Identity Prologue: Darkness floods the pavement in the black of night, street lights cease to glow, nothing to tell an illusion created by the twisted compartment of your imagination from the reality of the moment. A red medium paints the the ground and a man who's lost his innocence lies without feeling, he inhales his last breathe and exhales the remaining fraction of his soul. Dawn breaks and morning light reveals the morbid picture the night has painted with cruel detail. A breeze stirs the air that is filled with the stench of blood the scent travels where the current of the wind chooses to take it. The odor burns the nostrils of the people who stand to admire the gruesome portrait of tragedy. No one knows this mans identity, no one knows his secrets, what mystery lies behind the eyes and lips of this being who has now gone? Burmingham : Burmingham sat in his leather chair in the corner of the room holding a brown and pungent cigar. The smoke filled the air and he watched as it slowly crept towards the ceiling dancing and making patterns around the air. He was lost in his thoughts again, a trance as his dear love had once called it as she sat by his side stroking his face and whispering hopes of their future in his ear. How he missed her touch and her gentle breath against his skin as they laughed together and she nuzzled his neck with her nose and then let her head lye on his shoulder. They would talk for hours of stories and art and love, all the things they both equally cherished. They had hopes for their future, a baby girl with dark glistening hair like her father,and beautiful emerald green eyes like her mother , a light olive toned skin that would beautifully display the rosiness of her newborn cheeks. All these things would become a reality soon after their marriage, a day that seemed so close and neither of them knew whether to celebrate it or be filled with dread. They both were so in love, they were each others best friend, worst enemy, strength, and weakness, and could not wait for the opportunity to finally be known as one entity, but neither wanted to put on a masquerade for their loved ones. They were happy to be alone, away from their prying families who wanted to know every detail of their romance, away from the family drama they both grew up with. They would often laugh as they cuddled up together on a Saturday morning exchanging stories of their childhood. She often would laugh till tears rolled down her face and he would just look at her and smile then use the soft palette of his thumb to gently wipe her tears then bring her lips to his. She would squeeze her eyes shut and say "Charles!! let me finish laughing will -" and she never would finished because he would interrupt her with his passionate kisses. He loved that woman with all of his being and she loved him the same, if only their love had been eternal. Her: Looking down on him she could see his pain, she wished to reach down and touch the face of her lost love. It had been a year since she passed and she watched over her beloved husband every day since. Watching him make a barricade with overflown ashtrays and empty bottles ,a wall between himself and society or perhaps his memories and feelings. It pained her to look at Charles and know that she would never taste his sweet lips again or have another frosting fight as she made cupcakes. She would wake up at 20a.m on his birthday every year so to surprise him in the morning when he awoke, and every year she thought she would get away with it. But then every year as she was making her specialty frosting he would quietly sneak down the stairs and creep up behind her, grab her waist and scoop her up. Her face would turn red with frustration and she would scrunch her nose. He would just laugh and use his finger to collect frosting out of the bowl then wipe it on her cheek and forehead. She could never resist and broke into a smile then wiped it off her cheek and wiped it on his. He would kiss her neck giving her butterfly's then kiss her all over her face till there was no frosting remaining. "One of these years Charles!! One of these years!" She would remark, they would then spend the rest of the morning finishing the cupcakes making jokes and flinging frosting across the dining room table. Margaret laughed as she reminisced and then a tear came to her eye...her dear husband alone on earth without her love and guidance, how she missed him so. That fateful day that tore them apart, that heartbreaking ending to their pure passion and un breakable bond. Burmingham: A layer of fog had formed on the inside of the glass of the window he was looking through, his breath had become heavier and hotter as he sat there, he hadn't noticed. Everything was a blur, nothing was a reality nothing disturbed the state he was in, everything absolutely still...- BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP... Burmingham rolled over to his alarm clock, somewhere in the night he had moved over to Her side of the bed again, this had become a common occurrence for the last year. Every night he would go through his common routine, come home, fight with the front door lock She had nagged and nagged him to fix but never got around to, kick off his shoes and socks lazily by the door and stroll into the bedroom then hesitate as he stood in the doorway debating on whether to just strip down to nothing and flop down on the bed, never to awaken, or option B; find the motivation to actually do something....he always chose the ladder. He'd struggle with his badly tied tie, and sigh at the tedious buttons of his shirt, get his belt stuck on every loop, and finally get down to the button of his pants. He was never fond of dress cloths, but since they had started living together She always was keen on him looking his best when presenting himself to new