SHADOWS OF A GENIUS

The room is a tomb, its stillness suffocating, heavy with the scent of old books that have long surrendered their stories to the relentless march of time. The air is stale, thick with the weight of forgotten dreams, and every breath feels like an intrusion, an unwelcome disturbance in a place where silence reigns supreme. Dust clings to every surface, a fine gray blanket that dulls the once-sharp edges of my creations, now reduced to mere artifacts of a past that feels increasingly distant. A past where I was a titan of innovation, a master of electricity, and now, a prisoner of my own mind.

The candle on my desk struggles to hold its flame, flickering weakly as if it is on the verge of giving up. Its light is feeble, barely more than a wisp, casting long, twisted shadows that dance mockingly across the walls. Each shadow is a reminder, a cruel reflection of the chaos within me, the thoughts that twist and writhe, elusive and insubstantial. Once so steady and sure, my hand trembles as I reach for the pencil—an object that feels strangely foreign as if it belongs to another life, another man. He was a beacon of innovation and a pioneer of electricity.

What's the point, Nikola? The voice slithers through my mind, cold and venomous, a serpent winding its way through the darkest corners of my thoughts. It hisses doubts, each one a sharp, stinging barb that digs deep, festering in the wounds that never truly healed. You've given them everything, and what have you received in return? Nothing. Forgotten, abandoned, you are nothing more than a relic of a time that has moved on without you.

I shut my eyes, trying to block out the voice, but it is futile. The words seep through relentlessly, like water through cracks in a dam. They press down on me, a crushing weight that drags me deeper into the abyss of my own despair. The chair beneath me creaks under the strain as if it, too, is struggling to bear the burden of my anguish.

They laughed at you, the voice continued, unyielding, each word sharp as a knife. Your visions of wireless electricity? A fool's dream. What are your aspirations for free energy? A fantasy. Wardenclyffe, the grand monument to your genius, is now a tombstone to your failures.

"No," I whisper, barely more than a breath, swallowed by the suffocating silence surrounding me. "I'm not done yet. I can still—"

Still what? The voice cuts me off, its tone dripping with disdain. You're too old, too worn out. Your mind is slipping away, Nikola. The equations that once danced at your fingertips now elude you. How long before even your own name escapes you?

A cold sweat breaks out on my brow, my heart pounding so violently it feels like it might tear through my chest. Fear grips me, a beast with sharp claws that tear at my insides, growing stronger with each frantic beat of my heart. The pencil slips from my grasp, clattering to the floor with a sound that echoes endlessly in the stillness, a sound that reverberates through the hollow emptiness of the room—and of myself. I stare at it, paralyzed, unable to shake the gnawing dread that I am losing myself, piece by piece, to the encroaching darkness.

"E = mc²," I mutter, the formula a lifeline, a desperate grasp at the familiar. "Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared. It's simple, it's—"

But it's not yours, the voice sneers, the words laced with cruel amusement. That's Einstein's equation, not yours. He is the one they remember, the one they celebrate. You? You're just a footnote in the annals of history, a curiosity, a madman whose ideas were too grand, too impossible.

My legs are weak as I force myself to stand, the floor beneath me shifting like the deck of a ship in a storm. I stagger toward the window, desperate for air, to escape from this room's stifling confines—this prison I have built with my hands. Below, the city sprawls out in a sea of lights, each one a beacon of life, progress, a world that moves forward with or without me. The Empire State Building stands tall in the distance, its pinnacle piercing the night sky, a monument to human achievement that mocks my own stagnation.

There is so much light, and none of it is mine. The thought strikes me like a hammer, and I press my forehead against the cool glass, the city's glow a distant, unattainable star. The electricity that powers these lights, that fuels this city, is not my creation. It's not mine.

They've moved on, the voice whispers, softer now, almost a caress in its cruelty. You're alone, Nikola. You've always been alone.

The truth of it washes over me, a wave of despair that threatens to drag me under. Even at the height of my success, I was alone, isolated by the brilliance that set me apart. My ideas, too far ahead of their time, were the walls that separated me from the world—a world that could not comprehend the future I saw so clearly. And now, in the end, I am left with nothing but the shadows of what might have been. But these shadows, they are mine. They are the price of my genius, the cost of seeing the world not as it is but as it could be.

"Electricity," I murmur, the word a hollow echo, a desperate plea. "It connects, but it also divides. The current flows, but the wires remain separated, distant."

I turn away from the window, the city's light fading behind me as the room's darkness closes in. The papers on my desk, the equations scrawled across them, are meaningless, incomprehensible, as foreign to me now as the pencil I once wielded with such certainty. Once a symphony of clarity, my thoughts are now a discordant jumble, slipping through my fingers like sand.

You've failed, the voice declares, final and unyielding. And this time, I cannot fight it. The words settle into my bones, a chill that spreads through me, numbing me to the core. I dedicated my life to bringing light to the world, and in doing so, I have cast myself into the deepest shadows.

I collapse into the chair, the wood creaking in protest as it bears the weight of my surrender. The candle flickers, its flame sputtering as though it had given up. My hands tremble uncontrollably as I pick up the pencil again, the simple act feeling wrong and alien, as though I am holding a remnant of a life that no longer belongs to me.

Why keep fighting? The voice asks, almost tender now, coaxing me toward the abyss. Why continue to struggle against the inevitable? Let go, Nikola. You've done enough.

I stare at the blank page before me, the pencil hovering just above it, but the words will not come. The equations and ideas are all tangled, lost in the fog that clouds my mind. A tear slips down my cheek, the overwhelming loneliness and despair a flood that threatens to drown me.

"I am Nikola Tesla," I whisper, but the words are hollow, a mere echo of a name that once held power and now feels like a stranger. I was Nikola Tesla, and I corrected myself silently. But who am I now?

I look around the room at the piles of papers, the broken machines, the remnants of a life spent chasing after something greater than myself. But all I see are the failures, missed opportunities, and crumbling dreams. The voices of my critics and detractors echo in my mind, mingling with the insidious whispers of doubt that have become my constant companions.

It's over, I think, the realization settling over me like a shroud. I'm done.

And yet, even as the darkness threatens to swallow me whole, a faint spark of defiance flickers deep within me. I'm not done. I tell myself; the words are barely a whisper, but they are there, nonetheless. There is still work to be done. Still, ideas that need to be brought to life.

I held the pencil, my hand trembling as I write. The symbols on the page are fragmented and disjointed, but they are there. The darkness presses in, the walls closing tighter with every breath, but I keep writing, keep pushing forward, even as the despair gnaws at the edges of my mind, even as the voice whispers its doubts and taunts.

The candle's light fades, the shadows lengthening, but still, I write. The pencil moves across the paper, a desperate act of creation in the face of encroaching oblivion.

"I am Nikola Tesla," I tell myself again, the words a fragile defense against the void. "And I'm not finished yet."