.

“This was his, huh?”

“His last.”

“His last?”

The boy nodded.

“It’s kind of disturbing, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“I’m sure he would’ve loved that you kept it.”

“He hated it.”

“There are others you could keep instead if you wanted.”

He shook his head. “I want this one.”

“Why? What do you see in it?”

“Him.”

They left me in that room, the man's arm still wrapped round the boy's shoulder as the door shut behind them. I watched the dancing shadows casted in yellow on the wall shift to pale white as time faded. I thought I would be left here, left on my lonesome, left in the dark, forever; just like I had been for so long. It was for the better, I thought. No matter who looked upon me, saw me, they all came away feeling worse than before they had done so. The boy looked as if he were about to cry when he had laid me to my resting point. Now, I would be left on my own, hidden and unseen, as I should be. As I should have always been. 

I heard their voices, four of them, echoing from downstairs, muffled still like my last imprisonment. They were joyous, talkative. Far livelier than I had ever experienced before. The light outside grew paler still, and the voices grew quieter, until all I heard were light footsteps and the closing of doors. The door to my room opened and closed and the light switched on. It was the boy, though he didn’t so much as glance at me while he prepared for bed. The light again turned off and the boy was under covers. By the way the pale light reflected in his eyes I could tell he was looking to me through the dark, laying still, unblinking and unsaying. His small breaths lifting under his blanket. Then, that reflection was snuffed, and he began to cry softly. I couldn't understand why anyone would expose themselves to the likes of me by their own will like this boy had done. I was something to be avoided, shunned. Left alone. The boy's soft sobs eventually ceased, finally slipping into sleep. That was the second last time the boy would cry at the sight of me.

The time I spent on that wall far exceeded my time within my last room. Each day I watched the boy get out of bed and get ready for the day. I heard the histrionics of the morning downstairs, the rushing of feet and the clinking of keys. Each night I heard the calmness and exhaustion that followed the events of the day. I sat above the boy as he slept. He began to notice me less and less. This routine happened much the same as every day, until eventually he was no longer a boy, but a young man. Once during these days of transition he was visited by a young woman. Whilst sitting on the floor, alongside the boy turned young man, she peered up at me. It had been so long since I had been looked at so genuinely. 

“What's that?”

“A painting.”

“But why do you have it?”

“It reminds me of someone.”

Neither said anything for a while, instead only staring at me.

“I hadn’t looked at it in sometime.” He finally said.

“It's in your room though?”

‘’I know. It's just been awhile since I really looked at it.”

“It’s kind of scary.”

“I guess.”

That young woman eventually became fully grown, as did the boy, and they took me with them to my new room. I was placed in much the same position as previous, atop the bed, much to the protests from the woman about how I disturbed her sleep. Though I hated myself no less, I had grown to understand that there was no changing me. I had existed for so long that I knew now that I was who I was, and that I could not be changed. My acceptance only made it slightly more bearable. 

Much the same as I had in my last room, I watched time pass within this one. I watched the two grow older. Saw them grow tired, strained and exhausted. They were still young in age, but something weighed upon them. I wished I could tell them of the joy they filled me with, of the love I felt for them still, after all this time. But I had given up on talking long ago. 

One day from the many I heard them arguing. Their words carried over to my room. The walls were much thinner here.

“We can’t keep going on like this.” 

“I know.”

“It's not just us anymore.”

“I know.”

“We need the money.”

The boy, now man, paused. “I know.” 

The next day I was set outside next to varying items. The sun was hot. I listened to grumbling up and down beside me. Words between people, prices wagered and fought. No one did more than linger a disgusted or perplexed glance at me before moving on. I was filthy, dirty, ugly beyond comprehension. Why had they forced so many eyes unto me when they knew the pain I caused? 

I watched the sun trickle down in the sky and did my best to ignore the pretty people who looked my way. However I couldn’t ignore the man who hoisted me before his face, staring at me blankly. He looked at me for quite some time before the boy, turned man, stood behind him.

“Like it?”

“It's harrowing.”

“I guess.”

“How much for it?”

“I don’t know.”

“How much is it worth?”

“A lot.” 

“It's worth ten.” The woman said. 

“And the rest of the pieces?”

“We'll do them all for a hundred.”

“Deal.” 

I never saw that woman again. I never saw that house again. I never saw that room again. Instead I was thrown into darkness, like every other time, and taken away. Why someone would purchase me, was beyond my grasp. I was worth nothing. In fact, I was a detriment. I was less than nothing.

My new room was much like my first. Dark, dingy and cold. In some ways it was nice to be alone again without any eyes for me to horrify and disturb. Around me were many paintings, adorned with arts the likes of which I had never seen. They were incredible, all works of perfection in their own right. I felt great shame and guilt being lumped with them.

For a very long time I stayed in that room, and not one person intruded. I would hear no voices. Silence was all that held me. This was the existence I had wanted for quite some time, and now that I had it, I felt nothing. The time spent became indeterminable, though it must have been longer than I had been anywhere else in my life, of that I was sure. I thought often of the boy, of the young woman. I didn’t blame them for discarding me. I understood. I was who I was. I wondered what had become of them. Whether they still remained in that house, whether I haunted them still. What they had replaced me with. Something more beautiful than I, of that I was certain.  

One day, my door finally opened. It was the same man who had placed me here, though I could hardly remember his face. He was grey now, much like the man I had first ever looked upon. But he regarded me differently. Without disdain, without reverence. Quite neutrally. Empty. He took me again into that moving dark place. Then I was in a spacious and grey building, being placed upon a wall. People stormed about, ogling me, muttering to each other. I detested it.

This would become my final resting place. Everyday, the same. Today, no different. The same woman as always guiding a gawking entourage of men and women before me. 

“This is ‘His last’, a harrowing piece that reminds us of our own mortality. It depicts the experience of life within its trembling strokes, our struggle to avoid the inevitable end, fighting against the pull of death.”

Shutters click, flashes blind, oohs and ahhs erupt. Then they were gone, much the same as every day. That woman would be back soon enough, along with another group indistinguishable from the last or the next. I would be called harrowing again. I would be reminded of how I depicted death and mortality. I did not wish to say those things. Yet, that was how I was translated. 

People stroll about. Some glance my way, some don’t. Some walk to me, some don't. Some read the little plaque below me, some don't.

There are two who do. An old man, much the same as the first being I ever saw, and a boy, much the same as the being I saw the most. They linger on me for far more than anyone else here ever has. 

“Is that his?” The boy asks.

“It is.” 

The old man's eyes well with tears. 

“Why are you crying?”

“What do you think of it?”

The boy looks at me, pausing. “I love it.”

“As do I.”