Eugene Ari Darian

Lonely is not being alone, it's the feeling that no one cares about unknown

Eons later,

Eugene Ari Darian's POV

The portrait looked a lot real like I imagined the real deal to be. The beautiful fountains in the middle of the city as the evergreen grasses keep their leaves, Zeus' statuses hung all over the city. Flogging the canvas with powerful strokes, I thought about what it would be like to be there. Laughing, chattering, and mingling with my kind.

I sighed, dropping the pitiful thought. What use were dreams that could never be actualized? My heart ached so much, it almost felt physical. My hands moved to grasps my chest as the pain grew bigger. I have been stuck here for decades with no sight of light at the end of the tunnel.

This world has nothing left for me anymore. I could have said I've seen it all as there was nothing to move me. The places were all the same. The same old buildings and statuses. They had nothing new to offer. The same history.

"You are doing it again," came the voice of my mother who stood by the door and dropped her gaze about my studio in disgust.

She looked as beautiful as she was proclaimed to be in history. Dressed elegantly and adorned with numerous pieces of jewelry, my mother looked stunning. Her lashes curled and a smile was plastered on her lovely face as she gazed at me but it wasn't her usual smile, she looked pained. At times, I think she had regrets about having me. I reminded her of a past that was probably a nightmare for her. She had to hide me away and I still wondered why. Everything about my existence was a mystery to me and whenever I asked, she would shush me up saying it wasn't right. It's been centuries, when was the right time?

"You look like death or should I say Hades," I couldn't tell if she was trying to crack a joke or if she was being serious but whatever it was, I wasn't in the mood for it. It wasn't like I showed my face to anyone to care about my appearance. Wanting to retort but knowing my mother, she'd likely have a meltdown as she was that easily offended, I just let it slide.

I tried concentrating on my painting again, completely ignoring her presence when the sound of her footsteps leaving the room rang in my ears and the sound of pots and pans kissing the floor replaced it. Not being able to cope with my surroundings anymore, I marched to the kitchen to see her bending over the gray stove, probably wondering why it wasn't turning on.

"Mother, I'll handle that," I took a hold of her hands and dumped them on the counter before she did something crazy like burning down my studio.

"I learned to cook a few things in the last century you know," she stated while crossing her hand over her breast.