Violetta: Call of the Paint
The paint called to Violetta, not in metaphor but truly spoke to her in whispers. Hushed conversation, private utterances, names spoken in low tones. Some she could understand, others sputtering guttural clacks of harsh consonants and hissed throaty vowels. Most of them didn’t seem important, and though she could not say what the voices spoke of, she could discern from context that they were speaking of the same thing. Each saying the same name, it didn’t translate in their language or any language Violetta knew. It barely sounded like a word or even a sound, the name seemed more like a cruel idea. Over the coming days she learned bits of the language, or perhaps wishful thinking and her mind just working to give shape to the murk. They spoke of fear, fear of a creature, a terrifying thing of harsh angles, and towering will, an enigmatic monster with the powers to rival their god. Spoke of fear of what it would do should it find their god, H' Ahf' Ph'nglui Fhtagn Soth. Spoke of lashing out in fear at the things this other ‘god’ sent out into their lands. Spoke of his immortality. Tales of his demise and return. Aspects of conspiracy and speculation colored every conversation.
It all sounded like a myth spread in passing, hushed conversations, something told to scare children into behaving. A tale and nothing more, but if what they say of gods is true, enough believing will manifest into reality. If they believed this ‘thing’ was a god, or a monster was it?
In the days leading up to her return to the hill from one of her few remaining paintings the paint continued to speak to her, Violetta would wake in the morning to new paintings she hadn’t done. Throwing them into the fire without looking at them. The first time she’d burned one of the new paintings the screaming had nearly caused her to jump out of her own skin before trying to pull the art from the fireplace. But after ten maybe more she was desensitised, barely noticing the shrieks over the crackle of the burning frame and hiss of the peeling paint and all turned to ashes.
She could have sworn she’d run out of paint or burned it as well. But there always seemed to be more. Always a new painting, more paint, more ashes, more befouled words spoken in dreams. Thoughts on her mind of what she would do, could do if she did find answers to all her questions on that hill top, the one where she saw a man standing on the distant rocks. Could she do anything with that knowledge, or would it just drive her more mad.
Her feet slipped in the wet grass as she hiked the steep hill side, navigating in the dark was harder than she’d expected . Nearly falling more than once, she reached its top. Looking out over the ocean, trying desperately to figure out what she was meant to find. She stared at the dark water, for a moment she made out a shape geometric and hard angles somehow a darker black than the water around it. She didn’t know how long she gazed at the hard shapes, she blinked hard to alleviate the stringing in her eyes and opened her eyes to morning light filtered through the long grass she’d woken up laying in. Were the voices gone? Or had she just made things worse.