Rorrim

It's been months since I last picked up a brush. Seven months, in fact. Seven months gone whirring by like a montage of sunsets over a riverbank. Seven months since I was in America, with Julia. Seven months since I was in love so deep in consumed me; until I ended it. Now I've confined myself to a hotel room in the Netherlands, watching snow fall beyond the aged yellow curtains from a musty twin bed. The view was bleary, and I couldn't tell if the distortion was from the thickness of the windowpanes or the fog behind my eyes. Time has lost meaning. It is dark outside more than half of the time. Appetite and sleep seldom come to me and I’m prone to long bouts of staring at my canvas, where I have attempted to paint a portrait. A dull reproduction of who I used to be. Self-portraiture is a reflection of the self, an awareness of the self, a show that you know who you are. I thought confinement and isolation would force me to face what I had done, to see myself as I truly am now. To process. To heal.  

What else could I possibly do here? I stared across the room at my suitcase, hurriedly packed and spilling over with thick cable knit sweaters, woollen socks, and toiletries. Next to it lay a wooden briefcase that once belonged to my grandmother. Some of her old oils and brushes are still inside; I can't bring myself to throw them away. There they continue their decay, tops dried shut and bristles too fragile to be of any use. There’s a writing desk in the right corner of the room, an antique mirror hung above it. That’s where I've set up my easel, canvas perched. On it, I had painted a portrait of a young woman sitting in a wooden chair against a dark grey background. Her sleepy hazel eyes stared up at me mockingly. The eyes of a stranger, eyes that might have belonged to me in another lifetime, but not anymore.  Anger and frustration welled up in me suddenly, and I stood up from bed too quickly. Staggering, I sat back down and put my head between my thighs, letting the blood come back to my brain. Defeated, I lifted a thin burgundy blanket from the bed and placed it over the canvas. I dared lift my gaze to the mirror, something I had not done in what I guessed had been three days. I looked worse than before; face drawn, lips pressed tight over teeth, pale skin gleaming feverishly, eyes rimmed red and wild. Hollow. I contemplated putting the blanket over the mirror instead. Staring at it was making me sick. I sighed and paced back to the bed, a haphazard heap of sweaty pillows and stained sheets, and crawled back into the moderate warmth my body heat had created after hours spent laying there. My hands and feet cold and clammy, I thought about the bed I used to share with Julia. How warm and cushy it was. How warm she was. Her easy smile. Her hair; boyishly cut and sunny blonde. Her eyes, blue and dangerous and full of tempting secrets. The crumbs she fed me under the table were the most substantial meal I’ve ever had; I devoured every bite she reluctantly offered. A tear slid out of the corner of my eye as I forced myself into a fitful slumber.  

Sharp white teeth biting into soft exposed flesh. Gripping her in my bite, harder and harder, until she was mine. She stopped struggling, her body gone limp. That’s when I tore her throat out. 

It was dark when I woke, a metallic tang in my mouth. Jesus fucking Christ it’s freezing. I sat up and shook my head, my breath a visible cloud in front of my face. I don’t remember opening the window. Padding towards the desk, tactfully avoiding my reflection, I went to shut the window. Rubbing my eyes, still grainy with sleep, I stared at the canvas. My heart skipped a beat and my stomach twisted. What? For a moment I stood completely still, then grabbed the palette knife from the desk. I spun around the room. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. Who did this? Shit, get yourself together. Listen. Knife in hand, I walked toward the door and started my search from there. The bathroom. The leaky faucet and gentle rain outside were the only sounds I could detect. Senses strained, as if I could will myself to see and hear beyond human capability. Easy does it. The door made an agonizing groan, and something snapped in me. It’ s in here...move now! I yanked the shower curtain back and stared at the red and white form lying motionless in the bathtub. A bird...small and white and bloodied. Its neck twisted so it was nearly separated from the rest of its body. How? Nausea overwhelming me, I ran to the sink and started heaving, to no avail. Hot tears spilled from my eyes; I spit the saliva that had accumulated in my mouth. It was unnaturally dark. Oh no, no, no, please, no. God help me. A horrible sinking feeling. Please, please, please...Gripping the sides of the porcelain sink, I raised my head to meet my eyes in the mirror. Time moved in slow motion. I stared back at my reflection. Brown crusted the corners of my mouth. Fuck. It’s okay, just clean yourself up. It's okay it's okay it's okay it's okay. Repeating this mantra as I frantically scrubbed the dried blood from my face, neck, chest, and hands. Hyperventilating, I crumpled to the floor, still gripping the sink for support. Sobs racked my body. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, you're okay. With my knees pulled into my chest, I started gently rocking my body back and forth, humming out loud to silence the roaring in my head. What have you done? Monster. You are horrible. Ahahahahah...this is so stupid. My humming turned into a sort of deranged laughter. I stood up and walked back into the bedroom; to the canvas. I stared at it hard with blank affect. It wasn’t bad actually; it was kind of...beautiful. The strokes were bold and violent; splatters of blood and viscera dashed across my once plain painted face. Her eyes, my eyes, now had a feral quality to them. Unflinching, daring anyone to cross her. Do it, I dare you...I’ve been itching... 

Gently, I touched the canvas, where had been painted a yellow bird with blue wings; a blue-winged warbler. I held the small thing in my hands like a pet. Like I loved it. Only, it’s neck had been twisted and it had bled out onto my palm. She died in my arms; by my hand. Through death, that is the only way we can be free. I watched her fly. I set her free. I watched her fly.