The birds are chirping, fluttering around in the wind, chasing each other. The sun is shining, peeking through my curtains until I rip them open. The warm rays kiss my face, filling me with energy and positivity. It's Sunday, the lord's day. But it's also my day, the day when I shed my mundane disguise, and I'm free to be myself. Free to pursue my true interest: art. It is a tragic reality of our capitalistic society that I am forced to be an accountant instead of my true calling. Oh, to be born in a different age, before CEOs, privatized healthcare, and social media. I could've been a Michelangelo, a Shakespeare, or a Frank Lloyd Wright. But alas, I am but a lowly wageslave doing everything I can to remain jubilant and not wither away.

I give Princess Beatrice, my wonderful Ragdoll companion, her owed tithe in the form of head scritches. She rolls over, presenting her royal tummy to me, purring as she wakes up from her nap. I'm not one to reject such a gift, and I deliver the belly rubs she wants. My single-bedroom Manhattan apartment isn't large by any means, but it's big enough for me and Beatrice. And that's all that matters. My automated espresso machine turns on at the same time that Beatrice's feeder does. The sound of grinding coffee beans and kibble hitting a metal dish reverberates through the apartment. Beatrice meows loudly, rushing out of the room over to her bowl. Ungrateful, you act like I starve you.

I don't head right for the kitchen; I head to the bathroom first. The harsh overhead light clicks on as I enter. Looking at the person reflected in the mirror, I don't recognize them. The flabby, chubby body created from decades of inaction in a cubicle, working countless hours of overtime, leaving no room for any kind of exercise or healthy eating. The pudgy, sagging face of a sad sap who hates their life. Neatly trimmed hair to adhere to company standards, and eyes lacking any soul behind them. This isn't who I am. This is merely what society forces you to be. You are beautiful, creative, and worthy of love and admiration.

"I am beautiful, creative, and worthy of love and admiration."

I repeat my mantra five times before slapping my cheeks hard. Washing my face, I scrub deep and moisturize. I need to look my best for my performance later. Months of planning, gathering feedback from peers, scouting for the perfect venue, and rehearsing my lines until I could recite them in my sleep. My costume is clean and ironed, my metal mask spotlessly shiny, and my bag is packed. Nothing can get in your way now, Norman.

"I am creating the life I've always dreamed of. I am capable of doing hard things. I get better every single day," I said loudly to myself.

Princess Beatrice meows, circling around me and wanting to be picked up. I lift her up without commenting on how heavy she is. It would be rude to speak of a lady's weight. She purrs, rubbing her face against mine, marking me with her scent. As long as I have you, I'll be okay. On top of the porcelain top of my bathroom vanity is a mannequin's head with a wig on top of it. Gorgeous wavy brunette hair, with trimmed bangs dyed blonde; it is one of my most cherished possessions. Freshly styled and held by hair spray, it's ready for the glorious show I have planned. I have six hours before I have to leave, and I can't think of anything I'd rather do than watch another three-and-a-half-hour episode of the docuseries Capes under Covers, focused on the secret relationships that led to the downfall of three teams of the Chicago Heroes' Union.

The Phineas Langstrom Poetry Nook is one of the last bastions of the Fine Arts in New York, fighting the good fight against the wave of low-effort AI slop, reboots of reboots, reaction streams, and worst of all: the rise of content creators. I suppress a shudder as I get in the back of the rideshare. Nothing can be worse than them. Located in the East Village, it was originally a single-room speakeasy at the end of an alleyway between a used bookstore and an artisan cafe. The business was so good, they eventually bought up the two neighboring stores, and thus the Poetry Nook was born.

"Aye, yous aiight back der? If you're on something, get the fuck out of my car," the driver barked at me.

"I'm quite alright, my good fellow. I'm just full of nervous energy and excitement for the night's festivities. Tonight will be the greatest performance of my life and the start of my career in the thea-ter," I enunciated.

"Oh, yous one of those Broadway hopefuls. You fancy yaself some typa actuh?"

"I am not an actor. What I do is not an act, but creates a window to allow others a glimpse inside of my twisted mind. I craft fragments of my tortured soul into pigments of colors with no names to paint a picture for those who can't see the world as I do."

The driver doesn't respond to my proclamation, merely grunting, and the remainder of the short ride is in silence. My mask, wig, and other instruments are within a backpack I brought. The garment bag containing my outfit is hanging from the grab handle. I am a magnet for success. My will is unbreakable, and my confidence is unshakeable. I belong here, and I deserve to take up space. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I throw my backpack over my shoulder and grab my costume. The driver speeds away, nearly splashing me with a puddle from last night's rainfall. It doesn't matter, though; I'm here, and it will go well. I exude beauty and grace. My hard work will pay off. Success is but a step away. I'm ready.

