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The Allegory of Art

Meet the Anti-hero.

By RolaPublished 3 years ago 12 min read
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Cover of the story in the MoxieMag December 2020 issue.

It is said that there was once a woman so beautiful, she tempted a god and for his lust, she was punished. Her beauty turned into monstrosity; the desire she had once inspired in men turned into fear. She was condemned to live for eternity as a beast. Her enchanting emerald stare, the one that turned whoever looked at it into stone, sentenced her to an immortal life of solitude.

Or at least that’s what they said.

They called her the gorgon.

That ill-fated afternoon, the one in which princess Andromeda should have been sacrificed to save the presumptuous kingdom of Ethiopia, the world celebrated Perseus and his bravery. The young demigod had saved the day after defeating the gruesome Kraken. His name would be sung in tales of courage and heroism for eternity; the gods would praise his feats and statues would be raised for him. Perseus had won glory and immortality.

However, there was someone who did not share the ecstasy. As he lay in one of the palace walls, his silver hair falling carelessly in his shoulders, Dali looked at the gorgon’s head in Perseus’ belt. The weapon a hero had wielded against the Kraken to turn the beast into stone. His hazel eyes, an undying storm, showed nothing but agony.

With his head bowed in defeat, he heard the awe whispers of merchants. “Her poisonous curse in the hands of a hero… her ghastly head held by Perseus... her deadly eyes facing the Kraken.”

He tightened his fists.

Ghastly. Poisonous. Deadly.

She saved the presumptuous kingdom of Ethiopia; her enchanting eyes had turned the Kraken into stone. Yet, she was nothing but a knot in the belt of a demigod. She was, once again, outraged by the carriers of ichor. Her death was nothing but a motive of celebration. The pain in his chest and the trembling desperation that invaded his body caused Dali to grit his teeth.

They didn’t even call her by her name: Medusa.

A single tear fell, leaving a trail through his dirty cheek to his lips. A flash of a tender smile and a soft caress went through his mind. A memory he was begging to feel again, but would never be. He found comfort in the way that sweet smile was not completely human. It had two sharp fangs and a single gold ring in one of her broken lips.

He could almost hear her whispering his name in that playful tone: “Dali.”

The soft caress wasn’t common either. Her fingers were crowned with keen claws, the same she painted with a light blue ink stolen from the nymphs. A small reminder of her lost vanity as a young maiden. His body relaxed at the faded sensation of her rough skin finishing with the delicate and subtle trace of those nails. So powerful, so dangerous, and yet so gentle with him.

“Young man, why are ye cryin’? We’ve been saved!” An older man asked with a soft tone.

Dali looked at him from the corner of his hazel eyes, absently. As if he could see the dim gold light the old man’s body emanated. It was impossible, of course, gods were omnipotent and their disguises too realistic. But, his worsened woe had other motive: the memory was gone; the sensation was gone too. “I’ve got nothin’ to celebrate,” Dali answered before covering his head with the hood of the ruby red cape and grabbing the golden lariat around his robe. Another of Medusa’s gifts.

“And why would that be?” The old man asked. His voice still soft, his bald head shining with the last rays of sun.

Dali’s hazel eyes faced the horizon.

He remembered the day Medusa and him met with painful clarity. A couple of bandits had thrown him down a cliff after realizing the sculptor was not rich. When he woke up, Dali noticed three things: he could barely see, he couldn’t even feel the pain coming from the ghastly gash in the back of his head; the amount of blood he had lost kept him in a semi-unconscious state, and there was something keen in his neck threatening to free him from his misery.

That last one ignited a fear and panic that awoke each one of his senses. “Do not open your eyes!” He heard someone say in a harsh snarl. Raising his hands to signaled defeat, he obeyed. The sword or dagger pressing harder into his neck. Dali was preparing himself to meet Hades.

