the emptiness :: l.s.

Epilogue: And Now The Dream Is Over

(Completely written by Shawn Milke -lead singer of Alesana- no words have been changed for this chapter, except for names)

My name is Louis and I am here to tell you a story of the day that I killed a madman.

There is nothing more frightening than watching the man you love try to kill himself. The exception is watching the man you used to love turn into a complete and utter lunatic.

The sketches were always odd. Sometimes I had a hard time understanding how a man who was seemingly so sweet and loving and caring could possibly conjure the images that were scratched onto the paper in that God forsaken book.

Occasionally, I would find him sitting alone in the corner, pencil and book in hand, and he would be talking to himself. Not in a motivational manner, or a contemplative manner, but it would sound as if he were actually holding a conversation. I would be too scared to interrupt him, and if I ever mentioned what I had witnessed he would shrug it off and say that I must have been mistaken, confused by what I had seen.

I could see his gasp on reality was slowly slipping away.

The man I loved was no longer present in his eyes. I could no longer feel the love he once held for me in his heart. And when we spoke, it was as if he were a complete stranger.

He would mutter complete nonsense about seven people in a tavern, a beautiful angel saving his life, and some man he called The Thespian ruining everything. The more distant and incoherent he became, the more I paid attention to his sketches. They were becoming increasingly more violent and disturbing.

On the evening of April 16th, after he had fallen asleep, I decided to take his sketch book into the den and look for any sign of why his behavior had become so peculiar.

My discovery paralyzed me with fear.

I did not kill my love. The man that I loved, that I shared my life with, laughed with, cried with, was long gone. No, I did not kill him. He killed himself. He killed himself when he allowed the madman inside his head to take control.

I spent years watching in silence as his illness spilled onto the pages of that damn book.

Is it my fault? was there something I could have done to prevent his descent into insanity? In the end, should I blame him, or blame myself? Did he ever think the sketches would take over completely? Did I?

No, the man standing, staring blindly into the mirror in front of me is not my love. I said goodbye to him nearly a year ago. If he does still exist somewhere inside of his demented mind, I'll be damned if I can find him. The son of a bitch standing here is the man who killed my love and stole all that I hold dear. He is the crazy bastard who found shelter in the mind of an artist and escaped onto page.

The knife that this creature thought would kill me had failed.

The very knife that I now hold in my hand.