Wrong, wrong, it's all

gone so wrong! He yells wordlessly, his soul beyond rational expression, frustration and fear turning into despair at yet another failure. So simple! It used to be so simple, his only difficulty had been affording paint and setting up fresh canvases, but now those seem so trivial. The passion wells up inside him, from weeks of no work, little food, derision and ridicule, all of which he could have managed, if only he could harness it long enough to paint. The connection which had once run so steadily from his heart to his hand, emotion flowing as constantly as blood through his veins, has now severed, leaving his heart to somehow carry it all, immeasurable and insurmountable passion threatening to break open his breastbone and tear him utterly to pieces.
       "Angel..." he mutters, falling to his knees, his pigment-stained hands pressing into the wooden floor, his ragged hair hiding his tormented eyes. "Angel! How dare you desert me now, how could you--- God I would do anything, you swore to me you'd stay, Angelica, you fallen angel you lying bitch, Angel you stole my soul and took it with you to your lover in the flames..."
       He does not know what he speaks aloud and what he keeps locked within, he knows only that his weakened soul can carry this much no longer. He lifts a brush from the table beside his easel, rubbing it violently into the blaze of fiery colors which have consumed his much-abused palette. Hastily he stabs the brush over the already-thick layers of paint on the canvas, the colors smearing together, a mire which devours all. A face emerges in the garish tones, taunting, mocking, a face with haunting beauty but jeering eyes.
       "Angel, why did you change? Angel, God gave you as help to me, were you a spy all the while? Devil, enjoy your flames, but let them rise high enough to consume me too, burn away this exhausted body, I can hold it no longer..."
       Another wordless cry, he grabs the canvas and hurls it against the wall. Once covered in delicate paper, the walls of the room are now dingy with neglect, except where spattered with the vivid tones of paint he prefers - it is evident that such rough physical dismissal of his failures is a common practice. Yet his rage has never boiled so fiercely as now, his heart never set his body aflame in darkness from the inside.
       He is on his knees again, rocking forward and back, sobbing brokenly. "Angel! You betrayed me... God, You hide from me when I need you most! Why give me talent if You will take it from me when it is all that will save my soul from destroying itself? This series was to be to You! Why hide Your face when I was going to show it to all the world? Are you that jealous? Are You that conceited, that a mere human's try at capturing You insults You so much that You would strip him of all ability?"
       Breaking down utterly for a time, he falls to his side on the floor, curling into the form he knew before even breath, knowing nothing but pain. Slowly, his voice returns, creeping faintly around the room, crawling over the unswept floor. "Let the fires consume us both, let all the worst come to me, nothing more can hurt, my heart can hold no more... I see black and red, I see the stars falling from the sky, old beyond their time, worn beyond salvation, I see the ground scarred by their passing. Bare trees shiver, dry grasses whisper, I am alone and without any hope of aid. It is dry here, so dry, the air parches my throat, I am old beyond bearing, my heart has collapsed beneath heavy chains. Lightening crackles but no thunder booms, there is no rain in this barren place. My back is lashed by unseen nine-tails, pain sears weary flesh but still my chest aches deeper. I am split in two. My soul still seeks to rise but it falls, it falls..."
       Unknowingly, his hand closes around a stick of charcoal, and slowly he moves it over the wood floor, his eyes staring blankly at the heavy, intricate lines he is tracing without thought. His hand does not shake, his breath is deep and labored, his blue eyes hazy and indistinct - yet this is no trance, though he longs for it to be, anything to escape...
       "Father..." he chokes out, voice husky from his imagined desertscape. "You abandoned Your Son through His darkest hour, do you thus abandon all Your children? Why promise if You will only break it... Angel, I'm sorry I couldn't promise... Christopher, I'm sorry I couldn't promise, I'm sorry I---" Crying aloud, the charcoal breaks under the sudden pressure he pours into it, he continues his lines without pause, though tears fall freely and blur his careful work. "Why did you believe in me? You believed in nothing but me and I--- Mother I curse you for the pain you brought into the world, Angel I could never let you go through the same... I would paint with my own blood if I thought there was any worth left within it, but I am empty, I am empty. My wings were rotten from within from the moment of my birth, every fruit which touched my lips was only wasted, my blood is poured out into lifeless things, I create only empty vessels which no soul can fill... And I have used blood from beyond this dry husk, and I have called angels but they were only demons that came to me... My life is only darker now for all the light you gave it, I love you I damn you, leave my side while you may, you and your beauty poisoned me, I was drunk and you told me I could live and I believed you but see me now, Christopher, SEE ME NOW!"
       He screams now, his arm leaving its work for a moment and lashing out, knocking bottles from the once-polished end table, its intricate carvings long-filled with ash and dust. Water tangles with alcohols and oils, the charcoal lines blur but do not disappear, the liquids carry small portions of the black dust down to soak in to the thin cracks between the floorboards, there to ever remain. Crawling haltingly, his knees and palms are red from friction and pressure against the hard floor. His hand is blackened from the charcoal, yet he continues to draw, awareness of the spreading image slowly, slowly entering his mind, but still some way from recognition. He is silent for a few minutes, then his voice raises slightly into a low, husky mutter, growing steadily before fading again.
       "Hydras all, when one head is cut down another two rise in its place, and the blood covers my palette, I can paint only in red... soft greens and blues were once enough, but no longer can these tainted hands even touch them. I am no longer what I once was... once, I was worthy of your faith in me. Once, I could have--- I am no more, I am dryness, the stars fall, they seer my empty skin, what I thought you wanted I gave but then you--- What do you want from me?! What can I give, You have taken all, what have I left unto myself? I took more than I gave, and now I am repaid, but I--- I knew I knew I knew I wouldn't hear myself but I knew, Angel! I never wanted to hurt you! But how did you not know he--- Why didn't you stop him from--- Angel I'm so sorry... Hate ties knots far tighter than love, I still wish to--- I do not, I cannot, would that I could--- I can't I can't he gave me all but then took more from me, a devil's bargain at a cheap whorehouse, Angel take your demon and keep him far from me, I don't have the strength anymore... I don't have the strength... My hands... my blindness... heart's death... pain... please, please, I can't... Christopher, you... did you ever love me? Angel I'm sorry... how could I have been so happy then, how could it have fallen away, so wrong... in all things, was I only ever wrong?.."
       His movements are slowing, his words slurring and falling away, his lips and fingers losing the will to move, his breath slowing. The pain begins to cauterize, dull and covered in cloudy obscurity, his thoughts and senses fog and numb, everything is heavy and light. His eyes flutter wearily open in the all-consuming silence, tired and red but managing to focus at last... and he sees on the floor around him an angel... beautiful and sexless... perfect, so perfect, inhuman and perfect... the angel is at peace, its intangible wings encircle his tired frame, he curls up in its charcoal embrace, resting his head on the smudged floor... he feels a breaking within his chest, and all within his heart seeps into the floor... the angel of man's creation has been his salvation... his hand has touched God, though he cannot tighten his grasp on Him... peace is never certain, but lingers a moment, and for now a moment is enough... he has brought forth his own water in tears... he is comforted by his creation, a figure painted sightlessly contains all the beauty his soul has lost...
       He sleeps.