The dizziness caused by the lost blood was being overpowered by the pain and burnt coming from the gash. He could feel the skin opened and covered by dirt. The sharp blade in his neck was starting to pierce the skin in a torturing slow pace. Dali felt it, the skin torning carefully. The silence had never seemed so deafening. He almost begged for the scary voice to talk again. Uncertainty and vulnerability increased his anxiety and desperation. Dali could not fight someone who would kill him the moment he opened his eyes. And when the hallucinations reached him a wave of hopelessness overwhelmed him. His body was failing him already. How could he hear a human-sized snake hunting him?

It was impossible, of course, but his hearing was his sharpest sense.

If that was failing him, the doors of the underworld were opening up to him.

Dali felt something rough and cold enveloped his body in a tight grip, making it hard for him to breath. A stream of water reached his injury and he screamed. He almost fainted again. But that was the moment he was released with an aggressive thump. Dali barely could stop his face from kissing the hard sandy ground, coughing and trying to keep himself stabilized without opening his eyes.

As his senses awoke once again he realized the blade had left his neck. Almost in cue, the voice spoke again. “Do not open your eyes and you can leave.” It said in a soft whisper.

Dali nodded before frowning. The voice had an acute and sweet hue. His aggressor was a woman. It had also come from behind him.

His curiosity won the battle over his common sense; Dali opened his eyes.

Two fierce emerald eyes could be reflected in the mirror in front of him. Two deep emerald eyes were looking into his soul. Two darkening emerald eyes were reminding him to those of a predator, deciding the perfect moment to strike. Two cryptic emerald eyes were returning his stare. For a sculptor, Dali was used to loving soulful things and those eyes were transmitting so much he could not break the silent conversation.

His hazel eyes soon drifted to the rest of her appearance: the forest green snakes that composed her hair -some snarling at him showing their fangs, others backing off as if wanting to get impulse-, the golden ruby-shaped jewel in between her leafy eyebrows, the upturned nose, the deadly fangs sticking out of her thick and broken lips, and the rough brunette skin.

Dali knew who he was looking at; he couldn't understand why she hadn't killed him.

The gorgon who guarded the gates of the underworld. The woman punished by Athena; the one the goddess wanted dead. The maiden coveted by Poseidon. The monster supposed to teach young women the price of being provocative. The doom of man. Medusa, the myth and terror, was looking at him through a mirror. Her emerald eyes still waiting for something.

Against all remnants of animal instincts in human nature, Dali wasn’t afraid anymore. “Why?” He asked her, meeting her gaze once again.

The surprise and confusion reflected in the way her head tilted to the side. “Why didn’t you kill me?” He asked once again.

“You are looking at me.” Medusa replied, not even trying to answer his question, and he could see so much innocence and awe in her stare that all doubt and pain left his body. Only his curiosity remained.

And it soon turned into fascination.

Medusa, the myth and terror, turned out to be a strange combination. She acted as if she didn’t notice Dali staying. She ignored the way his stare followed her everywhere, but her forest green snake tail always seemed clumsier and heavier when he did. She rarely chatted with him, but made sure to always leave a plate of food where he could reach it and Cerberus, the guard dog of the gates of the underworld, could not eat it.

She always avoided his eyes and looking at him, but, in the moments his hands took a hold of parchment or tried to sculpt something, she would use her tail to climb into the three he used to rest and look over his shoulder at his creation. Medusa groaned when she realized Dali was drawing her or trying to sculpt her. He always laughed, although his pieces never quite looked as they should.

She never allowed him to enter her cave, but always left a small fire near the entrance where she had built a small hut for him. Sometimes, at that time, she would answer him some of his questions or tell him stories about the gods or the stars. He learned to fall asleep with the sound of her voice lulling him. Even, in rarer occasions, Dali could hear her sing. Her voice, usually used to hiss, was very soft and sweet.

