Ch. 9 Tragedy, That is, Pathos
by AfuhfuihgsChapter 9 – Tragedy, That is, Pathos
I, John Menard, stood in the middle of my studio.
The room was littered with traces of my artistic endeavors.
And my mind was overwhelmed by memories of the witch I longed to see again.
“I want to see her more. More!!!”
My nymph.
The girl who seemed to exist solely for me—I, John Menard, desired her.
It was an endless greed, impossible to deny.
And this greed felt so justified that it became a story everyone could sympathize with, admiring the painting I made of her.
If I could show the sincerity of my emotions soon, surely everyone would acknowledge me in the truest sense, respect me, and even desire the same thing.
Now, I was staring at a canvas that had already been charred black.
Gathering the torn pieces of countless paintings I had made of the nymph, I held the remnants tightly, trying to correct my mistakes.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
On the floor lay the results of the anger that had briefly taken over my body.
Those results were made of paint cans and brushes, all scattered around me.
*Swoosh~*
Soon, the air began to fill with acrid smoke, and within it, I was gasping for short, ragged breaths.
“Ha… Hic… Please, forgive me…!”
But the breaths I exhaled felt like they were floating in a deep, silent darkness.
My gaze wandered aimlessly.
It wasn’t just watching the flames spread across the walls; I was drifting numbly, without fear.
My eyes were fixed on something deeper, darker than the flames.
“Just… a little more. If I go deeper, I’ll see it. If I stare into the abyss, the abyss will recognize me and look back.”
I slowly looked at my palm.
It was beautiful.
Each finger, every joint, was marked with dried paint of various colors, and the scars and calluses were adorned with vibrant hues.
They were the traces of my long-accumulated pain and art.
“This hand…”
I inhaled the sharp, filtered air and muttered in a trembling voice.
“This hand created everything of mine. I recreated the nymph with just a painting. I, I am the only one who understands the lonely girl!!!”
I flexed my fingers.
The flesh that made up my fingers was torn here and there, stinging and aching, but when I clenched my fist, the wounds were pressed, and a mixture of pus and blood oozed out.
And on my palm, dried bloodstains remained.
Whether it was my blood or someone else’s, I couldn’t tell—it had such a strange, varied scent and taste.
Of course, to say that these mere bloodstains symbolized my life, art, and fate was an exaggerated interpretation.
Everyone bleeds!
Only the nymph, with her pure and sacred blood, does not bleed.
“…Witch.”
I knelt slowly on the floor, calling out to the witch.
“…Please, look at me! I’m here! John Menard, the guest, the only one who understands you, remembers you!”
My shoulders slumped as if carrying a heavy burden, but my voice remained steady, shouting through my torn vocal cords.
Soon, my hand trembled with a shiver, unable to endure the heat and pain of the house, and finally, it pressed against the floor.
The cold, hard floor? Now it felt like a hot, painful rock against my fingertips.
I rested my head on it.
Closing my eyes, I sat silently for a while, feeling the warmth of the stone against my head.
“Hey, crawling bug.”
Just then, the voice came again.
“Who are you?”
I spoke to the void surrounding me.
“We are everyone, and we are the you within you,” the voice answered.
“We are everything, and we are responsible for everything about you.”
Faced with the deceptive lies about my mental state, I had no choice but to awaken as a temple of gods bound to a single body.
Everyone looked at me with startled eyes, amazed by my outstanding art that could evaporate anything blocking my path, as proven by *Gwangyeom Sonata*.
The voice wasn’t unfamiliar.
It came from within me, and as before, I didn’t deny it.
I knew.
That I had failed.
The paintings I made were just fakes.
I imagined my work losing its authenticity, becoming a hollow shell of an illusion, as I desperately painted the witch.
A shameless fake, satisfied with mere vicarious satisfaction through art instead of taking the risky but necessary step of seeing her in person—a loser!
I suddenly raised my head and gasped for air.
“Hoo—! Hic!?”
My eyes turned to the burning paintings hanging in the room.
Paintings completed with dazzling, delicate brushstrokes.
But they were all lies.
All failures!
Do you know how much I sacrificed to complete each of those paintings!!!
Now, I’m so disgusted by this damn imagination that I won’t do it anymore!
Like *Gwangyeom Sonata*, which understood and represented the lonely, unique existence, the story’s characters also had similar art!
I slowly got up and approached a painting on the wall.
It was a portrait of a woman.
The woman had no name.
I simply called her the witch or the nymph.
