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master died this week.
i never knew people could die so quickly. he was just standing there, and now he's gone. like a mirror breaking when it collapses on the floor.
his last rites were held early in the morning. mistess chose the place of his burial: it is in the mansion's garden. she liked that place a lot, and master yi sang was, well, a recluse. each morning i would wake him up and lead him towards the dining room, where he would meet his wife. after breaking his fast, he would ask me to guide him back.
you could say that mistress saw his portrait more often than she did the man. the piece was walled in the corridor leading to the wing where she rested every night. it's gotten to the point where master would ask to deliver things to his bedroom – books, letters, some other... knick-knacks. whenever one would enter his abode, this place would always be so cold and barely lit, and only his belongings would reflect the light from a burning candle or a gap in the curtains. the shelves here held so many trinkets: bottles (empty, of course – I don't recall him ever drinking), prisms, coloured glass. and there were those things hanging from the ceiling, what do you call them... those long bell things. they would make sound whenever wind blew inside the room, and i would even call the sound they made beautiful.
now master rests beneath the most beautiful tree in the garden; mistess said it was a cherry tree in bloom. it was an ancient, towering thing – i never saw a cherry tree like this before. on that day it started shedding it's blossoms. during the rites i held an umbrella above that woman's head. raindrops had pinned the petals to the black fabric. of that, of course, i did not learn until we entered the house. i've heard a gasp coming from the woman. i guess she took it as a sign of some sorts from her late companion.
honestly, i don't think he liked flowers at all.
whenever the bouquets in the dining room withered, a shadow of sorrow would obscure his face. almost like he hated the fact that they were cut only for them to die lacking light, lacking a ground to be connected to. honestly, i share the sentiment. i hate flowers.
once, one of the butlers knocked over mistress's beloved vase: it was red on white, and the flowers inside were carnations. i've had to fire her. naturally, i would have fired her even if mistess hadn't loved them so dearly. that's also why i did not really want to send the butler away. i've hated the woman as much as i've hated her flowers. my hatred was entirely egoistic and senseless.
i've wanted to end the contract with this manor a long, long time ago – yet i couldn't. my fate is like the soil to my roots, making me unable to move. mother was a butler here, and i, too, was forced to become one. i was small back then. one thing i recall is that even then i've had this dream to become an artist. i hadn't given up on this dream, picking up the pen in between work here when i could afford it.
there's a lot of paintings in the house. some were already there, some were drawn by the mistress. master would sometimes stare at them like he was spellbound. for me, they were all empty, akin to a bug smeared on a wall. well, there was one that i liked though. it was that portrait. i do not know who made it. definetely not his wife. the strokes were different. the style wasn't hers. and he was younger there than when he... yeah.
one time i've got it into my head to redraw this portrait from memory in my notebook. it was shoddy work. the features were like they were of a different person.
i've seen his face every day so closely. the arch of his nose, the shape of his cheeks and lips. if i were to cast my head upwards lacing his boots in the morning, i would've seen them so much more intimately. i never did. what a pity. no matter what i do, i can't remember what he looks like. the portrait is what's left, but his looks is... different. not his. it must've been this bright at some point in the past. the last time i saw him, his eyes were entirely black.
it was the night before he was found. he was standing in the hallway, gazing at his own likeness.
"gregor... do i look like him?"
i did not answer him. i couldn't.
"since when your glasses are broken?.."
"since two weeks ago. can't find the time to buy new ones. sorry"
my salary was being withheld for two months already. of course, he wasn't the one who deals with monetary concerns here, so he wouldn't know.
"it... does not matter. come closer, if you want to, and... look closer at my face"
like a dog on a leash i stepped forward, without any thinking. then i stopped. i shouldn't encourage his behaviour, in his doctor's words. i don't even know what behaviour he was referring to.
master made his step as i did, however. then he did so again. it was just now that i've realised how much taller he was than me.
"there, if you can't see..."
he took my hand in his own. they were warm and soft and the hallway was so, so cold. mine was probably too rough for him, but he lifted my palm up to his face anyway, leaning forward a little, as if telling me to look with my skin instead.
i couldn't see a thing. my heart was racing like a startled beast. truly, his behaviour should not be encouraged.
then i opened my eyes. i've never seen such dark eyes before. it's like the darkest night was upon this earth
"am i... beautiful?"
i've kept my silence. then answered "yes". the sound of my answer was that of the broken glass.