Crimson, The color of passion, of love and anger. It is seductive, mysterious and perfect in every way. The way it glided across the canvas and the gentle tug of the paintbrush as it left a path of his inner introspections behind always sent chills of excitement through his soul. A smile of pure bliss blessed his lips as his eyes fallowed the tiny wisps of steam that emanated from the fresh paint as he swirled the paintbrush in the pool of fresh paint that was languidly collecting around his feet.
With a sigh of contentment he placed the brush against the canvas and painted quickly with adept hands. A hum to a wordless lullaby that had been long forgotten escaped from him as his hands orchestrated an artistic sinfonietta across the stretched canvas. Working fast with this kind of paint was needed, especially when it cools and thickens making it harder to manipulate across the canvas. He smiled as he watched his hands paint his latest chef d'oeuvre. The masterpieces he created were always just as surprising to him as they were for anyone unlucky enough to see them.
The paintings were created from whatever thoughts or feelings he felt from his twisted, shattered soul. It was only when he lost his self to the art that his soul felt at peace. The past, present and future all would coalesce into one moment, just the pure enjoyment of the here and now.
With the final stroke of the brush he blinked and felt his mind come back from its momentary walk among the Akashic realm and stared at the fresh painting before him to see what his subconscious had painted this time. A laugh of disbelief escaped from him as a smile spread across his normaly expressionless face. He admired how the monochromatic palet of the blood made the painting so much more intriguing. Dipping a brush into some black ink he signed his name to the work of pure art; Pickman.
Pickman picked up a knife he had made years ago and knelt down to reach the container the beautiful paint had come from. Art was something he knew very well and felt it was wasteful to let any chance of making art go to waste. He enjoyed working with all forms of art and knew to make art he would need art supplies. Living in a world that had been destroyed hundreds of years ago made creating works of greatness nearly impossible.
Taking off his yellow jacket he rolled up the sleeves of his white under shirt and held the blade in one hand as he grasped the hair of the dead raider with his other.
A smile of satisfaction spread across his face as goosebumps and tingles of pleasure rippled across his skin as he felt the blade rip through flesh, muscle, tendons and kept cutting until the blade hit bone. He picked a hammer and guided the blade to a gap between the vertebrae. Lifting the hammer he brought it down and struck the back of the blade with enough force to split the spine and finish cutting the rest of the skin beneath. The raider jerked and gasped for air as his heart pumped desperately to circulate what little blood was left.
Pickman lifted the head by its hair and watched as dark crimson blood dripped beautifully from the bottom making the head grow lighter with each drop of blood.
He carried it to a room where he kept the other heads he had collected from over the years and placed it on one of the few remaining empty openings of the shelves that lined the walls. Making a few adjustments he took a step back and admired his collection. Every skull was a memento of every work of art he has ever created.
He looked at every skull and thought of each work of art he had created from the flesh and blood that the skulls had once been attached to. His gaze stopped when he spotted the two oldest skulls in his collection. Everything that he was and has become he owed to the two skulls that were sitting side by side on their own shelf. Pickman walked to the skulls and picked up the one that was smaller and had been lovingly cleaned until it was a beautiful ivory and held it as he glared at a mutilated skull that had been sitting next to it.
Looking into its empty sockets, he could still remember the fear the eyes held as he painted his first painting and had let them watch. Pickman sighed as old memories of his first kill came back to him and filled his heart with deep anger and an even deeper sadness. Grabbing the mutilated skull he held it close to his chest with the other as he slowly sat on the floor with his back to the wall. With a heavy heart he closed his eyes and forced his mind to remember what started everything.
(((Pickman, age 8)))
"Richard Upton Pickman! How many times have I told you to stop fighting the other children!" Pickman cringed at the sound of his full name. It was hideous and he hated hearing it spoke out loud. Looking up at his mother, he took a deep breath as he stared into the dark emerald eyes glaring down at him and spoke softly.
"I didn't fight them, They jumped me in the gardens before I could run from them!"
