Apollus
Apollus
...and wait he did. His following depression consumed him, consumed his entirety. He stopped painting; his inspiration had left him. He stayed in his home almost all day. He hardly ever ate, and only slept when his sobs put him to sleep.
As every day passed, his sadness rendered him empty inside. He felt nothing, expressed no emotion, except when he saw Calanthe sitting in her pew every Sunday. What he did feel then was a burning inside his chest, a heaviness in his stomach. These sensations emerged slowly, taking over his body until they stayed for hours on end.
He had become so accustomed to living this way that he had, in a strange way, learned to be content in it. He slowly began to eat a little more than he was used to. He painted again, but only upon request, and hardly anyone dared to speak to him. The few times he did sleep were occasionally dreamless, and he only had a few nightmares. He had learned to laugh quietly, to smile falsely. Everyone around him believed he was happy. Nobody saw the crashing waves of heavy burning hit him as he gazed at Calanthe's beauty. Nobody saw the tears he continued to shed nearly every night.
Apollus realized he could never love her after what she did to him, but he was completely altered by her. He never believed he would ever be the same again.
Then, one day, as he was going to buy supplies (he had an order to do), he saw the beautiful pale arm around a man's arm. A man he knew. His name was Josiah. Apollus stopped dead in his tracks. He watched in horror as he and Calanthe's lips met...
His world... crashing... the sky and the ground falling off and fading into darkness, Josiah and Calanthe the only thing visible against the blackness... The vision warping, turning her peaceful face into a wicked lustful smile, an evil glance into Apollus' eyes... Josiah's hands wandering, his teeth biting her lip...
It made Apollus sick. He felt tears swell in his eyes, and the burning in his chest felt as if it were a fire spreading to his whole body, setting him ablaze with pain.
He turned completely around and walked home quickly without stopping. When he closed the door behind him, he fell with his face to the ground, sobbing hopelessly.
Josiah was so much better than he was. Of course Calanthe would love him. He would make her so much happier than Apollus ever could.
Apollus continued to cry and quietly abuse himself the rest of the day until he fell asleep in his distorted position.
As the morning light struck his eyelids, Apollus painfully rose. He sluggishly carried himself to his bathroom to bathe. He got undressed and looked at himself in the mirror. He brushed his long unkempt hair back and rubbed his red eyes. He splashed cold water on his face and blinked, looking hard at his own reflection.
"What... am I doing?" he suddenly said out loud. He had an epiphany.
"Who am I? I am Apollus, the painter. Yet I am not painting. I am not painting because I am not happy. And I'm not happy... because one woman slept with me and prefers another man. I know I can never love her. She will never love me. Yet... here I am. Sick. Empty. Wasting my breath! Wasting time that could be spent doing what I was born to do!" he said aloud, triumphantly.
He bathed and got dressed. Sketchbook and pencil in hand, he went outside.
As every day passed, his sadness rendered him empty inside. He felt nothing, expressed no emotion, except when he saw Calanthe sitting in her pew every Sunday. What he did feel then was a burning inside his chest, a heaviness in his stomach. These sensations emerged slowly, taking over his body until they stayed for hours on end.
He had become so accustomed to living this way that he had, in a strange way, learned to be content in it. He slowly began to eat a little more than he was used to. He painted again, but only upon request, and hardly anyone dared to speak to him. The few times he did sleep were occasionally dreamless, and he only had a few nightmares. He had learned to laugh quietly, to smile falsely. Everyone around him believed he was happy. Nobody saw the crashing waves of heavy burning hit him as he gazed at Calanthe's beauty. Nobody saw the tears he continued to shed nearly every night.
Apollus realized he could never love her after what she did to him, but he was completely altered by her. He never believed he would ever be the same again.
Then, one day, as he was going to buy supplies (he had an order to do), he saw the beautiful pale arm around a man's arm. A man he knew. His name was Josiah. Apollus stopped dead in his tracks. He watched in horror as he and Calanthe's lips met...
His world... crashing... the sky and the ground falling off and fading into darkness, Josiah and Calanthe the only thing visible against the blackness... The vision warping, turning her peaceful face into a wicked lustful smile, an evil glance into Apollus' eyes... Josiah's hands wandering, his teeth biting her lip...
It made Apollus sick. He felt tears swell in his eyes, and the burning in his chest felt as if it were a fire spreading to his whole body, setting him ablaze with pain.
He turned completely around and walked home quickly without stopping. When he closed the door behind him, he fell with his face to the ground, sobbing hopelessly.
Josiah was so much better than he was. Of course Calanthe would love him. He would make her so much happier than Apollus ever could.
Apollus continued to cry and quietly abuse himself the rest of the day until he fell asleep in his distorted position.
As the morning light struck his eyelids, Apollus painfully rose. He sluggishly carried himself to his bathroom to bathe. He got undressed and looked at himself in the mirror. He brushed his long unkempt hair back and rubbed his red eyes. He splashed cold water on his face and blinked, looking hard at his own reflection.
"What... am I doing?" he suddenly said out loud. He had an epiphany.
"Who am I? I am Apollus, the painter. Yet I am not painting. I am not painting because I am not happy. And I'm not happy... because one woman slept with me and prefers another man. I know I can never love her. She will never love me. Yet... here I am. Sick. Empty. Wasting my breath! Wasting time that could be spent doing what I was born to do!" he said aloud, triumphantly.
He bathed and got dressed. Sketchbook and pencil in hand, he went outside.