WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO ALEX?

 WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO ALEX?

 

Alex had always been a dreamer, but unlike most, he had the talent to back it up. His practicality complimented his romantic nature, which made him a dynamo. His mind was a kaleidoscope of ideas, thoughts, colours, shapes, emotions, dialogues, and poems, each pleading to be brought to life on canvas, in music, scripts, on paper, or through performance. He spent years being aware of and nurturing this gift, convinced that with the proper training and some hard work, his name would one day be spoken in the same breath as the greats. The arts were his destiny, and he would not let anything stand in his way.

 

But fate had other plans.

 

It started subtly, like a whisper in the wind. Minor inconveniences crept into his life: splitting headache, pain in his legs and abdomen, burning eyes, nagging pain in different parts of his body, mysterious wounds in different areas of his body, inability to access his art courses and lectures, his supplies misplaced, sketches and thoughts disappearing, his recordings distorted, irregular net connections, distorted phone connectivity, and his canvas sloshed. He dismissed them as accidents, the result of a distracted mind too absorbed in his work to notice the world around him. But the truth was far more sinister.

 

Unbeknownst to Alex, a group of bitter and envious souls had set their sights on him and were obsessed with him. They were artists, too, but their talents had long since diminished, choked by resentment and a lack of recognition. When they saw Alex, his shining brilliance, his potential, they couldn’t bear the thought of his success eclipsing their forgotten ambitions.

 

“He’s too bright, too full of promise,” sneered Marcus, the ringleader, as he paced the smoke-filled, marijuana-smelling, dimly lit room where they convened. His voice was a growl, heavy with contempt. “If we let him rise, he’ll cast a shadow so dark we’ll be forgotten entirely. And we will be doomed to the shadows forever.”

 

“Then we must stop him,” agreed Sabrina, her voice as sharp as a razor blade. “Before he gets any further. Before the world even knows his name.”

 

So, they devised a plan to destroy Alex before he could shine. They would infiltrate his life, erode his confidence, torture him, and at a reasonable time, they would strike the final blow.

 

It was a rainy evening when they made their move. Alex was on his way to the studio, expecting a gruelling day. His head was full of new ideas, and his heart was lit with anticipation of what would come. He barely had time to notice the shadowy figures lurking in the corners of his home and studios at all hours.

 

They dived and swamped upon him as he entered his studio like a pack of wolves. The first blow struck his abdomen, and subsequent repeated blows, doubling him over in pain. Next was a cruel strike to the head, which sent him crashing to the floor. He could barely grasp what was happening as they kicked and beat him mercilessly, their faces depraved and twisted with jealousy and hatred.

 

“Why?” he gasped through the pain, clutching his abdomen and writhing in agony.

 

Marcus loomed over him, his eyes cold, calculating and emotionless, “You’re going to take everything from us,” he spat. “We couldn’t let you.”

 

The world spun around Alex as he drifted into unconsciousness. The last thing he heard was Sabrina’s low and vicious voice: “Now you’ll never succeed. Your dream ends here.”

 

When Alex awoke, it was to the blinding lights of a hospital emergency room. His body was a collage of bruises and stitches; each breath laboured and a battle against the pain that crashed through his frame. The doctors spoke in hush tones about the multiple surgeries he would need, the months of rehabilitation and therapy required to walk again, let alone pursue his art.

 

But it wasn’t just his body that was broken. His spirit, once so full of hope and ambition, had taken a severe beating. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind replayed their venomous words. The thought of picking up a pen or brush and creating again filled him with trepidation.

 

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of what had been stolen from him pressing down like a dull cloak. His dream, so crystal, so clear and within reach, had been snatched away in the most brutal of ways.

 

As he did the endless rounds of hospitals, and as he lay in that sterile hospital room, the bitter truth settled in his heart: his dream had turned into a nightmare, not by the hand of fate, but by the envious hearts of those who couldn’t bear to see him succeed.