Perfect ringlets of blond hair bounced around her pale face as she shook her head. She pulled out a handkerchief and sighed before pointing a finger at him with the other hand. "That is not a good excuse young man. Your clothes are torn, it's going to take me weeks to repair them!" She cringed and let her animosity seep into her words as she continued, "I guess you will have to wear that repugnant Vault-tech suit until I can get it repaired." She dabbed the handkerchief in a small cup of water that had been sitting on a small table next to them. Pickman was excited at the thought of wearing his Vault-tech suit. Then at least he could blend in and maybe not get bullied as much. The lower class family's were forced to wear the Vault-tech suits, but the upper class were permitted to wear old clothes from the past. He didn't understand why it mattered. Everyone was the same in his eyes.
Pickman gasped as a burning pain pulled him from his thoughts. His mother rubbing a small cut on his cheek. "Just look at your handsome face! All scratched and bruised! I pray you don't get scars from this!" She stopped torturing the cuts on his face for a moment as she let out a deep sigh of disappointment. " Our social standing in this Vault will suffer if you scar up your face and make your self look like a savage barbarian!"
Pickman gritted his teeth with frustration. It was as if his mother existed in a macrocosm of her own and desperately wanted, no, forced him to be apart of it. He detested all the fancy outfits she forced him to wear, the fancy food she always insisted he ate and he especially loathed the art studies she was forcing him to learn on top of what he was studying in school.
He heard her let out another crestfallen sigh before feeling her icy hand grab him by he back of his neck and gasped with a shiver of cold dread as long nails dug painfully deep into his skin. He fear gripped his young heart as he franticly struggled to free his self from her vice like grasp. The sudden sound of her voice sent chills across his skin as he listened to her sharp edged words. "I wish I knew where your mind goes when I scold you! Since you keep having problems focusing on what I have to say, then maybe a few days locked in the gallery will help you regain some focus and help you get your act together!"
Pickman felt hot tears of fear flood his eyes as he tried to escape her grasp. She had never treated him like this before, this new voice that came from her was terrifying. "No! Please mother! I'm sorry! I'll stay away from the others! Please don't put me in there!"
The Gallery was a large room that had been built into their vault apartment and it was filled with sculptures and paintings from before the bombs fell. Many of the other rich families in the Vault had similar galleries that held many other priceless works of art. Some of the art was beautiful but most of it was horrifying and it terrified Pickman. His mother knew about his phobia of the ancient works of art, but had always kindly tried to reassure him that it was all harmless.
Pickman could feel her nails digging deep into his neck as she dragged his small figure across the floor with unnatural strength to a set of huge oak doors that graced the end of the hallway. Holding him with one hand in a vicelike grip she pulled the door open with her other and glared at him as he felt panic grip his heart as the pitch black room emanated with pure calignosity. He felt his mothers warm breath on the back of his ear as she forced him to face what would become his kismet, "While your in this room I want you to keep these words in your tiny head; stay away from the other children, you don't need friends in this world so don't even speak to them." She brought her face closer to him, " Make sure to run from the bullies before they can lay a finger on you. You are my son and I will not have you labeled as a barbarian and ruin the social status that I have worked so hard to create for my self and this family!"
A loud bang made Pickman jump as his heart nearly exploded with intense fright and felt his mother jerk the hand that was wrapped around his neck. His mother held him tight as she turned with him to see a large well built man with dark brown hair in a yellow suit staring back at them from the doorway at the other end of the hallway.
Pickman felt fear unlike any fear he ever felt before as he looked at the face of his father. He was a stern man, but always treated both Pickman and his mother with deep love. The man that stood staring at them looked like his father, but was definitely not acting like his father. Something was wrong with his parents and he was powerless to do anything to help them.
Pickman felt his mother pull him with her into the dark gallery as his father took what looked like a few quick and swift steps towards them. His eyes were wide like a mad man, but his face was calm and held a horrible look as he glared at Pickman and his mother. His father stopped about an arms length away from Pickman and watched as he glared at his mother then down at him, his face twisting into a look of revulsion at the sight of the abrasions and bruises that graced the face of his son.
The large man shook his head as he silently unbuttoned his yellow jacket then let it fall into his hands. With out a word he tossed it aside to a table and rolled the sleeves of his white under shirt before looking back at Pickman's mother. He let out a low and angry growl as he shook his head. Pickman saw his fathers hand flash past his head. Fear made him hold his breath when he heard his mother gasp out in pain. Looking up he saw his father was gripping her hand that had been on his neck.
Pickman relaxed a bit, his father wasn't going to hurt her. He was probably just going to yell at his mother for treating him the way she did and then at him for making her angry in the first place. They would all apologize then go to the cafeteria, get some dinner then go back home and act like nothing even happened.
