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How long had it taken Simon to get to the point where he was brave enough to publish the sketches he had done as Demian lay dying? It was more than thirty years after his death. And even then he self-published the book rather than submit it for consideration by a publisher of any kind.
He made certain everyone knew it was a very adult coloring book, not meant for children, to give it an even safer veneer. Toned down the images...making them cartoonish, almost. Not on the level of Manga or Bara or Yaoi but plain and simple and easy to color in.
He knew he was merely a practiced artist, not a talented one. But also knew no one else would have faced the true horror of dying from AIDs in a way that was meant to denigrate the disease into something ludicrous. And approachable. And a bit obscene.
Had he succeeded? He had no idea. He just knew that finally...finally he had been freed from the horror of that time.
And from the hate he’d felt for Demian.
He would say that he had a true talent for composition, setting the images into a simplicity that could indicate far more. That even extended to his paintings. Black and white images in acrylic, using a Koda-lithic style. Very stark and shadow-riven, with no mid-tones. Just a drop of deep rich red to contrast.
He’d done a series of them...a total of thirteen that a collector in North Carolina loved and bought, which made him a bit of a name. He made more. Of course, none were as blunt or raw as those, or even the sketches in the coloring book.
But he still built a small catalogue of prints for purchase, which gave him the ability to buy a car and pay for insurance. Granted, it was a ten year old Honda CRV, yet it had carried his canvasses to various art festivals. Got him to Barrington and back to Afton Springs, twice.
It was twenty years old, now, and cranky. Like him. And he knew he’d drive it until it fell apart. But that was how he was. He hated to make changes unless absolutely necessary.
That is what had made it so hard to leave Demian. Because for all the horrible things the man had done do to him, he’d continued to feel that he was important to the son-of-a-bitch. Needed. Necessary. A part of him.
Simon had honestly believed treating him like a king would show him how much he meant. And let him stay near him. How easy it was to fall into that delusion and hand control of himself to a man whose only importance was his own comfort and joy.
But that was the reality of his life, at that time. Simon wasn’t afraid of what Demian would do to him. He knew he’d never take him to the point of death. Demian was too selfish for that. And too stupid to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him.
Nor would the pain he caused be extreme enough to be considered anything more than an acceptable punishment. On a symbolic level. For having turned out wrong. As so many in Simon’s family had let him know more than once.
No, he finally left because a cold, clear understanding forced its way into his mind...that he was nothing but a toy, to Demian. Not human. Just something to use. For fun. Bring in a little cash, even. On the same level as a blow-up doll. It had always been Simon there for him, never the other way around. And, eventually, he would move on to someone new and exciting, and Simon would be left adrift.
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