Cured Blessing

Sound-color synesthesia invaded the minds of many artists as a cursed blessing. Caius loved his perceptual phenomenon, but that was before the overwhelming nonsense corrupted his entire identity. Caius’ strokes of the hog bristles left streaks of densely hued oils across the cotton canvas, but his ears found more. The blues’ serene chords blended into black’s rambunctious pounding. The red’s deep thumps bled to become orange’s lively plucking. He played rather than painted the face he’d done so many times before. Caius knew where the outlines of their skin changed from carefree to pensive, and it used to intrigue him before it became a nuisance to ponder, so now it lay untouched in the back of his mind. Caius heard their constant song again, making his studio one song louder as it joined the chorus of canvases collected in his studio. Their voice was a little pitchy with all of the mixing sounds combining into a melting pot of battling tones. Caius placed his brush down and grimaced at the singer before untying his apron and setting the creation next to his other forms of the same. He breathed deep and stared, for he wanted more, but his hands sang no other image other than this consistent cry.

 Caius left the room, shutting out the unharmonized song. The man shut the door while gently nudging his Havana brown cat, Arla away from the entrance. He travelled further into his dark home, decorated to have minimal vividity, hoping to quiet the range of chimes. His days were mediocre, or beige, much like his furniture. He lay upon the plush, hushed murmur and closed his eyes, relishing in the rare silence. A piercing shriek startled Caius. He opened his eyes to find spilt acrylic in the most obnoxious yellow covering the coat of Arla whose yowls paled in comparison to the paint already beginning to dry. Caius rapidly scooped up the cat and rushed to plop her in his closed-in shower before running to scrub his conveniently placed wood tile clean as he attempted to ignore the sharp ringing it played for him, which slid to a groan as the shade smudged into the ground and rag with the chosen cleaner. Later leaving the bathroom with an angry feline and a number of lines radiating a persistent timbre across his skin, Cauis walked to find what had happened, curious as to how Arla had passed the closed door. 

Cauis found the door shut, which is indeed how he left it, but with the caution the artist took to keep all supplies locked inside, surprise still lingered in his lungs as to how paint found Arla’s back. He opened the door and was bombarded by the returning chorus. Caius squinted from the headache and quickly found the paint splattered across the tarp below his workspace. Wiping hurriedly, the man felt the shrieks practically pierce his skin, but he couldn’t help but listen, for what a story the waves carried to his ears. With the hue atop his fingernails, Caius moved to his newest work and stared at the figure, observing the expressions overlapping one another in color and sound. His hands moved and glided over the textured surface, adding thin lines like curved sun rays upon their face. The shrieks blended into the choir, acting as a middle-man to the yelps and moans.

The music was harmonious. It was different and bright, and it was lovely. Caius stepped back and willed himself to refrain from blinking, afraid the music would leave him. 

“What have you done to me?”

Caius sprung straight and unnerved, his heart beating fast. His head swiveled to the direction of the multi-toned question. His eyes landed on a canvas with a majority dark green and electric blue, a paradox of somber serenity. 

“It’s too much for me.”

His eyes bounced to the admitting rust and butterscotch paints, crying with obnoxious wails. The chorus started again, sounding more upset than usual, but the lines of the figure turned sharper with their frustration and curved to follow their pleas. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Caius stated, more to himself, for speaking to his own paintings was absurd. 

“Trapping us in your boxed arts. Monster! Free me!” the paintings demanded in unison. Caius turned around and shut his eyes, and the shouts became whispers, but refused relention. Sobs broke through his futile attempt.

“Please. We’re tired of it.” A hiccup of a flute blew to Caius’ eardrums, causing the artist to face his piece. The oils and newly added acrylic blended as the image’s tears ran down the canvas. The lemon yellow mixed with the violet to create a rusted brown, choked cries releasing the clear melody. 

“What can I do?” Caius pondered aloud, waiting for guidance of any sort. All of the painted eyes darted to the brushes left beside the covered paints. Caius stepped towards the object of their gaze and held it in his hand. Their silence alluding to the obvious task, the artist returned to his easel with a fresh canvas and opened colors surrounding him, sounds pouring as their lids were lifted. Caius went to look back to his watchers, but a force upon his head kept his gaze in front.

“Refrain,” navy blue commanded. Caius blinked and dipped the dampened bristles before beginning his usual process. He chose the colors which sang the clearest, the ones which layered rather than covered. His lines were automatic until his thoughts caught up with him. He questioned what he was doing, for he’s made this picture umpteen times prior. What would this new addition do?

A hand lifted his wrist and carried it across the blank surface, their malleable grip growing slightly firmer when he flinched in surprise. His ears recognized the hand and their slender fingers outlined in a bouncing fuschia. 

“Keep going,” army green encouraged as the hand pulled away, leaving damp oils upon his wrist. His hand continued the sweeping motions, yet his gaze drifted to the choir ahead. The sounds clashed louder, and the brush came to a hilted stop as their cries of plum screeched against the screams of chartreuse. 

“Focus,” gray urged, pulling Caius’ vision back to the task at hand. The battle was consistent and loud, as was the stubbornness pushing him to continue.

The new painting sang a slowed tempo of diluted hues. With a final stroke, the studio fell into an unsettling stillness as the cries were replaced by a resonant hum that vibrated through Caius’ mind, sending bumps over his spine. The man eyed his new creation and found an image of himself which differed from the other copies of his eyes which watched from the other side of the room. The difference in these still wet eyes was the stare of the oils placed inside of them. His drawn eyes were afraid and crimson. 

Caius peered over and found the collection of himself. He or they held a gaze which altered into a monotonous expression paired with a single low note. His oil-drawn fist found him again, a heavy hand demanding his attention. 

“Accept it,” gold recommended. Their colors blended into a single oppressive shade that suffocated the artist, drowning his mind with curiosity for his own destruction. Caius had done nothing but join his own symphony of caged anxiety, binding himself to his painted prisoners.