A sudden pain erupted from his face and made him yell out in shock and surprise. He doubled over in shock as he held a hand to his face to stop the waves of pain that radiated from his nose. Fear gripped his heard when he heard his mother scream out with terror in her voice then abruptly stop. The sudden quiet sent dread into the pit of his stomach and he gasped for air as he fought to ignore the pain to look up at his mother and saw she was gone. Just the darkness of the gallery stood where she had once been.
Pickman stood staring at the empty darkness until a searing pain in his scalp forced him to turn away and he was forced to look at his fathers face. The look that was etched into his features sent chills up Pickman's spine. The man who he had loved and looked up to was glaring down at him with pure hate in his eyes. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion as his father pulled his other arm back. His voice was cold and emotionless as he spoke. "I will no longer stand by and let her continue to mock the honor of my family! You are a man and a disgrace to the Pickman name!" He shook Pickman with each word he yelled into his face and continued his tirade, "She has made you weak and useless, I let a woman raise you and now I have a disgrace of a son that can't even fight back!"
He brought his arm down striking Pickman hard across the side of his head.
Howling in pain and shock as the world spun around Pickman felt his legs give out. His father had never punished him, let alone strike him over anything wrong he had done before.
Pickman felt his head move with his fathers movements. A sudden explosion of light and pain blocked his vision. He felt his whole body go limp but stayed nearly standing as his father held him tightly by his brown hair. Struggling to keep his eyes open Pickman felt a darkness at the edge of his mind that was threatening to take over his vision. He tried to look up at his father with tears of pain and confusion as he tried to speak, but his voice was week and his mouth wasn't connecting with his thoughts. Pickman screamed in terror when he felt his scalp burn with agonizing pain as his father lift him by his hair and looked at Pickman face to face. "From this moment forward I no longer have a wife or son, you are both dead to me."
Pickman felt as if the world had stopped moving as his heart broke hearing his fathers words. He felt his father's other hand grab the back of his torn shirt. "The gallery will be your tomb." Pickman tried to struggle out of his fathers grasp but was week from fear and every movement his father made sent waves of nauseating pain through his head and body.
Pickman looked at his fathers face and screamed as he felt his fathers hands let go of him as his father threw him into the darkness of the gallery. He hit the floor hard and felt his breath escape him as his body bumped into against something soft. He scrambled to his feet and tried to run to the door where his fathers massive figure was silueted with the bright light behind him and stumbled as his foot slipped on something slippery on the floor. Pickman regained his footing and looked up to see the doors shut plunging him into a thick darkness that he could feel pressing in on him like soft silk. Pickman tried to take a step and felt the ground fall out from beneath his feet and felt his head hit the ground hard.
When he opened his eyes he wasn't sure if he had just had eyes closed or if he had passed out. He blinked his eyes a few times and saw only darkness. He moaned as throbbing pain spread through his head and struggled to sit up. The ground was wet and slippery making it hard for him to get a good footing. He struggled to stand and tried to look around, but everything was pure darkness.
He had been in the gallery enough times to know where everything was, but the throbbing in his skull made moving difficult. Struggling through the dizzying pain he was able to feel his way to the wall with the light switch using the familure art displays to guide him. He fumbled along the wall and finally felt what his hands were searching for and twisted the switch on.
Blinding light pierced into his eyes and made his head explode with sickening pain. He closed his eyes and forced his stomach to hold back the nausea he felt as he squinted his eyes to let his head adjust to the onslaught of brightness. He blinked his eyes a few times before opening them to see red paint was covering his hands and most of his body that had been touching the ground.
He looked at the ground and could see a trail of red painted foot steps leading to a huge puddle where he had been laying. Beyond that was a body lying under a statue that was now broken. It had been a statue of a man holding a sword, but the realistic blade was now broken. Pickman held his breath and felt his whole body sink with cold dread when he saw what the body was wearing and realized it was his mother. Ignoring all the pain he felt he rushed to her lifeless form and nearly fell as he slipped through the puddle of red paint that was spread around her.
