Three Simple Words

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“Villain.”

At first, the voice was unrecognizable, broken and desperate- something no one ever used when speaking to Villain of all people. Despite the shock factor of such a voice calling his name, Villain strolled passed another painting, stopping only when he turned a corner and found himself in a room of sculptures. Some day he would sit on that bench over there and put the three dimensional objects onto paper. How fascinating, to make the multi-planed into just one.

“Villain.” That voice again. What could the person even want? Maybe it was only in Villain’s head.

This sculpture. This one was his favourite- a body so still, and yet seemingly alive. Asleep on a bed of marble, yet with a face twisted in pain, as if they were living in a nightmare, and no one lent a helping hand. No one tried to wake them up from their obvious misery of eternal night.

Who was the sculptor, Villain wondered? Who was so angry that they took it out on this block of rock? And how dare they make this pain immortal? Why put it on the face of a man- one that would surely be stared at by another-

“Villain.”

“What?”