Wine Like Lacquer

by nurlist

A suffering artist known as Haine Rammsteiner finds that as he is further drenched in the red lacquer of madness, his creations have become masterpieces of mere chaos. As he struggles to overcome the moments of drowning red, an old friend, pushed by his own internal demons, returns with a quest to save Haine once and for all.

Red.

Sometimes all I see is red. This unforgiving heat haze stains the inside of my eyelids, layering over and over the walls of my mind with thick coats of stagnant red. I will always hate the corrupted visions cast by this gritty film.

After all, an artist's true pleasure is using the palette of incandescent colors to shape their pictures.

Yet in these times, as these tools are finding themselves creating specks of destruction, they are still dull against the blocking force of this crimson canvas.

I want to see forever in the beautiful colors of the world.

And once more, I am starting to spite this feverish shade.

Left alone. He didn't care, did he?

He prefered to be alone.

Or was that true? The distractions would start thinning out again, it would be harder to find inspiration no matter where he went looking for it. Each rancid painting he disposed of, ashamed from most of them, for they were not him… this was not where his true ability existed. No one wanted these paintings, and especially not he. Not the mementos of a deranged man.

That is exactly what he must be. Even when he awoke to find the mess, he saw no artistic meaning in it… no sense in it at all. The chaos reflecting the dark eye of his mind only terrified him, to think of what his monstrous hands could create when wired to the subconscious.

However, maybe it wasn't the paintings alone that scared people… maybe it was more the sporadic, chaotic process of it all. He didn't know, he couldn't recall ever being caught in the act, ever being alert to know what he was thinking or doing. He only ever came around after, with stained hands, sitting in his den of chaos. And cleaning up the aftermath was always a chore. Despite it all, he didn't know - maybe never would - and it wasn't quite like that mattered anyway.

Regret. Did he regret it all? Could he regret that he had no longer had control? This cyclical pattern continuing, directing his life. Surely he must hold onto the reigns to the best of his ability.

There was no help. Please. There was no permanent cure.

Now he sat alone in the apartment, noticing all the stranger's belongings missing from before.

A stranger more acceptably, more comfortably, now…

Rather than a lost friend.