Approaching her body he slowed and let out a scream as he fell to his knees and pushed her blood soaked hair back from her face. Tears ran down his face as he felt her cold skin and looked at the cold vacant stare that was etched on her porcelain face. Pickman cried as he held her cold hand trying to comprehend her death for what felt like an eternity before he laid it back on to her chest. Looking down at her body he saw the broken blade from the statue was sticking out from her chest. Cold chills ran across his skin when his mind started whispering to him and felt a sudden calm fall over him as he sat in his mothers blood then lifted her lifeless head onto his lap.
Father killed mother, there was no way of denying it. Pickman grabbed the broken blade that was sticking out of his mothers chest and pulled on it. The blade cut deep into his hand and he didn't care. He felt the blade move slowly as he it pulled through his mothers chest and it made a sick, but pleasant sound as it left her. The sensation of how the blade was cutting through her flesh left pleasant goosebumps on his skin and it made him feel more alive then he has ever felt before in his life. One last pull and the blade pulled free from her with a sickening sound.
Pickman sat and stared at the ornate blade that was now with his blood. It shined in the light with crimson rubies dripping off the tip and it made him excited and disgusted at the same time. Holding the blade he felt comfortable, like this was something he was always meant to do. Looking back down at his mother he watched as drops of his blood dripped onto her face and was astounded by how beautiful the sight of her beautiful face looked with the bright red trails that was left behind.
Pickman gently laid her head back onto the floor and got up. He held the blade tightly in his hand as he turned to the large wooden doors that lead to the gallery. If his father was willing to kill his mother he had a feeling he wasn't to far off from being killed next. Placing the knife down on an old table he looked around the room For anything that could help.
The gallery was full of old works of art and antiques from before the war. He had learned about the history of his family's lineage from his mother and according to her the first Pickman's had entered the vault as museum conservators and that was the reason behind having this gallery in the family living quarters in the first place. His family and many others that graced this vault had been decedents of very rich and very prestigious old family's that controlled New York back before the bombs had fallen.
All the rich families put there money together and paid a great deal of money to vault-tech to build this vault to help preserve history, knowledge and superior genetics. Many of the high class family's paid great amounts of money just to be placed in this vault and eventually it became custom built just for the wealthy.
There was a problem with who was going to do the dirty work of the vault, the cleaning, maintenance and so forth and a contest was held for the working class to compete in. After everything was said and done the vault was ready. At first it was forbidden for the rich to associate with what they were calling the lower class, but as time passed so did some of the families. A problem had been created with some families only staying within there status and caused some to completely die out as inbreeding became an apparent issue. It was the past overseer that had changed things and had demanded that all able men and women were to create new families.
His father was the last of the Pickman line and had chosen to take his mother as his wife after bumping into her in the cafeteria. She was born into one of the lowest families and had he not of married her she would have been forced to work on the lowest level where the fertilizer was made for the hydroponics gardens.
The gallery was set up for displaying art and sculptures, but in the back was an area his mother had made into a make shift art studio to help encourage him to make his own works of art after studying old artists.
Pickman had always hated his art studies and had no real interest in art. All he ever wanted was to play with the other boys that was his age and to be rough and rugged like his father. His mother had a dislike of anything that would of made him ugly in her eyes and always scolded him about the smallest dirt smudge on his face or clothes. Pickman sighed as a memory of her floated into his mind. How her face glowed with a bright smile as she told him that she could feel art was his calling, that he just needed to find the thing that would spark his passion. Then she showed him a closet of art supplies in hopes that the sight alone would spark some creativity from him
Pickman paused as the memory of the closet flooded his head and rushed to the back of the room. Grabbing the handles he flung the doors open and smiled as his hand reached for a large serrated knife. A smile brightened his young face as he looked at the blade before gently picking it up. His hands looked small compared to how huge the knife was and he felt a pleasurable tingle spread through him as he felt the weight of the blade balance perfectly in his palm.
He ran and hid behind a table then sat quietly on his knees as he waited for his father to comeback through the door. Time felt as if it slowed as he kept his eyes fixed to the only door in or out of the gallery. His hand started to cramp from how tight he had been holding the blade and he shifted it to his other hand. An eternity passed and Pickman's head fell forward making him jerk his body and open his eyes. He didn't even remember closing them and saw the blade had fallen from his hand and was now laying on the table before him. Taking a deep breath Pickman stood up to stretch his legs and flinched at how stiff with pain they felt. Wincing with each movement he slowly got up and stumbled, his leg had fallen asleep and they were numb from kneeling for so long.
