An Artist gets out of his bed with wine stained sheets, and grabs a canvas and paint from his desk and sets them on an easel, as he does this the floor begins to crack and fall in to a dark, black, abyss.
The Artist falls into the black void and as he falls, a flurry of cuts cover his wrists and legs, blood covers the ground as he hits with a loud thud. “Where am I?” The Artist weezed as he studied this place. “It looks like my home but… twisted, is this even reality or is it a dream?” he asks himself. He limps to a window we’re he sees flames around a car, he sees a paramedic performing cpr on his 2 kids before placing there limp bodies on a stretcher and pacing a sheet over there face.
“No, noooo!” the Artist yells as his fist hits the window, he remembered his past, he was driving home with his kids and he was drinking whisky in his left hand and the wheel in his right he tried to swerve and dodge but his driving skills failed him as a truck hit his car head on. The Artist cried and sobbed yet no help came the car flaming outside. The Artist passed out of exhaustion.
Surprisingly a soft gold stuffed dog licked the Artist’s face and the feeling woke him up. “Hey there little guy,” he whispers as he pets the pup on the head. As he does this a rush of memory’s enter his mind of his past, him as a child embracing his toy a gold stuffed dog. “Hey I remember you, your my old stuffed animal!” the Artist says with some hint of joy in his heart,
“Hey! I’m not old I’m only 8 and you’re 34 so ha!” the stuffed animal said happily, so the new (and old) friends walked and talked about this strange world yet it didn’t seem odd to the Artist that he was talking with his stuffed toy. This is like the Artist’s own mind windows into the past and a curtain over the forgotten ones. The walls are dark mahogany and deep purple with works of wonderful art hang on the walls, this is the first time
The Artist had time to stop think of what was happening. “So where are we?” the Artist asked.
“Well old friend this is your mind, your thoughts,” the stuffed dog said. So the Artist was right, this is his mind, his thoughts.
“So what’s your name anyway? I’ve forgot over the years.” The Artist asked his stuffed pup.
“Look” the dog said as it points to the window with no curtains like most of them.
The window shows a baby playing in a crib no younger than 1 holding a stuffed dog of light gold and soft to the touch the baby uttered his first word
“Princess” as he hugged the stuffed dog. “So that means your name princess?” The Artist taunted.
“Well yes but umm… well you’re not a dog so ha!” Princess mocked. (yet failing at it.)
They walk into a gray part of this never ending corridor there seems to be rain dripping from the ceiling. Puddles littered the ground of and water glistened on the walls. The Artist pulled back a curtain on a nearby wall. Behold him was a grim sight, His wife hanged from a thick rope slowly hanging from the towel hooks in the bathroom a note sat on the ground by the window along with a red rose and a picture of her once kind and calm face. Now her face was sad and littered with agony. Trembling the Artist picks up the note tears stained the worn paper It read.
My love I am sorry but a can not bear the thought of us living with two graves in our backyard so I must take my own life for I cannot live in this hell that you call life, scatter my ashes in the wind of a farm so I may descend into the earth, please, my love, complete my final wish.
Your love, Martalel
Tears now streamed his face his knees gave out and he fell to the ground and curled up in a ball, his beloved childhood toy curled up beside him. The Artist had dreams of his past. Flashes of memories running, dancing in his mind
“honey I’m home!” The Artist said as he happily walked into his home, there was only silence. “She must be asleep.” He thought as he stepped up the stairs and cracked open the door. “Nope Well maybe she’s in the bathroom.” The Artist thought as he opened the unlocked bathroom door “That’s weird she always locks the door,” the Artist states as he opens the door and sees it his wife hanging from a noose tied to a towel hook. Shocked the Artist quickly grabs his phone and calls 911,
“911 what’s your emergency?” The operator asked.
“M-my wife’s dead! She’s in the bathroom at 25630 on Elm Street!” the Artist yelled.
“Ok the police are on there way.” The operator said. The Artist looked around the home looking for a weapon he see a butcher knife on the counter. He grabs the wood handle and looks at the blade, sharp and simple he presses the blade to his wrists and warm blood trickled down his arm, tears stung the wounds. The police kicked the door down and searched the area they called the paramedics to take away the Artist's wife and then they entered the kitchen where they found a horrible sight a man on the ground tears streaming from his eyes and blood trickled down his arms. The police wrapped up his cuts and set him in the ambulance to question him.
“Tell us what happened.” The officer asked
“I-i came H-home and my wife was there but s-she was dead,” The Artist stamerd.
“Ok well let’s just take you to the hospital where we can help get those cuts healed up. Ok?” The officer said,
“O-ok,” The Artist stutterd as he got in the police car.
The Artist woke up in the Gray corridor his gold dog yellow and torn as if forgotten by the ages. “The dog utters her last words, “forgive yourself. The Artist did what his dog told him to, slowly but he did and as he did he went back to reality.
The Artist lays in his hospital bed with blood stained sheets. On a table beside the bed there was a gray folder inside it read.
Name: Acceptatio Dolor
Date of birth: 1923
Diagnosed with: Schizophrenia