I haven't eaten all day. I can't; consuming food on performance days is a recipe for anxious puking. Storytellers like myself don't rely on calories for sustenance; they subsist on passion. The powder room I'm in at Phineas Langstrom Poetry Nook features a single stool, a full-body mirror, and harsher lighting than a dentist's office. The once white walls are stained brown from decades of smoke damage. There are stains visible underneath the spots where the wallpaper is peeling. The faint sour smell fills my nose, a mixture of dried sweat, wet dog, and a hint of lavender.

I strip down to my briefs and socks, neatly folding my clothes on the stool. Unzipping the garment bag, I gently remove my costume. Crafted by a master seamstress, perfectly tailored to my needs and desires. Venetian breeches, the color of Zinfandel with honey yellow cross stitching up the sides, white nether socks, and a white doublet with a frilled neck and wrist. Over the doublet is a jerkin, similar in color to the breeches, but with a custom addition I requested. Built into the jerkin is a motorized corset, allowing me to shape my form as I'd like. Like how God sculpted humanity, my body shall be clay. Tears cascade down my face, like morning dew dripping off a leaf. I am deserving of love and respect. Curved and pointed at the tip, my heeled brown leather shoes are snug. The outfit clutches me like a lover, tender but tightly. It takes me a few minutes to regulate my breathing as the corset tightens around me. But art imitates life, and to live is to suffer.

I apply the wig cap over my hair and then begin doing my makeup. White face paint layered over my face, then cherry lipstick, thin black lines to mimic eyebrows, and then on to my eyes. Thick black circles around my eyes, and then I surround the circles with diamond outlines. Two stars, one on each cheek, and I'm done. Today is going to be a great day. I check my wig, making sure no hair is out of place. There's a problem with the bangs; they're not lined up. This is why I brought a small comb. I slowly fix the bangs, spraying them with hairspray after every adjustment. Now they're perfect. I take a deep breath, feeling the constraining caress of the jerkin, as I center myself in the moment.

"Failure in creative pursuits cannot be determined by others. I am in control, and I decide what success looks like," I said confidently.

"Up next, we have Not Quite Norman, performing a rendition of Biff's monologue from Death of a Salesman," said the emcee over the speaker system.

Polite sporadic clapping commences as I wait backstage. The overhead lights rotate around until they fall on the metal stool at the center. With a backdrop of old red bricks from pre-prohibition America, a spotlight shines on a microphone stand; my platform awaits. All the failures, mistakes, stumbles, and stutters have lead to this. A captive audience whose emotions I shall manipulate like a maestro before his musicians. They know not what is to come. I step out on the stage carrying my backpack. I lean it against the wall and move the stool out of the way.

"Ahem. Hear this, Chuck, this is who I am. You know why I had no address for three months? I stole a watch in New York City, and I was thrown in jail. I robbed myself of every opportunity since high school. And I never got anywhere or made it because you shot my balloons before they could be filled. You brandished a hot forge and hammer, molded me into a follower, never to rise above my station. You made me spiteful, and I lashed out. That's whose fault it is, and it's about goddamn time you heard that! I had to be big man in charge in two weeks, and I'm through with it. Chuck! I ran down eleven flights with a spreadsheet in my hand today. And suddenly I stopped, are you listening, Dad? And in the middle of that awful office building, are you listening? I stopped in the middle of that building, and I saw the sky for the first time in decades. I saw the things that I love in the world. The music and the thea-ter, and the time to work on abandoned ideas and half-finished projects. I saw the me that never was. And I looked at the spreadsheet and said to myself, Who am I doing this for? Why am I trying so hard to become what I never wanted to be? What am I doing in an office, making a pathetic, sad, unrecognizable caricature of myself, when all I want is out there, waiting for me the second I say I know who I truly am? Why can't I say that, Chuck? Why can't I be honest with myself? I'm a dime a dozen, and so are all of us! We don't matter in the universe's grand design. We are infinitesimal specks of dust from shattered stars whose lights went out millennia ago. I am not a leader of me, Chuck, and neither are you. You were never anything but a boy who believed that hard work can trump talent, and look where that got you? Down here with the rest of the rats, feeding off the bloated corpses of dreamers who got too close to the sun. For I am not Icarus, and you are certainly no Daedalus. You didn't craft wings for me to fly; you ripped those I was born with to shreds, and hid the sun's existence from me. Your life story, your baggage born of a lifetime of back-breaking labor, was tied to my feet, keeping me grounded. You killed the me that could have been but never was. You crushed a child's dream because you had forgotten what it felt like to look forward and see a path."

