"Hello?" I called out one last time. My voice echoed through the building. I was alone. I came up to the door and grabbed the bronze handle; it was cold. The door creaked open, and led into the room. The room where it had all began. The lone table with three chairs dominated the area. Faint, gray rings stained the table. One of the folding chairs had been thrown a few yards away, so that the remaining two face each other.
The door shut behind me. I whipped around, and a figure loomed in the distance. It came closer. I backed up, and took a seat in the furthest chair. A full-black outfit came into focus. A leather jacket, black denim jeans, and matching high-top sneakers. He wore a dark hoodie under the jacket, and the hood shadowed the face. He took his hands out of his pockets, and yellow bones grabbed onto the back of the opposite chair.
"It's been a while since I've seen you around." I addressed him. He didn't reply.
"You're the last one." I continued. Still, no response.
"So what is it about you that I'm supposed to know?" I leaned forward and folded my hands on the table. He shook his head. He let go of the chair, and began to walk off into the blur. I was confused. I looked up, and a sun beamed down on us. Before he left, I waved the sun away. It receded into the horizon, and stars and the moon took it's place.
He stopped, and turned back around. He took his hood off as we walked back to the table. I was expecting him to be nothing more than a skeleton. But bits of flesh still clung to his bones. An eye still darted back and froth while remaining in its socket. He placed his hands on the table; he was missing a few fingers. But some were still in tact, flesh and all.
"I wasn't expecting this." I told him.
"We all have different shadows once the night falls." He growled, sitting in the chair. There were a few moments of silence while we looked at each other. I was transfixed on his single emerald eye.
"I was hoping I could talk to Monk tonight." I stated. "These are his lessons after all."
"Why do you tell me this?" He cocked his head.
"Am I not allowed to speak?"
"Preferably not."
"Okay I think I found the reason why I don't talk to you that often."
"You would think that."
"I'm sorry?"
"I bet you like to think you never hear from me." He moaned, leaning forward. "You like to think that myself and Hollow are nothing more than the tattered remnants from a past life."
"And Hollow is just that."
"Well I'm not!" He screamed, standing up and leaning over the table. "You deal with me every day of your life, and you know it!"
"Prove it." I smirked. I thought I won.
"Everyday you look in the mirror. Every time that you see something completely different than what actually exists. I am the veil."
"That's actually body dysmorphia and its more of a mental thing."
He cocked his head over once more and began pacing behind the table. I leaned back and placed my hands behind my head. I thought I was fine. Monk had taught me well. He stopped, and slowly turned back to me. He pulled a Polaroid out of his jacket pocket and tossed it on the table. It was me. I stood in front of a lavish house, holding a book in my right hand, and she grabbed onto the other.
"What is this?" I asked.
"This is the portrait of your life." He started. "This is what you imagine and hope it to be."
"Okay?"
"We all have these images. We all know where we want our lives to be. When we gain ground in the everyday, the image changes, we want more. But when we lose ground, the picture becomes less populated."
"Very insightful." I shrugged with a smile. "I don't know what you expect me to do with this."
He sighed. He took the picture back and ripped it up into pieces.
"I learned a long time ago to never put to much faith into your own aspirations on life." I told him. "We all want to be somewhere. But no matter what we do, we'll never be exactly where we want to be."
"I don't think you gather my meaning." He grumbled. "I'm the veil"
"You said that already."
"I am what separates you from the life you want to live, but I push you away from the world."
"Sorry?"
"I separate your mind from your body. I separate your physical footing from your emotional footing. I work inside you to uproot everything that you know. I will not let you go or do anything in life."
"Okay?" I asked.
"Are you not afraid?" He asked, placing his cold hand on my shoulder.
"No." I replied. "Not really."
"Please, do tell."
"Not to long ago I had an experience that put my life back into perspective." I explained. "I know where I want to be in life, but I have to live from day to day; that's the only way to do it."
"But even then, you have trouble doing that, do you not?"
"I guess."
"Have you ever wondered why?"
"Sometimes?"
"I am the agent of conduit of chaos in your life." He snarled. "Every time the components of your inner self begin to separate, I am the vehicle in which they are pulled apart."
I grinned at him. Then I started laughing under my breath.
"You think this is funny?!" He shouted.
"Kinda, yeah." I chuckled.
He was confused. He couldn't speak. He couldn't even move from the cloud upon which he stood.
"The vast majority of us hate it when either ourselves, or someone else refers to us as "art." We hate it. We hate being associated with this thing that is pristine, and perfect. But a mosaic is considered art, isn't it? A mosaic is the artful amalgamation of many broken and segmented pieces; none of them are whole, yet they are still considered art. So why is it that we, as people, who are comprised of those same broken and segmented pieces, wish to be whole?"
He lowered his arms, sighed, and walked off into the distance. The door opened once more, and Monk emerged. He was sniffling, and bowed his head when he walked up to me.
"You have no idea how proud I am of you."
"For what?" I shrugged.
He sighed, and motioned into the sky. The stars were brighter. And the moon sent a beam of light over the door.
"You have passed the tests." He spoke.
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