The Seeker

At heart, I'm a tortured artist.

For a fortnight, I have sequestered myself in my townhome, stewing in my thoughts, and preparing my final, most masterfully made piece, by far. Only breaching from my burrow for sustenance, I did not see the light of day for many nights. Admittedly, it is a lowly way to live life, but it is the life of a tortured artist, such as myself. In an idyllic world, I would not live in this accursed colony, but in a principled community, where senseless murder is the last priority. As benign as that sounds, it could not and would not ever happen. Even when they were alive, this commune–this town of ponces and brigands–never knew what it meant to be an artist. They didn't see me and my brilliance. Well, it doesn't matter what they think anymore. They're resting with the fishes, as is deservedly so.

I don't rue any of it. It was cathartic, so to say. I've done this sorry town a kindness. Through the strike of my sickle, their sins have been expiated and repurposed toward the release of my Master—a worthwhile cause. My seminal art career has only begun. He has promised me something much better than communal approval: godhood. But this opportunity, although very promising, does come at a careful expense, and I must take it as such. He said this to me in a dream, "Oh, Ospeus, I am trapped in the body of a ewe. I implore you to free me! Please, I ask you kindly to slather the blood of the chained girl in your guest room at the Ram's Crypt three days from now. It is my only bidding." And so I will free my immured Master from the clutches of the Lamb, and he will bestow what is owed to me.

The Lamb is a meagre one; she does eat or talk to me much during supper. I surmise it may have something to do with her father being turned into a tailcoat. Which, wholeheartedly, I can't say that I regret doing it. But for the transient time I knew the Lamb's father, he had some semblance of being a nice man, with a respectable profession— an oilman or prospector, of the sort. As kind of a man he was, he had the demeanour of a bull, he did. I hacked that glabrous head off that giraffe neck of his with the weapon he assailed me with—my sickle, which is an unspoken rule. Hence, forbidden.

Anyhow, this coat made from the skin and hair of the Lamb's father does make for some awkward discourse during supper. When bringing up what little I know of the Lamb's interests, she ends up ignoring me. Well, we did have one discussion, and it was, "I don't want to be in the same room as you." So the ewe has chosen to stay manacled to her bedside, waiting for the day I drag her to the Ram's Crypt. It is a pitiful way to live your last minutes. All feelings–the ones that make her human–have departed and said their goodbyes. She lies in her dishevelled bed, still as the placated ocean: no more dissent, only silence. Night and day, from the limited view of her chamber, she looks to the only source of light that has welcomed itself into the room. There is no sense of fear anymore—only a longing to see the outside.

Tonight's the night. At dusk, we will ride outward from this barren town to make one final sacrifice. As I'm preparing my supplies, I hear a loud thump coming from the upstairs. Particles of dust rain onto my head, leaving me with one, and only one superstition: the Lamb is trying to escape. I drop my tools and traipse up the stairs. At the top of the staircase, I open the paint-chipped door and make my way through the halls of my ancestral home. The floor, old as earth and time itself, squalls beneath my feet as I make my way toward the third door of the hallway. I stopped at the door, and placed my perspiring hand on the brass knob and wearily turned it. I peek into the room, and as suspected, there was the Lamb. Who fell from grace, and unto the floor. I swing the door open and cast my curious eyes upon the fettered maiden.

She returned my ogling gaze with a woeful look and laid back down in her bed. Before I left, I took a moment to study the room and make sure there haven't been any attempts to escape. The windows, still barred, remained untampered and pristine. Good. I look under the bed to check for any displaced boards, and there is to be nothing but darkness. Good. Still dubious there hasn't been some effort to part from this room, I went to the left side of the room and inspected the wall from where the manacles are installed. After a thorough inspection, it's evident that the left one has been exerted on, as it is starting to sever from the wall. And beneath my feet, I see a screw just about to fall beneath the floorboards, which confirmed my theory.