Tragedy

         You mortals have all but forgotten us. That in itself is a tragedy.
         And I know tragedy. I am the goddess Melpomène , originally the Muse of Singing. Now I am called the the Muse of Tragedy. If anyone ever remembers to call me at all...
         Anyway, call me Mel.
         Since the fall of the Greek gods,  we have lost much of our power. Our strength. These days we are forced to walk upon the ground as if we are mortals. That isn't to say we are powerless, just less than we once were.
         The reason I am allowing these words to be written is so that I may tell you of a young man I saw during one spring. Such a promising looking little morsel he was, just sitting there under a tree. My sisters were off frolicking in the park we had wandered into, no doubt blessing mortal's left and right.
         I don't give my blessings lightly however. Very few of you finite beings have the personal experience to be able to write a good tragedy. You don't know the pain, the suffering or the hardship.
         Hardship to most of you seems to be when the store runs out of your favorite drink.
         This young man though, I felt drawn to. There was something about how he looked out at the young couples, at the children and pets playing... A sadness that ran straight down into his soul. “This one just may have what it takes,” I remember whispering.
         That's when it happened.
         He frowned, and looked right at me.
         Mortal's are not supposed to be able to see us unless we want to be seen. It is said though that certain mortals may yet carry a bit of the old gods blood and be able to see us.
         Bless Zeus, his adultery may have finally become useful. (Please don't tell Hera I said that!) If it wasn't for him looking at me I doubt I would have done what I did.
         I sat down beside him, returning his sad smile with my own. We both turned and looked out for a while, neither of us speaking. It was odd, sitting that close to him. I could feel the ache in his heart and the heat of his skin. And despite his hearts wishes, his attraction to me.
         Which isn't that surprising. I appear to be a mortal, around eighteen years of age. Dressed like your usual teen. Dressed in dark jeans with artsy little rips, dark shirt that shows off my belly button with its little skull piercing. He was dressed in dark clothes as well, though his were dressier. He sat with his arms folded on his knees, hands hanging as if forgotten.
         We sat there unspeaking for several heartbeats. It took very little urging from what powers I had left to get him to start speaking to me.
         “You remind me of her.”
         Whoever she was, the thought of her sent pain racing through him.
         “She was an angel. Kind, gentle and sweet. Loved to dress down. Never really realized she was pretty. Never realized she was to good for me.”
         I didn't have to look at him to know he was crying. I didn't need to look at his eyes and see that he was seeing her instead of the park. I didn't need to ask to know what had happened. But I asked anyway.
         “What happened to her?”
         The poor child actually broke down and started to cry. Zeus only knows how long he had been holding it in. He didn't sob like an infant. Didn't wail like a mother who had lost his son. He wept the silent tears of a man who had lost the only person dear to him.
         I honestly hated myself for asking that question. For all that I am the Muse of Tragedy, I despise causing pain. Especially if he was dressed the way he ways for the reason I feared.
         “She was murdered. Horribly, horribly murdered.”
         His words were laced with pain, sorrow... And rage?
         “Her father came home drunk. He must have said something, or told her to do something. I can't say for sure. What I can say is that he beat her to death.”
         I watched his hands turn into fists. I don't think he even realized it. His eyes hardened.
         “If I had been there, I could have saved her.”
         “If you had been there, you may have joined her.”
         Gods, the child moved fast at that! He spun around so he could face me.
         “At least we would be together then!,” he cried. The pain in that shout echoed through the park. People turned and stared at him, no doubt thinking him crazy.
         Ignorant mortals. Who were they to judge this man?
         I chose to let them see me so they would leave him be rather than report him to the authorities. I would NOT lose this man to those bone sawing freaks.
         How to get this one to do as I wished? To lead him to channel his loss into art instead of self destructive behavior?
         “Was there anything she liked to do? Something she liked to read?”
         The question caught him off guard, made him stop and think. Good, no need to let the anger run any farther. Anger was the last thing he needed to be feeling right now. It was the last thing I wanted him to feel with the thought of her foremost in his mind.
         “Well, she loved songs. The old kind. Ballads and such.”
         I smiled my sad little smile over at him. “Did you ever write one for her?”
         He flinched away from me. “I tried. Everything sounded so, so... cliche! How could I write a song for her, when everything about love had been said!” Blessed Hera, this man hurt so! I reached out and touched him gently on the shoulder. Shocked him and me both.
         “You couldn't describe it then. What about now?”
         We stared into each others eyes, and I gave him that gentle nudge. That suggestion of a start. The hint of the shape. And he made it his own. How quickly he snatched up his pad and pen! Well, sketchbook and colored pencil, but impressive none the less! Right before he put pencil to paper, he stopped. 
         I am note Aphrodite. I could not teach him of love.
         I am not Apollo. I could not heal his heart.
         I am not Hades. I could not bring her back.
         Oh, to be able to show this man how to express his undying love for his woman! Instead, with a nudge I sent his mind down the path I call my own. His hands moved slowly at first. He had never before written something the like of this. He wrote of his love, of their final days. Wrote of heart break and sorrow at finding her gone. Of the ache and emptiness that just would not go away.
         As he wrote, I hid myself again from the mortal world. I kissed the top of his head before I went on my way. I thought of him often after that. Later that year, I saw his likeness upon a wall. His Ballad of a Lost Love had been turned into a book, and then a movie. Most of the proceeds went to help shelter's for battered women or to orphanages.
         I wept a tear for that poor man. Many would wish they were him. Wish for all  that fame, all that glory. They believed he had it all.
         But he didn't. Because he did not have her beside him. The one thing he desired was forever beyond his reach.
         What a tragedy.