She avoided “the bridge.” The entrance to her domains and the place in which she found Dali; the place in which all of her victims were found. All men, all scared. But, on rainy days she sat in the center of it and tried to remember their names. Dali could never understand the feeling hidden in her eyes. There was no shame, no rage, no pain, no arrogance. The first time Dali followed her, he was surprised to find such a bleak essence in a place that was supposed to look dismal. She didn’t hiss at him. Medusa met his eyes through the mirror and exclaimed: ‘They forgot to do catharsis’

She never cried. Not even when she explained her curse to him. ‘Some people say, Athena gave me the power to defend myself from the lust and importunity of men. Others say she sentenced me because she despised me after I was raped. I do not know which one is true, I only know it is not something I can change.’

She didn’t laugh or smile openly either, at first, he never saw her do it. But, when Dali’s clumsiness appeared, he could hear a small snicker escaping her. When she was pleased with his words or company, her lips curved upward in the slightest way. The first time she giggled while chatting with him his awe was such he promised to spend everyday trying to hear that sound again.

She attacked in the deadliest way possible. Medusa was skilled, cunning, and incredibly strong. But, she only attacked to protect. The first time Dali saw some famous hero come for her head, they were looking at Posidon’s endless sea. It was one of those rare moments Medusa was playful. Returning his teasing and her emerald eyes shining. They heard the war cries and before he could even recognize what was happening she had grabbed his hand, hissed, and they were running toward Cerberus. It was the first time Medusa allowed him into her cave. She hid him behind Cerberus and disappeared in the rain with all the stealth her enhanced senses allowed her. Dali tried many times to leave the cave and look for her, yet Cerberus did not move from the entrance until she returned hours later. Her claws stained with blood and a long gash in her right side. A pained moan escaping her lips.

That night, as he healed her, they shared their first kiss.

“Is a beast capable of love?”The old man asked and Dali’s hazel eyes darkened before he left without replying.

Beast, monster, murderer, gorgon.

That was what people called her, but they had never seen what he did. He was going to show them, to show everyone. Perseus and the gods could have all the empty and dull statues of the world. Medusa would have a monument made by the hands of the man who loved her. This time, his piece would look exactly as it should.

The old man, who had followed Dali to Medusa’s domain, observed him work for months into what would become his masterpiece. Taking his time. He reminisced each scale in her tail and the few scattered around her chest and arms, each rough scar in her tender skin, each long finger with its keen and cared claws, each alluring curve of her body, each fissure in her lips along with her sharp fangs, each sunspot and jewel, and each snake in her hair -twenty-third-.

Her hands in her neck as she looked at the starry night with a content and playful smile.

Once it was done, Dali looked at it for days, almost waiting for her to come to life. But, she didn’t. She couldn’t. The tears fell as Morpheus invited him to the land of dream where he could meet with a version of her created by him. She was extending her hand and tilting her head to the side, waiting with a hue of sweetness in her eyes that was reserved only for him.

It was so real, he could touch her skin and join her.

Dali blinked time and time again before realizing Medusa was standing in front of him, finally meeting his hazel eyes without a mirror in between.

It couldn’t be possible, what a cruel mirage his mind had created. What a cruel game.

And then, she smiled. A complete smile with her fangs showing. ‘You did catharsis, you don’t need a mirror anymore’ she said before giggling. Dali could only look at her in awe before leaning into her touch as she caressed his cheek. ‘I cannot stay, but you can come with me.’ She whispered with hopeful eyes.

He had no doubts.

Hades smiled and stopped pretending to be an old man as he entered Dali’s house to find Medusa’s sculpture. She was no longer alone. In the sculpture, you could see a young and handsome man holding her from the waist with such a blissful grin and affectionate stare that no one could deny the love they held for one another.

In Olympus, Athena screamed with rage and Posidon felt the poisonous jealousy.

They faced the worst revenge: being paid with a better coin. Medusa condemned them both to a victory that tasted like defeat.

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About the Creator

Rola

Juanita Hurtado Huerfano, also known as "rola" is a Colombian immigrant, writer, poet, and publicist. She was born in Bogotá D.C. but now lives in the United States. She loves to dance in the rain, make art, and eat chocolate.

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