All Art is Beautiful

      It really is beautiful, isn’t it? The way the moonlight casts everything in an ominous glow, even though it’s quite naturally almost the same as the sun. Even so, it creates a sort of tranquillity in me, one that I never thought I was capable of feeling. Each little star is a pinprick of hope, scattered across the sky. All around, everything is pitch black – like tar, only much more petrifying - and is only illuminated by the faint glow of the moon. Gosh, even the moon seems more threatening today. It doesn’t sit well with me, that the moon has that much power of the whole world, yet still yearns for more…

           Although, that’s what we all want in the end, isn’t it? Power.

           As I watch the sky turn from black to colourful, I feel disgusted. The pink and orange hues, the undertones of blue peeking through, it makes me feel sickened. Light is gradually increasing over the world, and it pains me to see. The flowers perk up, delighted to be admire by the sun’s rays, and even the grass stands a little taller. I can’t fathom all the joy that is created when the sun is out… so I just go home. Ignoring the sun rising from its peaceful slumber, I head back to my cottage hidden in the middle of the woods. It’s just where I want it to be; it’s secluded, away from prying eyes and unforgiving minds. They don’t understand; they never do. It’s always the same with them, which is why I keep to myself. I’m not embarrassed, or even frightened, by their meaningless threats; I just think my art should be appreciated a bit more.

           With each step I take, I feel the grass beneath my bare feet. As much as I am exhilarated that I’m squashing the life out of these innocent beings, the way they feel irks me. The velvet of the grass tickles me, as much as I don’t want to admit it. It drags along my feet, which are rough and calloused from all of the work I do. I don’t like its soft tenderness being in contact with me, especially when there is nothing about me that’s soft.

           At least, that’s what my mother always told me.

           “You’re too soft on the children! You need to push them; only that way will they learn.” “You’re never going to be worth anything more than a grain of rice.” “Sit down, let the real adults deal with this.” Lucky for her I did sit down, and I did let the adults deal with it. Especially since it was my own mess they were clearing up (although they didn’t know this at the time, of course).

           Gosh, I am so glad I put an end to her incessant whining once and for all.

           Luckily, not long after that, I found my little cottage. I was on one of my excruciatingly long walks, trying to pull all my thoughts together, when I stumbled upon it. Now, if I felt emotions, proud is definitely one of the emotions I would have felt. Dilapidated, left abandoned in the heart of the woods, I gladly claimed it as my own. This is to be where I eventually stored all of my previous art.

           As I near my cottage, I see a light flicker in the window. How odd; I never use electricity. It’s a weakness for humans, and I, for one, have no weaknesses. As I step closer, trying to peer through the window, the door bursts open with a deafening creak. Clumps of dust and ash swarm into the air from the disturbance, and I inhale some as it does. The substances scrape my throat, making me splutter. This intruder has already annoyed me.

           “Alex!” My sister leaps out from behind the doors, obviously ecstatic to see me.

           Safe to say, I don’t reciprocate the enthusiasm. She runs up to me and captures me in her arms. My heart starts to elevate, and I feel trapped by what I’m assuming is an act of affection. I’m about to react, when she pulls away, and I try to continue my breathing as normal.

           “Where have you been? We are supposed to have our yearly meal with Mummy and Daddy this week? You didn’t forget, did you?” She lets out a tinkling laugh, one that makes me shiver with frustration, right down to the bottom of my toes. What is she doing here?

           And, more importantly, how did she find me?

           I don’t feign happiness when I see her, and simply stare at her, in the hope she’ll understand she’s not welcome here.

           She doesn’t.

           “Come on!” She grabs my hand, although I make no effort to move. “Mummy and Daddy are waiting for us!”

           Mummy and Daddy. I mock her inwardly. I mean, it’s pathetic, calling them that. I only ever call them by their first names. I heard it prevents you from becoming attached - not that I’ve ever been attached to anyone. Or anything, for that matter.

Only my art.

           It’s been 4 years since we had our yearly dinner with mummy and daddy, and I wonder whether it has occurred to her that her Mummy and Daddy aren’t coming back. I despised them meals, even though it was only one day out of the 365 in the year. I always said no, yet no one listened to me. Well, the only thing they can do is listen to me now.

           “Of course, let’s get ready for the yearly meal!” I try to convince to my sister, who squeals in delight. Fortunately for me, she’s unusually dim, and gullible, so it doesn’t take much convincing. I retch inside, almost intoxicated by the optimism seeping out of her. I grasp her hand, and lead her into my cottage. “I need to get ready first, so follow me.”

           “Ooh, I get to see your house!” My sister enthuses. “I’ll have to tell Mummy immediately – we made guesses as to which one of us was going to see it first!”

           “Impossible,” I mutter, leading her through the door. I found this cottage after the death of my mother. Anna Sting was notoriously remembered for being a sarcastic, hateful… well, for want of a better word, bitch. I’m sure a lot of people are glad I got rid of that old bag.