Beautiful and intricate lines depicted her face, but as my fingertips brushed the painting, her face no longer appeared as mere colors.
It twisted as if trying to contort into an expression of pain.
The woman in the painting looked at me with eyes that seemed to resent me.
“Ah, Witch. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
I sobbed, speaking in a low voice to the expressionless witch before me.
But there was no answer.
“Why… why won’t you speak? Why, why!? Is it because I burned the house!? You hate that all my achievements went up in flames in an instant, don’t you!? Right!!!”
After my outburst, I placed my hand on the painting.
A tremor slowly spread from my fingertips.
“Ah, Witch. I can’t take it anymore. I want to see you again!!!”
My gaze grew sharper, and finally, I roughly tore the painting off the wall.
The painting was now in my grasp, and with the strength of both hands, it was torn apart and fell to the floor.
*Thud, thud~*
The witch fell to the ground.
“It’s fake. It’s all fake!” I shouted.
“I’ve never created real art! I’m just a substitute, a fraud who settles for less!”
My voice echoed through the room.
No one would hear it, but if even one person listened, it would be good.
But no one listened.
In the end, I was always alone.
The studio was a prison that isolated and hid itself to trap me, and within that prison, I waited to slowly crumble alongside the burning house.
And then I sat down as if collapsing to the floor.
“Huff… Huff…”
My breathing was ragged, but I didn’t move.
And then, the book I had recently borrowed from the library, titled *Gwangyeom Sonata*, caught my eye.
“Yes. This. This gave me new insight.”
I slowly approached the book and picked it up.
The cover had a dark sheen, and as my fingertips touched it, a cold sensation spread through me.
The thing that should have been the hottest and most painful.
So, I held the book tightly, as if it didn’t hurt at all.
“You brought me here. You… you helped me start everything. Yes! Your master is the Witch, right!? Right!?”
The book didn’t answer.
To find the truth, I opened the book again.
On each page were words I couldn’t quite understand, and as they seeped into my mind, they began to evoke pathos.
“The art I desired… it was something that had to be burned.”
I closed the book and slowly stood up.
The entire room before me, along with countless riches and artworks, began to be consumed by flames.
And I picked up a bottle of alcohol placed in a corner of the studio.
I opened the bottle and began to pour its contents all over the room.
On the canvas, on the floor, and even on my own body.
My hand trembled as if writhing in pain, but my eyes remained steady.
“I’ll burn everything and start over. Me, my paintings, my world!!! Witch, are you watching? The only one who understands you is finally coming to find you.”
I lit a match.
A small flame flickered at my fingertips, and I pressed it against the wall, setting the rest of the studio ablaze.
As the flames grew and consumed the room, I didn’t leave.
Instead, I stepped closer to the fire.
“Now… now I’ll become the true one who understands. No one will discriminate against the Witch anymore.”
And so, feeling someone’s touch, I closed my eyes.
*****
[One Month Later]
“Shuji, I… I don’t feel so good.”
The painter, lying in a hospital bed, confessed to his friend Shuji.
“My body feels just… terrible. It’s like bugs are eating my skin, my very soul.”
“Well, you were in that fire.”
Shuji chuckled as he peeled an apple for his foolish friend, then placed a hand on his shoulder.
It was a kind gesture, meant to comfort and calm him.
But the painter rejected it.
“No, it’s not that. The body is just flesh, a simple collection of atoms charging toward the future. What’s painful is the reality of not being able to see the Witch. It’s been a whole month.”
As he spoke, the painter began to cry, overcome with sadness.
“I want to see her again. Again!!!”
Shuji leaned closer to the painter, who was spouting incomprehensible sentences and proper nouns, and whispered carefully into his ear.
“Don’t worry. Friendship makes the impossible possible. I’ve also cried because I missed something.”
The painter opened his eyes in surprise and asked.
“Then why are you here? Why, why aren’t you looking for it!?”
“Because I found something even more valuable. The result of obsession isn’t good, but if you think about it again, it’s not impossible.”
The painter thought deeply, then forced an uncomfortable smile.
“I think I’ll have to face the light that crippled my entire body. The light of magic, reason, the cursed plow, the library itself. Now I think I know my destiny.”
Shuji laughed and said.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m glad you’re regaining your health and sanity… Wait, what?”
“I’ll save the Witch trapped in the library. From now on, don’t call me John Menard. I am 『Pathos』 itself.”
Pathos laughed. (tl note: pathos is a quality that evokes pity or sadness)
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