Tales of Duskwood

Letter To No-one

A/N: This is a Duskwood fanfiction but not a Jake and MC story. Let's say it's from an uncommon pov. I don't want to tell you who this is, but I think you will guess it quickly 🤭.
The story is pretty sad, no good ending for this one sorry.

(Sorry about the picture, Canva decided to stop working, so I had to find something else.)

||TW : dark thoughts, death, implied suicide||

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I put my paintbrush on the easel with shaking hands. The room was quiet and all I could hear was the ticking clock on the wall behind me and my uneven breath. 

I struggled with this painting. The whole time I had a weight on my chest, making each breath uneasy to take. As if the guilt was crushing me, as if the pain was choking me. Fortunately, my fingers were still moving, and they drew the last picture I could ever create, instinctively, as the witness, the evidence of my existence. But I still couldn't find the nerve to look at the canvas. 

So I looked up and let my eyes wander around the room. The blinding light of the sun peeked through my windows and even with the curtains closed, the shimmering light dazzled me. 

I put a hand in front of my eyes to protect them. As I was drowning in my painting, I hadn't noticed how bright the sun was for an early spring day. 

Usually, I painted my back to the bay window, this way I wasn't bothered by the light. But for a few weeks I had to face it. For my own protection. I was scared, terrified! I jumped at every shadow that appeared behind the white curtains, expecting it to be him. The Man Without a Face. Hannah was right. He came after me as well. He wanted us to pay our debts, to face our mistakes. 

The camera that Hannah lent me has never shown any evidence of his existence, but I knew he was here somewhere outside, waiting for the good moment to strike. But I wouldn't let him! 

He made my life miserable, unbearable. I was used to living with guilt, and I understood long ago that nothing I could do would ever help me redeem myself. But since the Man Without a Face appeared in my life, I lived in fear. 

I felt his presence, following like a shadow, to remind me every second of my existence was a mistake. I didn't know if he was a ghost created by the wrath of the life I took, or if he was the ripper itself dragging me to my fate. All I knew was that he wouldn't give me a chance of relief. The only way to finally have peace was to fall into his trap. 

But at that moment he was hiding. I could feel him, watching me from his secret place, but I couldn't see him. 

As I was sure the Man Without a Face didn't stand across my window, I allowed my gaze to rest on the painting. 

It was a portrait. The feature was delicate, painted with thin lines to fit the edges of the frail female face in front of me. Full lips, pale skin, a few freckles on the nose and cheekbones, it was a common face. 

What caught the eyes was the woman's hair. The light Venetian blond strands weren't tight in a high bun, nor loose on her shoulders, they were spread around her head, mocking the shape of snakes. Medusa, one of the three gorgonians. Medusa, that could turn a human into stone with one petrifying look. 

The eyes looked lifeless as much as the poor victims of Medusa. Empty, blank, hollow. And while I was staring at the empty eyes of the painting, it hit me. I painted Medusa so many times, copying every art I could find on the internet. My phone was full with pictures of this figure. But for the first time, I gave real features to the Greek gorgonians. I gave her my face: a self-portrait. 

She was the réflexion of how I perceived myself, a monster doomed by a mystic creature. 

Like Athena did for Medusa, the Man Without a Face cursed me to make me pay for my sins. My sins that happened a long time ago, my sins that crawled under my skin and never left me, as an unfriendly companion that would stick with me my whole life.