She didn't open her mouth at all to speak, even though I did. She had her arms crossed across her chest. She looked almost like she'd been expecting me and planning to ream me out. She didn't look the least bit scared and I kind of hoped I didn't either.
"What is this?" I demanded at the portrait behind me.
"Image of a madman," she answered like she didn't have time to talk to me.
"Why?"
"Well, I'd already painted anger and hatred, so I painted fear."
I just stared at her. She was so deadpan. She was so beautiful. She was so mad at me. I was so sorry. I was so mad at her.
"Well, you did a nice job. It brings out my ugliness."
She looked down at the floor. "I wasn't going for ugly," she corrected me. I waited for her to inform me what she was going for. I didn't mean to insult her picture, just her inspiration. But I didn't bother to point that out.
"I didn't come here to see you, you know," I said, setting any misgiving straight. As straight as a broken ruler, anyway. "I came here because I like fucking art."
"Okay." I don't think she believed me, if she bothered to think about it at all.
"In fact I'm going now."
"Okay."
I brushed past her. "Hey Devi D," I said, turning my head around.
She turned to face me once before I left. "What, Johnny C?"
"Thank you for painting me. I wish I were a better inspiration."
--
I sat in front of a blank canvas. With a paint brush in one hand, dipped in Football Player Red. That should be a crayon color. Right between Purple Mountains Majesty and Macarony and Cheese... Football Player Red. Made from the finest athletes in the country... tested on animals...
I didn't know what the fuck I was going to paint. Mr. Fuck sat behind me on the floor. He wasn't saying anything and that bothered me more than his constand talking. I knew he was just watching me.
"Paint the cheerleader. Paint her body after you killed her. Paint her screaming before you killed her. Paint her in the front seat of the car."
"Kill yourself," Phsycodoughboy added from the kitchen. I would have flipped him off if I'd chosen to acknowledge his precense.
Nailbunny approved of my new hobby. He liked it more than my killing people and painting walls.
I wanted to paint again more than anything in the world. More than I wanted Devi, more than I hated Phsycodougboy and Mr. Eff, more than anything, I just wanted to spew out something that iI/i thought was beautiful enough to deserve my own praise. Something to prove to myself that I wasn't a waste of existance, something to bring a little fucking joy back into my painful day. Just another day down until I die, I thought miserably.
And I put the brush down and went to sit outside. I laid out on the grass. It was dewy and damp, and I stretched out in it. My shirt stuck to my back. It was cold. But still not as cold as my basement floor. Still not as cold as when I stuck a knife in my arm to feed the monsters in my head. Not that cold.
I fell asleep again outside, making this week the most restfull of my entire life. Except this time, I had a dream. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't a nightmare, it was my life flashing before my eyes. And I'm not going to tell you what all I saw, because I don't want you to infer anything about me. I don't want you to know everything about me. But when I woke up God knows how long after, I went inside and threw up for two hours.
And when I was finished doing that, I slit my wrist open and painted the entire canvas with my blood until I passed out.
"What is this?" I demanded at the portrait behind me.
"Image of a madman," she answered like she didn't have time to talk to me.
"Why?"
"Well, I'd already painted anger and hatred, so I painted fear."
I just stared at her. She was so deadpan. She was so beautiful. She was so mad at me. I was so sorry. I was so mad at her.
"Well, you did a nice job. It brings out my ugliness."
She looked down at the floor. "I wasn't going for ugly," she corrected me. I waited for her to inform me what she was going for. I didn't mean to insult her picture, just her inspiration. But I didn't bother to point that out.
"I didn't come here to see you, you know," I said, setting any misgiving straight. As straight as a broken ruler, anyway. "I came here because I like fucking art."
"Okay." I don't think she believed me, if she bothered to think about it at all.
"In fact I'm going now."
"Okay."
I brushed past her. "Hey Devi D," I said, turning my head around.
She turned to face me once before I left. "What, Johnny C?"
"Thank you for painting me. I wish I were a better inspiration."
--
I sat in front of a blank canvas. With a paint brush in one hand, dipped in Football Player Red. That should be a crayon color. Right between Purple Mountains Majesty and Macarony and Cheese... Football Player Red. Made from the finest athletes in the country... tested on animals...
I didn't know what the fuck I was going to paint. Mr. Fuck sat behind me on the floor. He wasn't saying anything and that bothered me more than his constand talking. I knew he was just watching me.
"Paint the cheerleader. Paint her body after you killed her. Paint her screaming before you killed her. Paint her in the front seat of the car."
"Kill yourself," Phsycodoughboy added from the kitchen. I would have flipped him off if I'd chosen to acknowledge his precense.
Nailbunny approved of my new hobby. He liked it more than my killing people and painting walls.
I wanted to paint again more than anything in the world. More than I wanted Devi, more than I hated Phsycodougboy and Mr. Eff, more than anything, I just wanted to spew out something that iI/i thought was beautiful enough to deserve my own praise. Something to prove to myself that I wasn't a waste of existance, something to bring a little fucking joy back into my painful day. Just another day down until I die, I thought miserably.
And I put the brush down and went to sit outside. I laid out on the grass. It was dewy and damp, and I stretched out in it. My shirt stuck to my back. It was cold. But still not as cold as my basement floor. Still not as cold as when I stuck a knife in my arm to feed the monsters in my head. Not that cold.
I fell asleep again outside, making this week the most restfull of my entire life. Except this time, I had a dream. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't a nightmare, it was my life flashing before my eyes. And I'm not going to tell you what all I saw, because I don't want you to infer anything about me. I don't want you to know everything about me. But when I woke up God knows how long after, I went inside and threw up for two hours.
And when I was finished doing that, I slit my wrist open and painted the entire canvas with my blood until I passed out.