In the world of art, a canvas is like a newborn baby. It is the job of the artist, the parent, to nurture it until it grows into a wonderful piece of work, the symbol of living up to expectations. When a work is complete and praised, the parent would often become greedy and produce more.

Throughout their journey, an artist’s works are either the recipient of scorn or praise. Some are looked at fondly while others are regarded with disgust. The most common words heard from others are words of comparison; one can never live up to the other—the cruel cycle of society.

What happens to the artworks that do not live up to people’s expectations? Are they to be forgotten over time? Must they stay in the shadows forever? Will they become a speck in a person’s memories?

My name is Eugene Kwak. This is how my self-proclaimed magnum opus, “Deterioration”, came into creation. It is my child born from the darkness accumulated within me. It is the one lauded by many.  It is not my first work, however. It took a few years before I managed to get attention on the Internet for my digital masterpiece. When I look at past and present works, nothing can compare to my best work.

The way I drew the lone man drowning in water symbolized the expectations my family had of me; the way he was fully submerged in water showed that no one came to save me and that I am still drowning to this day. The lone man in the water is also deteriorating, symbolizing my mental state from then to now.

I’ve deteriorated so much that I am alone in this apartment. I am afraid of going outside; I am afraid of meeting and talking to new people. If I have to go out, I put on a facemask and take a sketchbook with me. I am a blank, forgotten canvas tired of waiting for an artist to splash colors onto me.

I have created a boundary between the world and myself and I do not plan on crossing it anytime soon. I definitely won’t allow anyone to cross it. This boundary is my haven, the only thing preventing me from deteriorating completely.

I am not lonely because I am alone, forever and always.

My morning routine starts with me waking up and then washing my face. I end it by staring at my own reflection. I see a lethargic, haggard man in his mid twenties on the border of deteriorating completely. My black hair and eyes, my tired countenance, and my pale skin give me a ghastly look akin to a ghost. Perhaps, I am a ghost who already deteriorated and just became self-aware.

When I enter my living room, the scent of lavender greets me. Scented candles always help me relax even before the day starts. My legs take me to the kitchen where I make a simple breakfast of toast and a beverage of my choice—today is milk.

I turn on the television in order to liven up the silence. I mainly just watch the news channel because other channels don’t interest me. I was never a television guy. The broadcast suddenly reports news of a recent crime that had targeted Asian Americans. The peacefulness of my breakfast time dissipated when the reporter kept explaining what had happened.

The taste of the toast in my mouth became dry as I got reminded of the bullying I had experienced in my childhood. I still remember the poisoning stares of my assailants as they shoved me down onto the concrete sidewalk; their sharp kicks and punches are still feelings I can recall in my nightmares.

I can no longer taste the bread. A sense of nausea comes to me as I rush towards the trashcan and spit it out; I can feel my heartbeat increasing and it’s making my body tremble. I quickly grab the remote to turn off the television as I rush back into my room and slam the door shut.

I’m taking deep, hard breaths as I stagger towards my desk to grab my phone. I quickly turn it on and press a calming app that helps with my breathing. I follow its instructions slowly and my breathing reverts back to normal. I spread myself on the carpet to relax.

This weakened state of mine is a result of childhood bullying and familial pressure. I am afraid of people and the boundaries outside of my apartment. Despite that, I still watch television to know about what is going on in the world and interact with people on the Internet for art-related topics. There’s a part of me that longs for interaction, but the boundaries I have set up prevent me from accomplishing that feat. Even if I want to tear them down, I don’t have the willpower to do so.

I check the time on my phone and see that it isn’t morning at all; it is late in the afternoon—almost evening. I dozed off and I wasn’t even aware of it; the nausea must have tired me out.

I sigh as I get up. I ate only a little but I no longer have an appetite.. The only thing left to do in a day like this is to go outside. I am expecting packages today. I may like being inside my apartment all day, but there are instances where I have to go out; the only reason for me going out is to get mail.

Leaping out of my boundaries is a long and arduous process. I grab a coat from my closet and wrap it around myself. I pat one of the pockets to check if my keys were inside; they are. I then grab a facemask, sketchbook and pen. These are my most indispensable items when going outside; these are my sword and shield when faced with the evil force known as the world.

Taking a deep breath, I take a step out into the danger zone. My whole body becomes tense and my behavior becomes skittish. My legs start moving to the point that I’m already going down the staircase. There is an elevator in my apartment, but I dare not take it—too many people. I live on the third floor, so taking the staircase wasn’t too difficult.

I reach my destination, the lobby, but even traversing across this wide area is a challenge. There aren’t that many people around, just the receptionist, which is a good sign. The mailbox is at a corner of the lobby, next to the receptionist’s counter. I skitter towards the mailbox and take out my mailbox key.

“Hello, Eugene!” The receptionist greets me with a smile. I’m not good with the kind, friendly types. She has a radiant smile that can warm the hearts of anyone, but it makes me nervous. She’s always kind enough to greet someone like me, even though I don’t feel like I deserve it. I quickly open up my sketchbook, scribble a sentence to show her my response.

Hello.

She didn’t say anything back; all she did was smile. She understands my situation, so she refrains from talking to me much. She’s very kind; the aura she gives off matches her blonde hair. I tuck my sketchbook under my arm and unlock my mailbox. The sight of the small package makes me happy. I take it out and lock my box.

“Hello, Wendy!” The receptionist greets a woman entering the complex with her dog. My eyes are glued to the dog, a brown toy poodle with the biggest, shiniest eyes I’ve ever seen in a canine.

I love dogs, but I don’t have the will to raise one; raising one means I need to take it to the vet, which isn’t good for socially awkward me. I just like looking at cute animals, especially cute dogs. This dog is the cutest I’ve seen in my entire life.

The dog notices my gaze and approaches me with the happiest smile on its face. The sight alone is enough to tug my heart. I bend down to touch the dog that seems interested in my scent. It is docile and seems to enjoy my presence. The only other fact I know about this dog is that his name is Gustav—an unusual name for a pet.

The joy only lasts for a moment as I feel a chill down my spine. I look up to see Wendy staring at me. Her gaze has no malicious intent, yet it still looks as if it’s piercing through my soul. She’s a nice person, but I cannot deal with someone like her. My body doesn’t react to the receptionist, but it always reacts poorly whenever she attempts to talk to me.

With a smile, she says to me, “Mr. Ghost Man, have you reconsidered my offer?”

Hearing her talk to me causes a chill down my spine as I stand up and rush towards the staircase. In an instant, I am already inside my apartment breathing in and out heavily. People usually avoid talking to me because the time spent on my writing on my sketchbook has seemed too long for them to deal with; there are people like the receptionist that understand my situation and try their best to communicate with me however they can. Wendy, however, does not fall into either category. I honestly do not know where she is in terms of people I interact with but I do know that I cannot deal with her on a personal level.

She’s an anomaly—an irregular amongst irregulars. She’s someone I do not want in my boundaries for I fear she will step all over them and try to make me leave my comfort zone. That’s why I cannot deal with her; I fear change.