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Edgar Valden was no stranger to perfection.
There were the elegant ball gowns and accessories his mother adorned at parties, pure white lace gloves brushing across his spine when his mind drifted off as a reminder to sit straight and avoid tarnishing the family name. His marks at school were the highest of them all, over exaggerated praise constantly spilling from the lips of his tutors and acquaintances as a result. The plain ceiling he was forced to stare at every evening once the clock hit ten had never required a fresh coat of paint, it stayed absolutely pristine even after the hours upon hours Edgar’s eyes spent boring holes straight through the roof.
And of course, there were always the prized paintings that hung across the walls of the house.
This one to appease his father, this one to win a cash prize at one of the countless competitions he was made to enter. The subject matters were boring, he thought, and far more simple than he should have aimed for. And yet, those around him were appeased. So he said nothing, as he had always been taught to. It was enough, he told himself, even as he got older and his eyes lost their spark, his neck always slightly red from constant scratching and his nails bitten down as far as they could go without bringing on more than a dull, throbbing pain. Pain and sorrow didn’t matter as long as you could hold the brush and create beautiful things worthy of envy. That was what he had been told. When he had been younger, more naive, the most painful thing he could think of was the feeling of messing up his sketches. A part of Edgar wanted nothing more than to have that innocence back in his grasp, but his arms remained empty. And so he moved on.
“Do you truly believe that this will be enough?” Sarai mused one day, his arm uncomfortably close to Edgar’s side. The younger boy gritted his teeth and stared hard at the canvas. Had he made a mistake somewhere? Was his idea too abstract?
“I do not know what you mean.”
Sarai sighed with what seemed to be disappointment, gesturing idly at the loud explosion of colors in front of him. And in the center, a black hole so dreadfully empty it almost hurt to look at. “This project was meant to be a self reflection, do you not recall? I believe the director’s words were quite clear,” his tone grew a bit more stern then, “Who would pay for something as messy as this?” Edgar nodded in silence. The fire began to build in his veins, kept at bay by clenched hands pressing hard into his legs.
Of course, he had known from the beginning it was unlikely that art he could truly call his own would be accepted by anyone else. There was a certain order to the world, especially in high society, one that was ingrained into the minds of all until every person along the line was just as all the others. Edgar had once taken pride in the way he stood apart, thinking of himself as a sort of god above the clamoring souls constantly basking in his glory at his feet. But as time went on it became sour, poisoned, as all that feels pleasant eventually does. The adoring praise had once been beautiful. Now it was absolutely revolting and fake.
“Sometimes I fear that you don’t care anymore,” Sarai spoke sadly, “I love you, you know that. Which is why I must guide you in the correct direction.” A sneaking hand drifted to rest on Edgar’s shoulder, lingering half a second too long for his liking. Edgar tensed up, his gaze dropping to the floor. Sarai walked away to gaze out the window without even noticing.
“I will do better next time,” Edgar said after a few moments of silence, his words tight and clipped. Sarai chuckled, a horrible sound that solely inspired the desire to smother the man with an old pillowcase. At times, Edgar entertained the idea with a bit of amusement, but he mostly tried to hide it away. That was no way for someone of his standing to think.
As their session was dismissed, Sarai gave him a smile. And while it was an attempt at something beautiful and loving and comforting, as it should have been, Edgar couldn’t help but notice the hidden undertones. Sarai swore that he was filled with devotion and admiration. But through Edgar’s eyes, he was always simply looking back at his own.
Edgar walked away proudly, without a single glance back.
. . .
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, on and on until years had passed and suddenly he was eighteen, though it didn’t really feel like it. He hadn’t gotten much bigger but the walls felt a thousand times more oppressing, crushing him and laughing at his empty gaze during the times he spent huddled in a corner out of desperation. His shaking frame only served to remind him of how much he was lacking compared to the ideal others viewed him as. Akin to a deity, wasn’t that what they had all said? He had learnt to understand why God died.
“Get up,” his father hissed, “I will not have my son be a disappointment.” His mother muttered something under her breath about how he was far too stubborn and temperamental for his own good, the complete opposite of the docile creature he should have been. Edgar paid her words no attention.
“I don’t want to.”
