I spend a long moment attempting to comprehend his last utterance, with limited success. But of course, for he – The Artist - had meant it to be this way.
I could not help but marvel at his strange statement, for, though certainly not fact, it did have an odd ring of truth to it; “Life imitates art”, how could it be so? Yet, I am still sure that it is the case. I harshly dragged myself out of the remanence of my thoughts and back into the peculiar situation before me. In response to his previous words, I simply lightly nodded my head courteously as one would when addressing a business associate, though I do not know why I treated him with such respect, for he did not offer me the same manor. Intrigued, against my better judgment I whispered a sentence to him and a similar mocking soft tone he’d used to many times with me “What is your art form, Artist?” shaking the blonde waves from his sapphire eyes keenly, he preceded to answer my regretted question “I find people. Gather my materials and create all sorts of items from the remanence of their bodies. You see, though I understand the authorities to be against my particular form of art, I believe I have glorified these souls beyond all earthly glory and appreciation they would otherwise have felt. My art glorifies them to the point that their worthless, unimportant lives can only wish to imitate my creations, Pretty Girl.” He responded calmly. Not sure how to take this information, I nodded once more. “So, you end the lives of those you deem unimportant, well, those you deem are less important than your creations. Why haven’t you ended my life?” I asked as the question popped into my blank mind “Oh, I will in time. You are indeed one of the prettiest sources of material I have had the joy of encountering, Pretty Girl.” There it was. He meant to end my life. Simply a game of waiting now.
I refuse to wait.
I will not become a creation. I will find a way out. I spent a moment looking at my surroundings closely. A table covered by a blood-stained white sheet; an odd selection of clinical tools beside me; a steep set of stairs; a large trapdoor; a key at his waist. Yes. I simply had to join the objects to create a plan. An artistic creation by which I would escape this awful place. My head began to swim as The Artist watched me intently, his eyes oddly seemed to hypnotise me into a sleepy weakened stupor. Dazed, I reached to his waist to touch the large brass key, “That’s not for you, Pretty Girl” he said rather happily with a wide knowing smile upon his face. I swung my legs from the bench and attempted to reach out again.
This time I succeeded.