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My mouth is dry and my breathing is tough, but I did it. I nailed it. This is going to be the best day of my life, a new beginning for me. Fame, adoration are all within reach. My fans will come from far and wide to see me perform.

"BOOOOO. BOOOOOOOOO. That sucked!" A heckler yelled.

No matter, with fans come foes.

"What the fuck did that have to do with Death of a Salesman?" A woman asked her date loudly.

"I don't know. It felt all over the place and was so resentful of his father. Biff is fed up with pretending and wants to stop, but that just feels like an angsty teenager upset that he isn't famous," said the man next to her.

"Why's he dressed like a jester?"

"CAUSE HE'S A FUCKIN' JOKE!" Someone yelled.

The crowd erupts into laughter at the heckler's remarks. Each comment is an arrow to my chest, nay, my soul. For I have laid bare my truest self to these people, explored traumas buried deeply and wounds long scabbed over. Every single one of them fueling their own egos as they devour every drop of confidence I have squeezed from the stone that is my petrified heart. I gave them everything I had. I bled for them, for my performance, for my art. Something deep within me, a pool of darkness where my worst thoughts go to fester, stirs, awakening from its slumber. It speaks inside my head, whispering tempting words of promised violence. Should they not bleed as thou hast? My dark passenger beckons me to let them enter. Repay their mocking tones and chideful laughs with painful reminders of lessons they have forgotten, that all have forgotten. You shan't mock what you don't understand, and you don't hurt what you can't kill. The offer of debts repaid in blood appeals to me, the baser self, the animalistic side of the person I am. The dark passenger knocks, and I unlock the door.

My power blasts out of me and silences the room. Every single person freezes in place, their heads moving to stare at me. Those with closed eyes are now opened, jaws stuck open from their hearty laughter. All twenty people inside are now forced to pay attention to me. Captivated by the sheer presence I have, they cannot look away. They've become the perfect audience. They did not like your performance. Shall we show them how to paint? The world is but a canvas, and my work will be an homage to Jackson Pollock. If we are to create, we need our instruments. I reach into my backpack, pulling out my mask, my mallet, and my straight razor. My mask is made of brushed bronze, split directly down the middle into two faces: one laughing and smiling, known as comedy, and the other frowning and crying, known as tragedy. Art can truly elicit any emotion.

"I radiate positivity energy in all my interactions. My mind is clear and my focus is unwavering."

The first heckler, the man who booed, is everything about the scene that I hate. Pretentious, unwelcoming, and dismissive of others' art. My mallet smashes into the left side of his face, sending teeth and blood flying onto his table neighbor's face. The hit knocks him out of his chair, but my ability makes his head turn to look at me. I have your undivided attention. Like Hephaestus deep within Mount Olympus, my mighty hammer falls upon my forge as I craft a masterpiece. With a pool of blood at my feet and shattered fragments of skull spread out on the floor, I realize what a fantastic medium I have stumbled upon. I gather up the skull fragments, flicking away the blood and brain matter on them. Dropping them off onto the stage, I go to collect more. My mallet swings are measured as I slowly figure out how to create the shapes I want out of the bone. One by one, I smash open their heads like pumpkins on Halloween, gathering up the jagged pieces and bringing them to the stage.

They're all dead, but I am struck by inspiration. A true artist performs even when there is no one to witness. The brick wall behind the stage is calling out to my artistic soul. My finger traces a line across the bricks, feeling a gritty powder come off of it. This would work perfectly for what I have in mind. Slamming the steel mallet into the stone repeatedly makes a shower of brick dust come off. I scoop the powder off the floor with my hands and carry it over to the closest corpse. I dump the powder onto the table and dip my right hand into one of the pools of blood on the floor, ladling the viscous red liquid out. Slowly, I pour the blood into the pile of dust, mixing it with my left index finger. I add more and more until I reach a consistency barely thicker than brownie batter. This will do wonderfully. With the plentiful supply of skull shards and my creative solution to the lack of an adhesive, I can begin creating the mosaic. I can picture it in my mind so clearly: a bubbling brook that snakes through a forest, with the sun high above and a herd of deer stopping for a drink.

"I am a valuable member of my community and contribute positively to the world around me."

I lose track of time in the Nook. All my focus and attention go toward the mosaic, making sure every single detail is right and matches the image in my mind. Minutes turn to hours, and I am unaware of anything but the creation of this piece. It is done. It is only from the depths of despair that we can discover what we are made of. I am naught but a creature of habit, same as anyone else. For all of us are made in his image, and therefore we are full of faults. My habits, my faults, lead me to obsess over some things and leave others by the wayside. In my trance of blissful imagination, I don't notice I'm not alone until I hear clapping.

"Why, you are quite the artist. Aren't you Norman?" A woman asked.