And then he was pulled up, over to his wardrobe, a formal white button down and nice pants thrown at him. Edgar glowered at his parents. He despised parties and the whispers that accompanied him, mindless guests fawning over him as if he truly cared what any of them had to say. It was quite pathetic how they moved so quickly past his tendency to ignore them. But of course, there was no escaping this one. Now that he was officially an adult there was an expectation for him to move on with his life, attend some prestigious school and make enough for his family to live upon a pile of gold for all eternity. The thought of such a bleak future made him feel sick. Art was worth far more than they could ever begin to comprehend. However, that made no difference to his parents, so tonight they were celebrating his acceptance into the École des Beaux-Arts. It was sure to be absolutely boring, and he was right.
Later that night, some skilled pianist played the keys beautifully, though Edgar had tuned it out within a second of entering the great room. The outfits of those around him were obnoxiously gaudy, their voices just a pitch too high and their laughter akin to the screeches of birds. Perhaps it was all in Edgar’s head, but didn’t that equate to reality? His view of the world was the only true one, he knew. None of the halfhearted, greedy impressions from those surrounding him were worthy enough to count.
“Oh, Mister Valden!” some woman shouted from nearby, waving with a grin. Edgar didn’t spare her a second of his time, instead walking away through the crowd towards one of the back doors, jostling partygoers aside on the way. He didn’t think they would care much, with how drunk some of them were. How awfully disgusting. The hallway felt much emptier than usual in comparison to the party Edgar had left behind, but the silence was welcome. His parents were occupied with guests, it was unlikely they would notice if he was gone for just a few minutes, right? Looking forward, the balcony door appeared to be slightly ajar. He prayed that nobody would be out there awaiting him.
“Please, leave,” Edgar spoke as he pushed the doors open, at that point still not knowing whether he’d be greeted by emptiness or not. Though, he quickly noted the existence of the man sitting in front of him, an open notebook clutched in his hands. It was covered in handwriting and diagrams too messy to read. Edgar looked up.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” The stranger responded, quickly moving to stand and allowing Edgar to pass by, “I was just working on some sketches.” Edgar watched him suspiciously, completely unaccustomed to this manner of meeting. Where was the recognition? The flattery? The request of a portrait, if enough money was handed over? Surely, the man had ulterior motives. Something felt different. “Why are you here?” Edgar demanded with barely concealed hostility filling his words. The shock of the other wore off far too quickly for his liking.
“Well,” the man mused, “My relatives and I were invited due to a celebration for the Valden son. I hear he’s quite talented, you know.” Edgar narrowed his eyes. Was he playing some sort of game, or just stupid? An examination began, though the only thing that seemed out of place was how the other’s hands couldn’t seem to stay still, his body almost buzzing with energy as he gestured while speaking.
“I know I am.”
“You’re Edward Valden?”
“Edgar, you imbecile.”
And with that, the man laughed. He seemed oddly pleased as he introduced himself, “Luca Balsa, at your service.” Edgar turned away and instead watched the night sky. He didn’t care enough to force the man to leave.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Luca whispered in amazement, joining him at the railing, “Some say the stars have some special powers. I don’t really believe it, but it’s quite fun to think about regardless.” Edgar sighed. “Magic is for children.” Luca shook his head.
“Well, yes, but think of it this way. There’s bits of it stuck into our lives, if you look closely. Aren’t you a painter? There must be magic in your art. And when I’m working on my inventions, once they’re done it certainly feels like there was more to it than just complicated procedures, though that certainly helps.”
“You’re just describing normal emotions,” Edgar responded idly, but a part of him could see where the other was coming from. When he was younger, art did feel a bit magical. Though, that feeling had left relatively quickly.
“Then, maybe normal emotions are a bit more magical than you seem to believe.”
Edgar smiled a little. Something about Luca’s excitement was infectious.
They stayed there a little longer than Edgar had planned, Luca’s chatter filling up the night. Talk of plans for the future, desires, science. Though the artist didn’t understand most of it, he appreciated the way there were no formalities or attempts at stroking his ego on Luca’s part. At least trying to appear reluctant, Edgar agreed to meet the other for lunch soon. They parted with shy grins, and for once, life felt like it wasn’t as hellish as it had been before. But things don’t always go as planned.
Luca was arrested before they were able to speak again. Edgar once again poured his entire existence into his painting. Life went on, as painful as it was.
The memory of that night turned into nothing more than a ghost, haunting. Haunting. Haunting.
It was three years before they met once more.