Call

The Phone won't stop ringing.

Beyond comprehension to take his form in full, Eros exists in the confines of a space so vast yet so limiting.

A chair. An easel. And that damn Phone.

The chair is perfect, sculpted to Eros and every one of his needs.

The easel is life itself and Eros is the eternal artist. Ever emotion, every bit of love ever shared in the known universe and beyond; ALL of it was evocatively displayed on the canvas. It is THE Magnum Opus, despite the fact it will never be finished.

The Phone is an entity in of itself. A line to every form of life out there, endlessly calling out to Eros. Calling out to Love. The Phone takes the form of a 1960's rotary phone in classic black. There are no numbers on the dials however, why would there be? The Phone has only ever received calls, never making one. This line was connected before Eros and will continue to function well past him and any successors. Every call fuels the never ending supply of paint for the canvas. The phone rings, life calls out, therefore Eros must paint.

Eros paints with both precision and child like whimsy. Each stroke a heartbeat; a breath of life splattered onto the canvas in just the right way.

However there are times when the paint runs dry ever so slightly. The bristles on his brush grow stiff for just a brief moment. As if the canvas itself is retaliating, a work not of his own appears before him. These moments however brief drive madness and despair into Eros's very core.

“Another red line” Eros says softly to himself. “His calling card.”

For Eros, the canvas has always been a joint venture. An uninvited guest takes part at their own will in the form of a thin red line. So feint you might mistake it for a trick of the eye but once observed in all of it's unholy glory, it can never be unseen. For Eros, this is his battle, his eternal struggle. For he must make his canvas so beautiful, so immaculate that the red line dissipates in the grandeur of love itself.

The unfortunate realty is that the red line is just as much a part of the canvas as Eros's works. A string of red woven though it all, endless and unceasing. For many the canvas is ONLY the red line. A line that strangulates every bit of their being. The very air one breaths becomes a cruel trick. The red line beckons to those in only the most dire situations. Some are able to fight back for just a moment to call out to Eros.

However for those who are unable to, just like Eros, another is called upon in times of need.

Thanatos.

To Eros the red line is a remembrance, the graveyard that sits innocuously amongst life itself. Every soul that called out to his counterpart is ingrained into memory, each name spoken under his breath as if to invoke the very idea of “Never Again”.

“Thanatos I will always stand to match you. Are you watching!? For I shall paint you out of existence!” Eros bellows out into the cosmos.

“You may gawk at me in your minor victories Thanatos” Brush to canvas, Eros's passions become reality. Each stroke a beat in the canvas's orchestration.

“But remember THIS Thanatos, in those small moments I only step out! I do NOT STEP DOWN!” Eros amps up speed, he paints with unrivaled fervor. Reaching a crescendo, Eros gives all of himself in this one moment to the canvas.

In his favorite color of all, a new masterpiece sprawls across space and time.

All in a beautiful shade of blue.

“FOR I AM EROS! THE ETERNAL PAINTER!”

Eros's words reverberate within an incalculable amount of space yet only his ears are the receiving end.

Breath in. The phone rings. Breath out. The paint refills with every bit of love as before.

Breath in. The brush resumes its post and is dipped into the endless ocean. Breath out. Eros....

“I'm so tired”

Eros has never admitted this to himself before, and he has no idea what to do with this epiphany. His task seemingly endless, for just this once he has allowed himself to be weak.

Eros softly chuckles to himself “And after that grand riposte too” he huffs as he slumps in his chair.

Eros has always had a nagging thought formulating over eons. Slowly but surely eating at his very being. An unavoidable question that the universe formed just for him. His very existence coinciding with the thought itself.

“Who do I call upon for love?” The words slip out with the weight of a thousand suns.

As if the cosmos is attempting to answer back, Eros is reminded of his childhood. Learning to be the Eternal Painter took a monumental amount of work but it had to be done. Before it all started, he got to do one painting of his own volition. No onlookers, no stakes, whatever he desired.

Eros remembers his painting of a butterfly with bittersweet care. A small blue butterfly. For he had dreams of being one. A being that had the power to fly out of the oubliette that he was stuck in. Something that was free.

Eros breaks his trance and resumes his works.

A small blue butterfly sits upon the phone handle, awaiting the day he is seen.

The red line grows a little brighter.

The Phone won't stop ringing.