The woman in question is light-skinned, early thirties, with perfect skin. One side of her head is nearly buzzed, while the rest is braided. She's dressed modestly, in simple clothes, light colors, and sitting with her legs crossed. The smile on her face is kind and warm, like a ray of sunlight hitting you while you nap. She's not alone; there's a small child with white skin, black eyes, and monochromatic clothes with a splatter pattern on them. The child looks disinterested, like all of this isn't happening here. There are two other women with her. One is a 6'4 supermodel with proportions that aren't anatomically possible. She doesn't look real, an ethereal beauty that cannot exist upon this plane of existence. That is a goddess sculpted from stone and brought to life by magic. This one was not born but made, and I must know who made her.

"Who made you, Angel of Symmetry?" I asked her.

The original woman laughs, not offended by my manners. It isn't that I'm being dismissive of her, but rather I need to know what master crafted such a work. This flawless creature of excellence shows an artistic vision that I have not had the honor of gazing upon. The angel's eyes stare at me, not blinking or moving at all. Then it laughs, and it is as if I have been deaf my whole life. It is the greatest symphony I have ever heard, my very being weeps in joyous harmony as I resonate with the world.

"Angel of Symmetry? I don't hate it. I made me. What you see is my true vision of myself made real. I am Doll," she, no, Doll said.

"Great, he's a fuckin' pervert. Can we go now?" The fourth and final person asked.

The voice comes from a female teenager with bright blue hair. She's got colored contacts in that are making her eyes purple, and wearing all black. A black hoodie for some band I've never heard of, with holes chewed into the sleeves for her thumbs to go through. Ripped black skinny jeans with a belt that looks like a chain and a pair of Chuck Taylors. She has the look of someone her age, where everything is annoying, and her whole attitude is counterculture. Which can result in creating artists, but can just as easily result in snobbish gatekeepers. She doesn't understand my fascination with this Doll, it isn't sexual but an intense respect for a master of the arts.

"Umbra, darling, watch your language. Norman isn't like that. He was admiring Doll the way one would a work of art, not with beastial lust," the first woman said.

"Sorry, Mother," the girl, Umbra, replied sheepishly.

"Where were we, Norman? Ah yes. I was admiring your talent. As soon as I saw it, I was transported into it. It was as if I were one of the deer lapping at the stream. Or the birds soaring between the trees. But eventually, I settled into my role within the world you created. I am the stream. I provide for those in my care and nurture all with my spirit. The medium of death to represent the vitality within a forest is a wonderful contrast that really strikes you. Because there is a beauty in death, is there not?" she said.

"Y-you get it. You like it? Thank you. Sorry, who are you people?" I asked.

"I am a Chosen of God, sent to gather those who are lost and deliver them to their home. I am also a Mother who loves her children. You've been alone for so long, Norman. Forced to hide your wonderful self, that is not what He wants for His people. He wants you to be your real self, Norman. I want you to be your real self," she said softly.

There is something about her that feels so safe. She's saying everything I've always wanted to hear. How? To be accepted for who I am, who I want to be, is a dream I'd given up on.

"Where is home?" I asked, swallowing.

"Home is wherever you have family, and I'd like you to join our family, Norman. You'll be free to create whatever you want, however you want. Free from judgment or bullies."

"You mean it?" I asked, hopeful.

"Of course I do. All a Mother wants is for her children to be happy. Come here, sweetheart. Let's get out of here. There are some who would see this and not understand the beauty in it," Mother replied.

I walk over, still holding my bloody mallet and straight razor. None of them moves to disarm me or attack me. Even the rude teenager doesn't look at me with revulsion like before. I've never been around so many people and not felt the urge to shy away. Mother stands up, wraps her arms around me, and just stays like that, holding me gently. My arms feel like jelly, all the strength leaves them as my worries bleed away to euphoric bliss. Is this what love feels like? My weapons drop out of my hands, but they don't hit the ground. The ghostly little girl holds her hand out, and they stop falling.

"You dropped this," she said emotionlessly.

"Thank you."

"Where we going, Mom?" Umbra asked.

"Take us to Norman's apartment. We cannot leave Princess Beatrice behind," Mother answered.

"Got it," Umbra responded.

She holds her palms up, and I notice ash begin to swirl around us. The ash spins faster and faster, growing until we're surrounded in a dome of it, plunging us into darkness. The darkness recedes as quickly as it appears, but we're inside my apartment now, not the Nook. It took less than twenty-five seconds for us to teleport across Manhattan. What have I signed up for? Princess Beatrice runs into the room and jumps into the ghost girl's hands. She pets her, maintaining a blank look on her face as Beatrice does her best to make the little girl fall in love with her. Traitor.

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