Picking up the knife he slowly approached the door and fixed his gaze on to the handle as he gathered his courage to open the door and face his father. With a deep breath he reached out and placed his small hand on the curved and ornate handle. Letting his breath out he turned it and felt confused when it wouldn't move. Pickman tried to open the door again and felt resistance. Never in his life had he encountered a locked door before and it was confusing to his young mind. He had always been aloud to go where ever he had wanted and the thought of a door being locked was something he was having a hard time comprehending.
A strange sound from the other side of the door made him pause for a moment. Turning his head he listened to a tap tap tap then a scraping fallowed by more tapping. Panic made all fear and anger drop from his mind and Pickman pounded on the door with the handle of the knife, "Let me out!"
No one answered him as the sound continued its rhythmic scraping and tapping.
Pickman stood at the door confused as the sound slowly traveled up the door stopping with a dead silence when it finally reached the top.
Pickman waited to hear more of the odd sounds, but heard nothing more. Just the sound of his own beating heart and breathing as he stood trying to understand what was happening.
His feet started to hurt after what felt like an eternity and he turned away from the door and sat in the chair his mother always insisted that he sit in while studying one of the many text books that lined the walls.
He looked around the room and named each work of art as he tried to calm his self. Soon father would open the door and everything would be ok somehow.
Naming the last work of art he sighed and flipped open a book trying to pass the time. He started reading the first page and decided he wouldn't stop until father opened the door. Chapter one went by, then two fallowed by three. He felt his eyes close as tiredness over took his senses.
With out knowing it he had fallen asleep and laid his head on the open book.
Pickman woke with a start and looked around. He was still in the gallery and his dead mother was still in a pool of blood. His stomach growled as he closed the book. Getting up he looked around for something to eat.
He knew his mother kept a cabinet full of snacks near the art supplies. After making his way to the back of the room he placed his hand on the cabinet door and pulled. A frown of irritation spread across his face when he felt a lock hold it in place. He was hungry but he didn't want to get in trouble for breaking into the cabinet. Two locked doors in one day he thought as he stood up and sighed before walking to the sink where the old paintbrushes were washed and drank from the faucet since he didn't have a cup.
He looked around and felt something was horribly wrong. He felt alone and disconnected from everything he knew. Looking at his arm he sighed as the familure light of his pip-boy was still gone and wished now more than ever that he hadn't of broken it while running from the other boys.
Pickman quickly looked over at his mother, maybe hers was still working. Walking slowly he approached her dead body and gagged when the smell of death filled his nose. Cringing he reached for her pip boy and was shocked to see the screen was shattered.
Pickman sat and pulled his knees up to his chest and started to rock himself. He was scared and felt alone as he kept his eyes on the horrifying form that was once his mother.
Time went by as he created a routine that consisted of reading and staring at the cabinet full of food. He was starving by about the fifth long sleep. He had no concept of time and used the long hours of sleep to guess when it was night. With the way he was marking the passing time he guessed a week had gone by. It felt as if he had drank more water in the past few waking hours then his whole life thus far. Pickman found his self standing before the food cabinet and was holding the huge serrated knife. He no longer cared if he was going to get in trouble.
Not knowing quite sure how to open the locked cabinet he jammed the knife into the lock and forced it to twist open. It was a simple lock and it snapped with the force he applied to it. The door swung open and he stared with wonder at all the boxes of sugar bombs. He rushed forward and tore hungrily into a box spilling the cereal onto the floor as he tore into the bag.
Without stopping he shoved a fist full of food into his mouth and ate. A sudden wave of nausea made him stop. He sat staring at the mess around him as his stomach tried to process the sudden influx of food he had shoved into his mouth.
He leaned back and moaned as another wave of nausea hit him. A cool breeze from the cabinet made him feel better. Pickman sat up quickly when he realized the cabinet shouldn't have a breeze coming through it. He moved a few boxes and noticed the back of the cabinet wasn't attacked to the wall behind it.
Pickman finished clearing the cabinet of food then pulled the shelves out. He was able to get his fingers behind the wooden panel in the back and pulled on it. Surprise hit him when the wall swung open like a door and revealed a dark crawl space behind it.
Pickman stared at the dark void that was before him and was both curious and terrified of what secrets he might find in such a dark place.