Charles

~~~

Arthur Dove. It's been sixteen days, and now the only clear thoughts in my mind are that of this man.

It's awfully silly - and somewhat worrisome - how easily my mind has become completely infatuated with him. I'm almost as obsessive as my father was with the throne. And yet, I do believe there's a reasonable explanation for it: I think this is simply because he's the first person I've seen in a while, and he is also slowly becoming my friend. It's reasonable to be worried about a friend, isn't it?

And yet, although we're quite well acquainted now, Arthur somehow remains a mystery to be solved. Between his soft and elegant, almost woman-like demeanor, and his apparent inexplicable hate towards his own work, he seems to be quite a peculiar fellow.

Never in my life have I seen a person be so disappointed in their mainly perfect creation. Is he a perfectionist? Or did he have a different desired outcome in mind, and was disappointed when it turned out different? All are valid options, but I don't think that's what actually happened in his head upon seeing his final product. I want to ask him about it, but then again - I don't want to intrude into his personal thoughts and feelings. He seems to have been living alone for a long time, and, despite his bright and friendly personality, I think he's gotten used to keeping all his inner workings to himself.

I think I'm also learning to do so.

Before the whole fire ordeal, I was a quite talkative person. I enjoyed boasting, and having constant chatter and banter with people who were in my company back then. Nowadays, I don't feel the constant need to talk anymore. For example, yesterday with Arthur. It was enough for me to know he was there, and I didn't even think of starting up a conversation. There was a feeling of quiet comfort and satisfaction.

But then Arthur went into his tantrum, and the moment shattered like all the windows during the fire, bursting from all the heat that was collected inside.

It looked like it was raining crystals, that glowed with the reflections of the raging flames.

One might even say, flames raging like Arthur Dove raged yesterday. But to me, he seems more like a bird that's caught in the flames, while I helplessly look at it from outside. But why do I feel so drawn into the fire, too? Why do I hear him call to follow the burning bird? To burn together with him?

There's so much within me right now, I feel like there's a storm in my soul. I don't think I'm capable of deciphering and understanding these feelings and desires that burn within me. Not alone, at least.

He's quite the tragic person, in all honesty. And I myself appear to have secretly been a romantic one.

How peculiar.

~~~

I went to visit Arthur today... again.

Since the door was closed, I first checked if he was sitting in the garden behind the house, but upon discovering that it was empty, I returned to the front and knocked on the spruce door.

Arthur's voice, muffled by the layers, called out to me to come in.

He was sitting by one of the windows facing the lake. As he looked back at me, his blue-eyed gaze seemed sad, but he still made the effort to stretch his soft rosy lips into a small smile.

He was wearing a simple white sleep-robe, and I could see his slim legs partially bent underneath himself. They were so smooth, almost like a woman's.

From the way Arthur dresses, it would seem like he doesn't mind large amounts of skin being seen, even though such an image may seem quite intimate.

Upon me inquiring about his well-being, he dismissed my concerns with a light-handed wave. Completely ignoring my question, he requested that I sit with him for a while and simply enjoy each other's company.

Knowing his state, I agreed, and sat on a chair opposite the table to him.

As he leaned on his arms - bare up to the elbows - Arthur gazed back out the window.

It was a clear day, with the sky endlessly blue like his eyes, and we could see part of his garden with the background of the gaping blackness that was the lake.

By the time I returned my vision to Dove, I realised he's been eyeing me for a few minutes now.

Then he opened those lips of his again. He asked if there was a girl somewhere that was waiting for me. The last girl that I had courted - I think her name was Bella, or something along those lines, - was left heartbroken by me and my lack of genuine love for her, and I never bothered to find anyone else. Hence, I answered negatively, but I think the quickness of my answer might have put him off somehow, as his expression was suddenly that of surprise. With a soft, almost stunned laugh, he asked if, instead of a girl, there was a gentleman somewhere out there for me. An image of his slim, pale legs came suddenly and inexplicably to my mind, but I dismissed it quickly. I answered, my cheeks burning red, that there wasn't - and it wasn't a lie, but I'm not sure if he believed me.

He gave me a questioning look, as if urging me to trust him and go on, explain why, but I just shook my head. There were some things that I simply wasn't bothered to think of back then - romance seemed so dull and insignificant when compared to the grandiose of my murderous scheme, which had become my monomania. And if I was to explain my lack of interest in women, thus denying his suspicions of my Sapphic nature, I'd also have to reveal my crimes. I don't think I trust him enough to do that yet,- or maybe it's just that I'm scared that such a revelation might ruin our friendship.

However, my unwillingness to expand on the subject earned me a rather suspicious look from him. His eyes didn't yield his thoughts, and I'm still wondering what he was thinking back there. His interest seemed to have even further increased upon the mention of the possibility of my homoeroticism.

To turn Arthurs interest away from my past, I asked about his own romantic experiences, but he just laughed softly and shook his head. He said there had been someone, once, but to him it seemed like a hundred years had passed since then.

I didn't want to force him to talk, as he didn't force me, but something tells me he lied, as his icy eyes filled with such deep sadness that, for a moment, I thought I might drown in them. A pang of jealousy hit me right then. Jealousy? Yes, but why? What am I jealous of? My mind doesn't seem to be able to comprehend this, but then again - I won't be calm until I figure it out.

It's been seventeen days since all that dirty business that I no longer want to mention.