Till Human Voices Wake Us: Last Part: Page 175 - Page 47

Note: Interlude which probably answers half of the questions. Kind of bittersweet to write this as it means the story is coming to an end. Questions are welcome..

Interlude III

The three were one and one was three but when the fourth arrived, chaos ensued. The place was set for three but the fourth tipped the balance. The artist collapsed at the revelation of the miscalculation. It was a time when the moon was dead and night queen bloomed, darkness prevailed and humans slept. The order to the chaos arrived during the darkest time of the night.

Night; with that, there was a light in the artist's heart.

The walls were made bare, fresh set of paints were purchased and the charcoal found itself in its owner's hand again. Days died and nights evolved and they reincarnated back to days again. The artist paints with black and red, charcoal and blood. The angels cry tears of blood, wings black as the ones of bat and feet bare standing at a gate. The artist knew what lay on the other side; its heat always mocking and the blazes of fire beckoning.

The artist wore the mask and smiled at the person selling telescopic camera, making a joke about being a hobby photographer who photographed birds on air and insects in the wild. The first photo he took was of the one whose lonely face hid between exquisite clothes and whose eyes were lonely as the mannequins of her store. "My Megaera" The words are like a prayer and the artist unknowingly tears up in contentment. Sixteen months later, fury replaces tenderness and the worshiping hands encounter uncontrollable rage and pierce a blade in her chest till the pain inflected heart relaxes with each stab.

There was blaze in her eyes, there was fire on her tongue and when she spoke, the words burned everything it touched; hearts, minds and souls. He first ignored the raging fire as mere warmth and venomous words as curse of a jilted lover. But innocent young-ling devoid of life had burst his heart in agony. The desire to make her enter the gates overwhelmed everything but before he could do so, someone had already shown her the path.

He howls in torment when he is robbed of his chance to open the gates for the second one too. The suffocation of letting it go out of his hands makes him turn his place upside down. The cut in his hand is still fresh and the blood turns him on. His bloodied palm traces a path on the third angel on the wall leaving a bloodied print in its wake. He kisses the sketch and mourns at the loss of another one. He cries in despair not because what he was about to do but because of what she had become.

They say third time is the charm.

His bloodied hands solemnly agree.