           I continue leading my sister through the abnormal twists and turns of my quaint cottage, taking her much further than to my bathroom to get ready. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the puzzled expression on her face, and that starts the adrenaline pumping through me.

           “Umm, Alex, where are we going?” She questions me, and I leave it a few minutes before I answer. Leave her hanging, just like Anna did with me.

           “I want to show you something.”

           “Ooh, what is it?” She peers into my eyes, like she’s ready to suck the soul out of me. Quite ironic really, given my hobby. “Is it a new pair of shoes? A new outfit? Oh, please tell me you got a puppy!”

           I stare at her, aghast, and allow her words to settle in the silence. My sister is all red lipstick and blonde, curly ringlets, and I am definitely the complete opposite of that. She’s definitely the most prized one in the family. I, however, am the most successful, that’s for sure.

           “No, it’s none of those.” I almost become hysterical at the thought of new clothes, whilst gazing down at my ensemble today. Oh yes, it’s the same as usual: my black shirt, crumpled as always, covered by my black hoodie, with my jeans. I see my sister is thinking along the same lines as me, as she casts a distasteful look at my outfit. She’ll regret that snidely look later, you mark my words.

           I amble down the winding staircase at the very back of my house, leading her down a rickety, rusty set of steps. Unlike the rest of my cottage, which is relatively well-kept, the world beyond these stairs are nothing of the sort.

           Dust peels from the ceiling, and paint crumbles off the walls, littering the floors. Behind me, my sister sniffs, as no doubt the heinous smell of rot hits her.

           “Alex, what on earth is that smell?” She questions to me, and I just laugh at her. Nothing is funny, really – but it will be… as soon as the game begins.

           “Sister, I want to show you my art,” I tell her, leading her further down a cramped, mouldy alleyway. I push her in front of me, with little resistance from her. “Go on, it’s right ahead of you.”

           She continues stepping haphazardly on the uneven wooden floors, as I walk along sturdily behind her, propping her up when I need to. Well, I’ve got to give her a false sense of security, haven’t I? She makes it to the end of the corridor, and opens the door carefully. As soon as it’s open, we are bombarded with the smell of flesh. My sisters gags and retches, whereas as I inhale and breathe it in, enjoying the taste of blood in the back of my mouth. She turns around to face me, a look of horror on her face.

           “Alex, there are dead bodies in your basement!”

           “I know, sister. I know.”

           “You have to call the police!” She screeches, and I chuckle at her.

           “Why do you need to call the police? It’s my art!” I push her in the room further, and lock the door behind me. Now, it’s just me, my sister, and my art. I pull on a cord, and the room is flooded with crepuscular light. My sister’s scream echoes around the room, making the walls shake in terror, but there’s no need to worry; we are deep underground. No one can hear her!

           “What do you mean, this is your art?” She asks hesitantly. Gosh, this girl is considerably unintellectual. When will she understand?

           “I mean, I made all of these.” I point to the bodies stuffed precariously around the room. Some of them lay discarded, others are waiting their turn to be stuffed, whilst the rest of them stand in their beautiful form. Looking at them, I can almost shed a tear, especially when I look at my sister’s gobsmacked face; I could cry with laughter. As her face contorts with terror, I can see she finally understands what’s going on. She begins to back away, and eventually finds herself pressed up against the wall, uncaring about the roaches which are crawling along it.

“Alex, what’s wrong with you?” She claws at her throat, trying to breathe, as a thin layer of sweat builds on her face. I take a step closer to her, and shiver with delight when she cowers away from me.

“You see sister, these aren’t even the best pieces of art,” I tell her, and I walk over to the stage, right at the back of the basement. Transfixed, she watches me as I go, and I open the curtains so she can see my favourite pieces.

Anna and Peter Sting, the beloved Mummy and Daddy my dear sister was blabbering about earlier, are the centrepieces of the stage. Fixed with a pained expression, I’ve positioned them in as natural a position as possible. Peter always had a flair for cooking, so I’ve placed him exactly where he would want to be: in front of a stove, with a frying pan in his hand. Anna, however, was partial to a bit of reading, and so I gave her a good book to read. ‘How to Kill a Mockingbird’, to be exact. The haunted looks on their faces appease me, but as I turn around to face my sister, I see she has her head in her hands, and is sobbing on the floor.

“Sister, are you okay?” I grab a jar on the table next to me. “It’s okay, look: I collected their organs for you to keep, if you would like?”

My sister leaps up. “Get away from me, you freak!” She dashes to the door, scrambling to get out. She pulls on the door handle, willing it to budge, but it doesn’t. I’m frustrated now; why doesn’t she want my gift? I harvested their organs just for her. She’s just like the rest of them – selfish, and unappreciative.

I trudge over to her, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, dear sister. I still have one more piece of art to add to my exhibition.”