Growing Darkness

Commission Piece

My name is Elias Weiss and I have a confession to make. I am making this confession within this journal with the hopes that it will allow me to alleviate the weight of my heavy heart. I will begin by providing appropriate context about myself, as much of this will seem bizarre without said context. I will not beat around the bush and merely state that I am not human. I am vampire and I was transformed in the year of 1542 which was, I believe, three hundred and twenty-seven years before the year that the events I shall reiterate took place.

Though the fact that I am a vampire is somewhat important to this tale, the events that led me to becoming so are not, so I shall keep that tale for another time.

During the year of 1795 I met Thomas Blythe, a fascinating young artist that became entirely consumed in his work. A paintbrush became a magic wand within his skilled hand, and I was infatuated with his skill. There were few artists that could truly bring life to their subjects, he however, was simply a genius. I discovered him through a beautiful painting of a sleeping fox, curled up in front of a magnificent oak tree. The creature appeared to almost breathe as it slept on the canvas and as I reached up to touch it, I was almost surprised to feel dried paint on canvas instead of soft, warm fur.

The artist himself was not as beautiful as the masterpieces he created, at least he had not seemed so at first. He was a rather plain man of lower birth. He had thick brown hair that was very rare in a state other than dishevelled, his hazel eyes were lined by heavy grey bags that revealed to me that he often lacked sleep. He was small in build and he lacked height and I feel like I would have payed him little notice if he had not been the creator of such magnificent pieces.

When I had first approached him, his eyes had lit up in a way that had only drawn me in further. He was rather excited by the thought of someone taking interest in his work and before I could say another word, he had begged me to allow him to draw him. My curiosity peaked I found myself being painted, over the next few weeks.

He would often compliment me on my appearance during our sessions. It was an odd comfort to me to have someone reassure me that I was not, in fact, a monster, at least not in appearance. I must confess, I had another purpose for allowing him to paint me. I am one of the rather unfortunate creatures that cannot see myself reflected within a mirror. Well, I cannot see what others see. If one were to look at my face, I am sure they would see nothing that differs from how I had looked the night I had been given the immortal's kiss.

When I attempt to look upon my visage, however, I do not see a man, I do not even see a creature that deserves to walk upon this earth. I see a monster, distorted and mutilated. A rotting carcass that by no logical reason has the right to stand and speak and walk among the living. It is often a cause of anxiety for myself, a fear that maybe one day, my subconscious illusion would break, and humanity will begin to see me for what I truly am.

Thomas had the ability that many few had, he was able show to me myself through his own eyes. The incredible vivid beauty of his pieces led me to believe that once I cast my eyes upon his depiction of myself, that I would finally be free of the fear of my own monstrous reflections.

During those weeks we became close, even when I was no longer needed for the sessions, he would invite me to sit with him as he worked. After some time, I invited him to work in my own home, setting him up in the parlour as I sat beside my fireplace and watched him. He would not allow me to glimpse upon his 'ultimate masterpiece' as he so often described it, not until it was complete. Though I did not mind, the longer he took with his art the longer I was able to spend time with him.

I had learnt much about Thomas during our time together. He was not a rich man, though he was lucky enough to earn enough money from his art to survive. His mother had passed away in childbirth and his father had lost his life to sickness when Thomas was merely a boy. With no other family to take care of him, Thomas had been forced onto the streets as a boy. He survived off of thievery and other petty crimes as many had, though he had often lamented to me that he was greatly ashamed of this life. Things began to change when he was around thirteen and he met a kindly old artist who had offered to take him in along with a handful of other young men and boys. It was through him that Thomas learned of art, learned to see beauty in things that not many others could.