It is due to the integrity of my cynicism that all art wrung to life by my hand still breathes amidst this confinement.

   It does so quietly, yet carries the kind of tension that could only be encapsulated in the idea of some beast sleeping beneath the hovering of my footsteps along the crackling floorboards of the attic; and it stares, as it always meant to. My locked door and the tall staircase that still lurks behind it appear to be taunting me now more than ever. The Gods remain begrudging in Their proximity.

   They are everywhere, standing tall on all four walls, framed by bronze, polished with silver. Not gold. Never gold. They once called it a deceit, spat cruel words full of judgement and dismay from Their thrones of shadow, and each of Their snickering taunts brought me to and over the edge of self-doubt, made me set my first and only gilded painting aflame. The God depicted on it died, of course, in slow and scorching torment. As punishment, for there always is one in this attic, the Others decided for Him to be vindictive as He was reborn through me. Completing His second painting led to half of my left hand being covered in dark, blistering burns, with two of my fingers discolored and decayed, ugly, deceased flesh sticking out in sharp edges like useless, blackened rubber. The gem-like gaze of my ring still carried its dim shine, an unchanging reminder of what could have been, and I cried as I completed the God’s portrait. This time, my tears He accepted.

   It was then that I saw it clearly; They have weaponized death. They will continue to speak of it in Their sacred tongue, to balance it over Their carefully painted fingertips, to feed on it like starved mortals and spit it back out as though it were poison in Their wine, for as many months or years or centuries it stays close to the frames of the portraits They reside in. Submitting to it will have to come last, if at all.

   It is a sharp weapon, and drawn with a thirst for bloodshed. It is the worship that I cannot even claim to be entrapped by, for I have been the one to turn to it.

   Even so, there is no shelter in this makeshift church, no peace or comfort in my devotion.

   I lay against the tattered mattress with the key for my locked door cupped in my scorched hand, practice clenching my fist around it, and feel grateful that I still have one good hand to hold my brush with. How long, I wonder, how long until I lose my connection to the one thing I was brought on this earth to do? How long until I am of no true use, both to Them and to myself?

   I catch myself thinking it again; to be bereaved of inspiration is a death more heartrending than the deprivation of life, and I hope it is the latter that comes first.

   The voices carry on downstairs.

   The eclectic preparations in the rehearsals of impassioned music, the clinking of expensive tableware being carried to the dining room, the enthusiastic chatter, the careful directions, the stomp of hurried footsteps on carpeted floors; all of them sounds that bloom in all-too-familiar, well accumulated patterns and seem to make the thin walls of the attic vibrate in response. From somewhere around the first floor of the house, Aunt May calls for me.

   I try not to acknowledge it often, for They will know, but it is in moments like this, constantly repeated, haunting moments turned hours turned days, that I envy the non-believers, the pilgrims that chose cowardice and left these Gods behind to be forgotten in an old and dusty and once bare attic.

   There are times when my thoughts are but a spiral of my hunger for the Sovereigns’ demise, for Them to be conquered by a death that cannot be unsheathed and used in Their favor.

   But there are also times when I, too, kneel by the portraits. When I bring my hands together and pray.

   The night is as wicked as I have always known it to be, and all my horrid temptations do not fit in this bed. My body feels heavy, so much so that I allow myself to slip off the edge of the mattress and onto the floor. I cling to Time, only half relieved to not have the burden of a clock added in this room too.

   Familiar voices continue to haunt me, as if to rival the unkind eyes that adorn the walls. There is a certain intensity in the anticipation of an Arrival.

   Why, it's almost half past nine, my boy.

   The musical tempo is enhanced, skillfully pushed into three sharp crescendos, as if enraged to finally notice the emptiness in the space where a certain piano melody should have been.

   Aunt May’s gathering has hardly begun and I can already smell the Lavender, can still recall the softness of Owl feathers against my fingertips. I remember the Sleeper’s dress; remember its skirt of ruffled lace and the way it draped over the edge of the narrow couch. The Glass Girl has yet to finish her tea, I can see her staring down at her porcelain cup in my mind’s eye. The mansion awaits with unlocked breaths and a future uncertain to everyone but the painter upstairs.

   Is he still locked up in his office? Would you go call for him?

   The key burns in my grasp. My hand twitches with the need to reach for the lock. Whatever for?

   What reason do I have to want to go back?

   Outside, the gates are pushed open and colorful lights flutter against the threadbare curtains of my window. A parade of strangers and friends alike marches into my family’s manor and, in everyone’s ignorance, hospitality is prioritized. However warm and vigorous the greetings might sound, bejeweled as they are with sweet laughter, there will always be Something more, Something they will never be prepared for or remember once it all restarts; an agreement faithful to my contract with the Unseen.

   As I sit up on the hard, wooden floor, my chest swelling with a primal ache that always precedes the imposing tragedy, I feel it; It has been let in, and this estate’s fate is sealed, as it has been before, as it will be again. Again and again, with the entertainment of shattered chandeliers and baths of blood, for as my Aunt May has confessed to me, she would rather die than have any of her soirées grow old and uninteresting before she does.

   Anticipation burst aglow, violins in what used to be empty ballrooms meant for nameless ghosts, the bustle of untamed crowds; It is almost half past nine.

   The Gods whisper now, They seethe; The night is young, They say, Welcome them in?

   There is a knock on the attic’s door.