You are probably wondering how I got here; why there are shackles about my ankles; why blood trickles from the cut on my cheek. You wonder, perhaps, why there are bruises on the palms of my hands and filthy bandages on three fingertips.

Why am I dressed in riches turned to rags? Why is there a hunch in my once perfect back? Why so many, many scars?

I will tell you why I am chained to this chair, why I am bound to this work table.

My hands move over the clay, old friend, dire enemy. They knead it, mix it and make it warm. They make it malleable. One cannot work with cold clay. I roll a bit into a small ball. It pushes against one bruise, just below where knuckle meets palm. I cannot fully feel my palms. It makes work difficult. And I must work. I have been working for so long now.

In the beginning, I prided my hands. They once worked miracles in clay. They could turn the drab and dreary into stunning works of art. Could. Once. Now, they are cracked and dry, weary from the never ending toil.

In the beginning... What a futile word. Beginning. Where exactly is the beginning of this tale? Is it when I first met him? Or before that, long before, when my parents discovered my talents? No, not discovered. My parents never truly discovered anything about me. Saw, yes. Recognized, barely. But that initial recognition brought forth the tutors and it was the tutors who brought forth the artist. Was I really once an artist? A prodigy?

I sigh and roll the ball into a log. I'm not certain what it will become. My mind is bored with the clay. What once inspired me now only reminds me of my shame and imprisonment. Of my betrayal. But I am getting ahead of myself. Yes, I know now how to begin my sad tale. Not when I was a child, a sad, lonely child. No, I will begin after that, when my greatness rose towards the summit, just before the plunge. Before I met him. But just before.