Requiem for the living

Chapter 9: A drunk painter's demons

1495, Toscana, Italy - the beginning of everything

Buzzing sounds of quarrel could be heard in the celebrating tone of an Italian city in the blossoming of spring, as the Piata was crowded with the joy of a beautiful sight. The scene was perilous, as people would literally bounce into each other bodies to do the tasks they please, to get the product of the mongers that were trying their ways into trickery for their benefits. The sun was bitter than expected, to the delight of men whose eyes were lowering rather disrespectful towards ladies' clivage, put so much into contrast to the size of their strangled waist. There was a day like it wasn't before and it never would be again, and a day that needed to be cherished.

Toscana was growing after an stressful epidemic that took away some lives, that kept the horror in the souls of the families that lost someone dear. As the ilness got through the minds of the innocent, it grew with the expectation of something new, the power of what people call a miracle - but little did they know the act of miracle is in their one hands, waiting desperate to be used.

Leonardo was looking at his stained hands with the trembling, utter insatisfying remorse of a murderer, as he murderer his soul. Or maybe, in his mind it was nothing more than a time slaughter, as his work was the definition of a pristine caricature. That was what he would call it, and no matter how sun shone over the canvas of his desperate, prolific try, it was going to remain the ugliness of the world caught into the shadow of a masterpiece.

People affirmed that the reason behind his work was uncertain, as the amount of time spent could be rather valued differently, put into more productive actions. But no matter the impulse of all the mundane that stained his mind incorrigibly, Leonardo DaVinci carried the burden of missunderstanding the world had offered him as they slaughtered and reshaped his inclination to their one belief. And that way the hurting of the mind of one became due to a growth of generalised ideology the one of mankind, as they beloved the incertitude of a higher power more than the energy within, the one that carried our lifes to this very day. 

Nevertheless, that truth was a piece of what the future hold, as that day was just an ordinary tiredness by alcohol induced euphoria, like a trend older than times that every mortal has obbeyed to as the times are dark no matter if included in the Dark Ages. The painting was ready, or so was his little devil on his shoulder telling him that made him almost lose his hearing due to all the laughing about how much he lacked talent. It seemed like in his case, art was meant to be the delight on the viewer's eyes and the utter horror in the creator's.

Exiting the gallery hallway - ironic way of expressing how desinteresting seemed to him the doorway out of his home, Leonardo was in the hurry of a man who doesn't want others to wait to much - thing that, irronically, made his aquaintancies wait even longer than the so-called academic quarter, that doubled and intensifies as much as the patience lowered.

The staricase seemed to trouble him since the beggining of time, as his legs were often sore form understandable causes, but the vision thar await past the entrance made rge pain just a sweet relief from his utter boredom. Behind him, in the quietness of a room, a tainted smile held a secret only he knew, sweetened by the eyes that called the grief, lust and pure happiness altogheter. It was like someone expected patient the creator to come home, to the home he made into the minor and full of inconvenience world that never let go to the thing he cherished.

Angry voices of elders ancompanied into a antropomorphised orchestra the one's of ladies and gents that were anything else but patient into the middle of the Piata, Toscana's revival being more entartainmant and pure than the sight of the desperation nature cling to life in the rise of spring. The weather was blinding, the hot air being unbearable as sweat runned cold down Leonardo's skin, but he put everything on the behalf of his little anxiety, emotion that fueled his vivacity - a trait long existing into his ancestry. And he standed, în the middle of events, the corner of his eyes contemplating the show life brought toward him, the show people forgot so easily to cherish nowadays, as they should only look around and listen.