Depths too Deep to Fathom

Though what I am about to transcribe will say otherwise I write this of sound mind and sound body to document the dark tendrils of unshakable sorrow, deep-seated despair, and fraying sanity that have entrapped my soul and crushed every ounce of hope for the future from it.

It started a few months ago, not long after the ing of my beloved Sage.

At first I believed it to be the effects of the poisons people called alcohol I tried to drown my grief in a futile struggle against my depression. I then tried to blame it on the paint fumes from painting in the small apartment I found myself in after moving out of the now far too empty home. I even began to believe that it was the claws of insanity raking at the poor addled mind of an artistic bastard who just lost everything but the dreams were far too clear to have been drink, too coherent to have been fumes, and far, far too real to have been my breaking mind.

In the beginning the dreams were mundane and rather pleasant. I dreamed of beaches with the waves gently lapping at my feet as I sat on the shore, staring out towards the horizon, becoming one with the scenery. They were so heavenly that I believed them to be my mind or the gods consoling me in unconsciousness but with each dream I found myself delving deeper and deeper beneath the waves. Seeing schools of vibrant fish almost flying through the crystal clear waters, beautiful coral reefs that shimmered with the wavy net of light from the water's surface, and even aquatic grimm gracefully swimming through the ocean's waters, not stirred by my presence to attack.

Deeper and deeper into the ocean I delved with each dream. I began to paint the beautiful scenes, thankfully using it as a better alternative to the drinking and tears. My soul began to feel lighter, if ever so slightly. I soon found myself internalizing my loss and found a resolve to move forward knowing that my beloved Sage wouldn't want to see me waste away or to wallow. I began to feel better but that levity was soon shattered as I kept going deeper and deeper.

Soon the warm, sunlight waters grew colder and darker, the fish that swam appeared as murky shapes that seemed to stalk at the edges of my senses, the colors of the reefs began to be replaced by endless underwater deserts of silt and gravel, and the aquatic grimm, which I began to develop an ittedly perverse iration for, broke that fragile positivity I held and replaced it with paranoia. These things were not the end of the decent into the nightmares, no, I began to hear it; a whisper began to rise from the depths.

I couldn't tell what it was saying in those first few dreams. All I could make out was it sounded like a low murmur of many voices that caressed the back of my head with their soft whispy words. They would whisper to me as I sank down, deeper and deeper into the abyss below. I shrinking my body into a tight ball as my eyes scanned the inky blackness for something, anything at all that could help ground me to a semblance of something tangible.

I swore that the grimm could sense the dread in me as I desperately tried to calm my heart with memories of Sage, but it just added sorrow to that dread as the still fresh wounds on my heart tore themselves wider as warm tears mixed with the cold waters around me. The proverbial blood was in the water and I dared not expand my body, afraid that if I stretched a hand out to the void that something would snatch me up and devour me.

I could feel eyes watching me. I couldn't tell where they were but I knew that they were there. They stared at me as I felt the bristling heat at the back of my neck. I tried my best to wake up, hoping that my eyes would snap open to the ceiling of my apartment with streaks of sunlight blearily sneaking their way through the gaps of the blinds, but it would never happen, not until the whispers stopped.

Eventually as I pulled my body tighter together and shut my eyes closed the whispers that had been plaguing me as I sank, those ever present murmurs that acted like static in my head, suddenly clarified into a single voice.

"Hello..."

My eyes snapped open and suddenly my vision was flushed in a purple-tinted glow as I looked down at the conclusion of my journey. I didn't release my tightened form as I looked all around me at the buildings that now swallowed up the scenery, a jarring change from the thick darkness that didn't let me see my hand centimeters away from my face.

Each building was tall with spire-like roofs, featuring intricate geometric carvings akin to a knot of lines that weft and wove their way through one another. Some buildings made up the base level of the city but I could see many more buildings floating, suspended by some force that allowed such, on small platforms of stone. Each building had aquaduct-like roads connecting them to one another. The pillars of the roads stretched downwards all the way to the bottom level of the city, which was coated in a strange roiling fog that stayed low to the ground.

The material that the buildings were carved from was pock-marked but smooth like river stones, divorcing itself from images of man-made vessels lost to the waves encrusted in seaweed, barnacles, and other sea life. But before I could continue, the feeling of eyes watching me returned as I looked around me at the spires and empty windows only to find that I was surrounded by eyes. They appeared like the kind of drawing you would get if you asked a person to draw an eye, football-like in shape with a circle in the middle. They glowed an eerie purple as the voice called out once more and I shrank back into myself, my vision catching a floating figure.

"Paint this... for me..."

The voice rang out as I felt my heart racing uncontrollably. It kept going faster and faster as the shallow breaths I had been taking began to fill my chest with a building pressure. I clutched at my chest, clawing at my own skin to try and relieve the pressure but the voice called out again.

"Paint this... for me."

Tears fell from my eyes and mixed with the sea water until eventually it felt like my hart literally burst in my chest as I woke up flailing in my bed. I sat there in the darkness of my bedroom for some time, too afraid to move until the sun eventually rose a few hours later. I stared at my sheets that were wet with my tears and sweat as my shaky hands raised to touch my chest gingerly, as if expecting a hole to be where my heart was.

"Paint this for me..."

I repeated that for a few minutes in a stupor before I got out of bed and began to paint that nightmarish scene from my dreams, each brushstroke a reminder of the horror.

A few weeks ed until I had finished the piece. The dreams didn't continue from that point on but I no longer dreamt at all. I would fall asleep and then wake up in the morning with nothing in between which I didn't mind. For the first few days my fear forced me into an uncomfortable insomnia but in that time I worked tirelessly on the painting. By the time I was finished it was the best piece I had ever painted. Each stroke was precise, the colors were vibrant, and the sense of dread was palpable. I stared at it and the usual joy I felt after finishing a piece did not wash over me. As I stared at the simulacra of my experience there the purple eyes, the greenish city, and that figure floating in front of me I felt nothing but emptiness.

I wanted to get rid of the painting as soon as I could with the feeling of unease that permeated it; I put it up for sale, with the intent to at least make back the money I spent on the supplies I had used. It didn't take much time at all before I was shocked at the generosity of a gentleman who purchased the piece for a truly staggering amount of lien, enough to pay for my rent and amenities for at least 6 months.

Before I could catch his name however, he took the painting and left my workshop. I did ask why he was drawn to the painting and his only reply was, "It is a gift for my lady." I can only assume it was in reference to his wife. A strange taste she must have had.

After that my thoughts were consumed by my experience with the dreams. I still fear each night when I go to sleep, afraid that the dreams will come to me again and I haven't even been near a lake let alone the ocean in the past few months. Even photographs fill me with that deep sense of despair.

But that is my s of this matter. I send this letter in the hope that it reaches you in good health and that it may explain my sudden absence from my usual studio.

I am afraid I can no longer stay in Vale, it is filled with far too many negative memories for me now and I hope that this entire experience was simply a cry from my pathos to move on. I will be moving to Vacuo shortly after sending this letter to you my friend; far less water there and a change of scenery may do me and my art some good.

If anything comes to light then please send word to me. I would hate for our correspondence to end so suddenly. Also, for weighing your heart down with my plight and no-doubt insane sounding rambling I will be more than willing to paint a new piece for your office. As I recall you had a particularly sparse section of wall that could use a touch of color. After all if you are going to be stuck in that heaster's office of yours for days on end you might as well have something nice to look at. Just a joke of course but my offer stands.

With highest regards, Wight Havensmith