clients, and despite his preference for comfort he couldn't argue. He'd then proceed to walk back out to the living room flaunting all of his glory, Cookie Monster briefs and all. He'd stop where he took his shoes off and think "Dammit women still got ahold of me" then he'd kind of smirk and look up towards the ceiling as if looking to Her for nod of approval then he'd look down at his shoes again and sigh, "alright alright, I'm movin'em" he'd place the shoes neatly in closet how she always did and then went to go back to his chair. After a few hours of silence and gazing out the window, he'd start pondering the possibility of work, he had had clients ringing his phone hourly pestering him for their finished work. He didn't want to listen... He didn't care... He had lost his greatest inspiration. Once he had tried to complete a piece but it ended in disaster. A women and called and requested a painting of a youthful couple dancing and then have them progressively turn older, it was to commemorate her and her husbands 75th wedding anniversary. They had been together since they were in their teens and he wasn't doing so well in his old age. Being the first client he had gotten since he had lost Her, hoping it would bring some normality back into his #life,and with all the funeral costs he desperately needed money so he accepted. He started right away and pretty soon had painted a beautifully balanced elegant couple dancing with so much finesse you couldn't take your eyes away, he then would paint in the couple twirling across the painting and with each spin the faces became tainted with their growing age, yet still beautiful. But then something happened, he became jealous of this woman, what had she done to deserve such happiness, why was it his love that had to die? Why must his angel fall? His painting began to become gruesome as he painted the faces with a hidden cruelty and throughout the background where once he had painted a gleaming studio, now he detailed it decaying and almost to the point of nothingness, this painting ha gone from an eternal bliss of happiness, to his depiction of what a cruel realization of what his reality had become... Broken dreams, and lost hope... He threw down his paintbrush and fell forward onto the canvas, smearing the fresh paint, black and brown dripped to floor as the paint mixed with the tears flowing down his cheeks. The woman was now at the door knocking quite loudly as if she had been doing so for quite a long time, hadn't she been gone for a mere 15 minutes? With blurred eyes he looked down to his watch, it had been hours...and she had come back to inspect the progress before returning home. Now in more distress at the horrific sight he now realized the painting had become he frantically looked around for a solution, but he could not find one. Every second he looked for an answer seemed like an eternity, he eventually stumbled his way to the door, face still streaked with paint. As he opened the door to reveal to the woman what had happened he felt a sudden sense of shame. How had he thought so wickedly of the happiness of this old woman? She looked at him and he looked back at her, her eyes studying his face, and then the room where it appeared as though every wall was covered in paint, then she looked towards the canvas and a took a step forward as if to come inside. He hesitated but then slowly opened the door completely letting her in, she slowly walked over to the painting afraid almost, and then the image on the canvas hit her like a slap in the face, tears welled up in her eyes. She looked at him and then back to the painting and then back at him, her eyes filled with pity and sorrow... She didn't know what had destroyed his heart but she could see his pain. Her: She always loved his art, they were the most extravagant pieces of beauty she had ever seen. Whenever she would have a stressful day and he wasn't home yet, she'd wander into his studio and admire his work, it brought her peace and clarity, she was fascinated by his brilliance. But now seeing his paint streaked face and the sobs he held in as he awaited the woman to leave, she had never felt a pain so great. She wanted to tell him it was alright, that he wasn't alone, that she was always there watching over him... Up above there are amazing incomparable artworks that only angels could have made, which ironically that's who had created them. But despite their wonder it could not give her the happiness that his talent once did. So many times she wandered through that studio mesmerized, and then she would find him sitting there, paintbrush in hand creating perfection. She'd just stand there silently admiring him, how lucky she felt to have him as her own, and grateful that he had chosen her. She herself was not an artist, she was a teacher. Burmingham: Charles paced around the house pondering thoughts... Do I go out, can I just stay here? What if I go out there and- what exactly is going to happen if you go out there, huh? Is something going to jump out and scare you? Boo! Stop being such a pussy, I bet She is looking down on you right now thinking, "God how was I ever with such a wimp"...Shut up I have every right to barricade myself in here, you don't know what it's like, hello I am you, yes but you're just my subconscious, you don't understand- I don't understand? Seriously? Riiiight, I don't understand, and yet you're the one talking to yourself...Im not talking to- ugh whatever.... At least I'm not crazy....Says the man fighting with his subconscious...ugh! Fine ill go outside, I'll go, just shut up! Maybe, I'm not sure, this is quite entertaining, ugh I'm going to end up in a mental hospital, what you don't think everyone else has these conversations with their subconscious? Do they? How am I supposed to know, we still have the same brain moron.