The Sinister Artist

Dave stood in line of the convenience store holding his acrylic paint bottles, day-dreaming about his next landscape painting. As he approached the front of the line, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror placed directly behind the clerk. His surroundings slowly melted around him and panic began to settle in his bones as he was drawn to a bold, crimson stain on his shirt. He was next in line and he wasn’t going to leave without his paint. He nervously held the paint in his hand as he looked down at the fresh cut on his forearm. He meticulously pulled the sleeve of his shirt down to cover the fresh wound as he turned his head to scan the perimeter to ensure no one saw what he was doing.

The clerk looked at him directly in the eyes. She reflected little emotion as she methodically scanned his items. The stain eventually caught her attention, and he froze as ice cold liquid filled his veins. Her eyes, fixated, cut through him like laser beams. He physically felt the warmth. His heart began to beat faster. The thrumming of the heartbeat was so loud like a drum line soon to burst right out of his chest any second. He looked down and up again at her. His palms started to sweat; small beads began to occupy the slightly rough crevasses of his hands. “I will just tell her its paint of course, if she asks.” She looked up at him and gives him a wry smile. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her wrinkles. They looked like road maps on her face. She had a distinct mark on her temple. It reminded him of a little canyon in her skin. He slowly followed the wrinkles around the brim of her brow and to the tip of her bony chin. He realized her gaze was still riveted on the stain as she continued to scan. Dave began to drift away and reminisce about what just transpired in the basement of his home.

I raise the broken leg of the chair in my right hand as I prepare to instill a devastating blow to her head. Before I end her life, she sinks her long, sharp perfectly manicured fingernails into the soft flesh of my forearm. Immediately, copious amounts of thick ooze begin to flow like a river. She applies force to my inflicted wound, and I instantly screech like an injured animal. Enraged, I push her. She trips and goes flying, crashing into a lamp that breaks, and a million little pieces of ceramic scatter all over the floor. She quickly jolts up and lunges at me. I am confused by her unexpected strength. I lose my footing, trip over a stool, and stumble to the ground. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of her face. All I see is inherent fear beaming out of her blood-shot savage eyes mixed with primitive instinct; probably the only thing that preserves her present state of survival. But, it would not last. I desperately reach for a broken piece of ceramic that is conveniently lays at the edge of my fingertip. I shove it into the side of her neck with force. The warm crimson stream flows dense and sluggish down my forearm as her lifeless body falls next to me. I think to myself, “that was a close one.”

“Sir, Hello? Will that be all?” Dave snapped out of his day-dream to meet the store clerk’s demanding glare. She asks again in a stern voice if he is purchasing anything else. Dave grabbed his three bottles of acrylic paint and shuffled out of the store in a hurry. He furiously turned the key in the ignition anticipating the police to pull up right behind him any moment now. But there was no one. He took a large inhalation of air as his lungs began to fill like balloons and slowly exhaled. He felt the anxiety dissolve from every inch of his skin and out into the cool breeze. He made the short drive home and was mesmerized by the sunset as it blended into the dark night sky. He thought, “that would be a great painting. Maybe I should draw that next.”

 He walked up the stoop of his house and watched with curiosity and wonder. When did his home become so subdued and desolate? It was distinctly placed slightly behind the other homes on the street, like it was not meant to fit in with the rest, and it didn’t. The road was typically silent and the house secreted a sense of brooding disregard. The bushes out in front were not kept up. Sickly wilted weeds protruded up from the cracked fissures beneath his feet as if they had failed to escape the confines of Dave O’Neil. The paint on the front of the house was weathered and beaten; the frigid and brutal wind had caused it to flake off in spots. Any pedestrian would have guessed the house was abandoned, but maybe that was a good thing. He couldn’t help but think for a moment that he took just about as much care of the sad home as he did himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he brushed his hair. The thin, wiry hairs around the frame of his face stuck up like tiny antennas. He slowly blew out air, and he was appalled. The stench of his breath was enough to scare anyone away. It was a mix of neglected hygiene with a distinct aroma of cheap cigarettes.

He proceeded down his basement stairs. The stairs were dilapidated and let out a moan with every step that he took. The cobwebs hung weary in the corner of the room, as its occupants had most likely been gone for some time. Dust covered every square foot like a dull blanket on a lifeless floor. He switched the light on, and a bulb illuminated the unresponsive room. It miserably hung from an old, cheap chandelier that had been lazily bolted to the ceiling. He stood in admiration at all the paintings he had completed. Beautiful landscapes that he personally had the pleasure of visiting. The color and passion in his paintings were really the only things in the house that irradiated any sense of life.

He tirelessly worked to be like his most admired painter, Oscar- Claude Monet. He loved how Monet so eloquently captured variations of color and light of the changing seasons and the beauty that each one resonated. Dave enjoyed painting landscapes as well, only his very own were far more sinister.

He glanced down at his tired hands and then back up at his wall of Monet-inspired landscapes. These hands had been the creator of so many beautiful works of art, but at the same time had been the bearer of so much destruction. In the background, Dave heard distorted chatter coming from his dusty old T.V. He turned around when a particular name caught his attention, “Cynthia Robinson.” The news reporter mentioned Cynthia had been missing for one week. Her mother was begging for any leads on the whereabouts of her daughter. He thought to himself, “how pitiful, she will never be found.” He turned around with really no disregard or sympathy for Cynthia and family. He had cared just as much about the missing woman as if there were a cartoon on instead.

He walked up to one of his paintings, slightly tilted his head in admiration at the beautiful work he had produced. “Monet would be proud,” he thought. He stared in appreciation with his most recent work in the meadow located about an hour from his home. He remembered that day so distinctly. He closed his eyes and was all of a sudden standing in the meadow. There he stands as the cool, fall breeze brushes against his soft cheek. The long grass twirls in the field and streaks of brilliant sunshine peak through the patient clouds. Dave continues to dig for what seems to be hours. He carefully places the limp body into the shallow grave. He stands there for a moment staring at the lifeless body. Her jaded irises encompass a sense of melancholy that resonates across the meadow. Her un-moving, creamy fogged eyes stare up at the frozen sky. The innocent day soon dissipates with the foreboding in which Dave has penetrated the gentle earth. The vegetation covers the freshly packed dirt, and the bright light ignited by the sun is soon replaced by the black curtains of the night sky. This is where Cynthia Robinson lay.

When he arrived home, he again looked at the ten landscape paintings he had created over the course of the last six months. He smirked ever so slightly and wondered who might be the next subject for his gallery…..