The Twisted Soulmates

Fear. Anticipation. A bubbly rage. These are all what people normally feel when looking at the “The Twisted Soulmates” painted by Sir Arthur Stall many many years ago. They say the painting was one of his last. That you could feel the pure devotion to the painting poured into every brushstroke. The last work of a dead man. The call for help as his insanity slowly took over. They say the night he finished the last stroke the same night he took his last breath. 

You could just almost feel what he felt that night. The high of a long awaited accomplishment. You imagine he took a breath in at the last stroke, then slowly signed at the final picture. You imagine he took a step back and nodded his head, mind set on what was about to happen that night. Happy it was all over. With that on his mind and the high of a finished work, you imagined he was content for the next couple of hours. About as content you could be when you planned to die that very night.  

When the clock struck five-thirty, you imagined he knew it was time. He pulled himself out of bed and he had not gotten any sleep for it hadn’t mattered. You could imagine the click of his boots on the stone of the road. The few people walking pass, unknowingly being the last to see him alive. As he climbed the rail of the bridge, you imagin a soft humming tune falling from his lips. Maybe one from his mother or a tune he heard in town. The sun rose, you could see the bright yellow melting into an orangey-red. You could feel the nippy cold air hitting the exposed skin of your face and hand. You could image the sigh leaving his lips, the dangling feeling of his foot in the air as he tested the waters. Then you could feel the air brush past your face as he leaps off of the rail. Then, you like to assume he fell with a smile as no one heard screams. The water rushes past his body, freezing and unforgiving. Then, you imagine a hit to the head and everything goes black. No more Sir Arthur Stall. 

You hoped he felt peace after death. As he was tortured enough in life, but people seem to believe that his soul was trapped into the very seams of the painting “The Twisted Soulmates”. That the very emotional tie he had connected him to the earth even in death. They call the painting cursed. A magnet of paranormal energy. 

Some even believed that Sir Arthur painted it for a secret lover. A star crossed, hidden love story. Fueled purely by the name and mystery surrounded by the painting. You rolled your eyes at that rumor. Why must the hopeless romantics make everything about love? You saw it for what it really was in your eyes. A call for help. A reason to live. A man's dying accomplishment. Why take something away from what it really was? Especially when it was as important as the painting. Why twist such things? You never understood why. You never understood why you cared so much either, but it seemed at the very moment you saw the painting it was all you could think about. It seemed you breathed and lived for that very painting. 

The mystery around not only the painting but Sir Arthur's death drove you to find every piece of information you could find. The more you found out the more you wanted to know. The more answers you had the more questions you added to your seemingly never ending list. The deeper you got the more you pushed into Sir Arthur's psyche. The more you pushed the more became like (what you thought) he was. To you, he and you were one in the same. Sir Arthur became your reason to live. He could not, so you did. You lived for him, and only him. Nothing else mattered. He was your savior, no matter if he was alive or dead. No matter if he was tied to the painting or if he was free in the heavens or whatever the afterlife had in store. 

He was yours and you were his. The longing to see the painting in person grew everyday. It grew to a twisted desire. Pulling and scratching. If you couldn’t meet him the painting would have to do. It seemed to be made with his very soul, so it may not have been technically him but it was still him to you. So, when the opportunity arose, you took it the first chance you got. You stood at the doors of the art museum. Waiting and hoping it would be everything and more. Everyday you work for this very moment. To be face-to-face with the very soul of him, after all he was your reason to live and breathe. 

Opening the door with a shaky hand, you took a deep breath just like you imagined he did before jumping off the rail. The image that seems to forever repeat in your thoughts and dreams. The clicking of your steps sounds like his against the stone of the road. You feel the rush, the unmistakable high. Blood rushes to your ears, roaring ensues. You didn’t like that. You never imagined Sir Arthur with roaring in his ears, and after all you were one in the same, weren’t you? 

Humming a tune, just like him, you tried to drown out the roaring of the blood in your ears. Everything had to be perfect or… Well you didn’t want to think if everything wasn’t perfect because you and him were the same so he would make everything perfect for you because of your faithful devotion.  

Finally you find it. The painting worth your whole life and more. The savior of you. The call of a dying man, but something is wrong. It doesn’t look right. It wasn’t perfect. Why wasn’t it perfect? A hot fiery rage bubbly and clawing at you. Your mind screamed. WHY WASN’T IT PERFECT? AFTER ALL YOUR DEVOTION? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ONE IN THE SAME!

That when you hear snapping and yelling. As everything overwhelms you, you hand reach you head pulling hair, pushing against your head. You wanted everything to just stop. As you shook your head the room shifted, no longer a beautiful museum full of art but a white plain room. You no longer stood in front of the painting but pushed into a cold hard corner face-to-face with me. 

You stared confused. Red and fiery inflamed scratches lined your arms and face. You screamed, “WHERE’S MY PAINTING?” Moving to claw at me you continued, “WHAT DID YOU DO” you paused to screech at me “MY PERFECT PAIN-” cut off as you blacked out, just like Sir Arthur. At that thought you let the darkness take you, smile on your face like you imagined him to have. 

I signed as I knew the blacking out wouldn’t kill you, as I knew you thought it would. It was just a sedative, nothing deadly but I didn’t mention that for two reasons. One you would have not liked the difference between you and him and two you were already slumbering. SIgning, I picked you up carefully to make sure your hospital gown didn’t rise. Setting you on your bed, I pulled the blanket over you hoping to offer some type of compassion to you even if you were asleep and wouldn’t remember this interaction. 

Straightening my doctor white coat, I stood up wishing I didn’t have to understand everything about you. Your delusions. Your obsessions. Everything. Closing the door behind me, I slid down the door breathing deeply. I have done this same process many times now. The higher ups wanted me to help you but I can’t and I’m sorry. If I can”t help you they are gonna kill you on grounds of public safety or something. The stupidest thing I’d ever heard but I nodded my head in determination. I peeled myself off the floor, I’d do the same thing everyday if I had to to help you.