The Review

One star. One. Out of five, to be exact! I spent weeks impatiently waiting for my artwork to be reviewed by the illustrious art critic and painter Dr. Gabriella Montagne and this is what that talentless hack has the audacity to write in the paper? Blasphemy! To be quite honest, I am shaken to my very core at the unrestrained insolence she dares to express towards an artist as remarkable as myself. 

What does she know anyway? My work is revolutionary while her work is a disgrace to the integrity of the art world. I mean, who actually considers some low-resolution photography real artwork? She must be jealous of my delicate craftsmanship. Now that a true prodigy’s work has graced her presence, she knows her “art” pales in comparison. I can only assume she’s barely managing to live with the shame of it all. I should pity her, really. 

But still. The nerve of that wretched woman to take her own crippling insecurities out on my flawless design. It’s almost too much to bear. I spent restless nights on this rigid, lonely cot, blissfully daydreaming about the many doors this review was destined to leave wide open for me. I could’ve had it all. Fame, money, women… it was all right there, just beyond the grasp of my hand. The endless opportunities this world owed to me have since vanished before my teary eyes. 

The expectation of a perfect review, the kind of review I know in my heart that I truly deserved, was the only thing keeping me going in this godforsaken place. Now what did I have to look forward to? The click of the guard’s heels as she walked down the corridor late at night, innocent and unsuspecting? The oddly melodic snores of my antisocial cellmate? Getting to watch my favorite actresses on the television in the common room until some prude inevitably changes the channel on me?

Nothing. I have nothing left to look forward to. Instead, I am left with little more than an echoing sadness that permeates every crevice of my mind, an endless void that gnaws at the edges of my calloused skin, and a burning, unrelenting desire to be released from the constraints of my own existence. In essence, I am entirely the same man I have been since my own inception. 

Perhaps it was my own naivety that brought me here. With great folly, I had welcomed hope into my life with open arms and failed to recognize the burden she carries with her. For wherever there is a sliver of hope, there is also an insurmountable quantity of disappointment. All my life, I had known this to be true. Still, I had allowed myself to become enchanted by hope’s charm, willingly falling prey to her advances. I should not be surprised that I was made to inevitably suffer the consequences of my own willful ignorance. 

Although, I do have one thing to be thankful for. My review did make the front cover of the paper after all. There’s a large, unquestionably exquisite picture of me plastered front and center. They even managed to capture my good side! At least a few ladies are bound to notice that handsome mug, right? I personally don’t know very many women who would find that my nearly tangible charm fails to meet their exceptionally high standards. If only the distasteful review appointed to me had been more favorable, I would have had an exemplary portrayal of not only my face, but also of my phenomenal character front and center of the local paper. I could have been drowning in love letters from women everywhere fawning all over me already! What a shame…

My eyes skim over the venomous words once more. I wish I could pretend that my eyes were merely playing tricks on me as each sentence pierces my fragile heart. 

“Local artist arrested after painting left on front steps of museum is found to contain traces of human blood and fragments of several fingernails… Police investigation leads to the discovery of six bodies at the artist’s townhouse… The bodies have yet to be identified and the investigation is ongoing…” 

A soft, disgruntled sigh escapes my lips. Such pitiful fools, focused on the entirely wrong things. Nobody seems to understand that artwork as magnificent as mine takes great sacrifices. Nobody will listen to my side. They refuse to comprehend the complexity of the situation at hand. They simply cannot fathom that the greatest pieces of art need to be an extension of one’s being. Besides, how else am I supposed to create the perfect shade of rich yet delicate red? How else am I to ensure with absolute certainty that my portraits are anatomically correct, both inside and out?

The prison guard’s commanding voice breaks my reverie. “Lights out!” she shouts, and everything becomes dark. Gradually, I feel my senses come alive. I can feel the vibrations from my bunkmate’s gentle breathing. I can faintly hear the muffled sounds of timid laughter in the distance. I can sense curious eyes piercing into me; the guard is watching my every move. Her body quivers gently as I smile at her from beneath the dim glow of the emergency lights. Perhaps from the cold, I presume. 

I genuinely can’t help but marvel at her beauty. Even in the unsettling darkness, I can faintly make out the shape of her exquisite body, from the curvature of her slender waist all the way to her plump cheeks undoubtedly radiating with warmth. I can only imagine that her soft skin has flushed a maddening shade of red as her blood rushes to the surface. My very presence must be intoxicating to her after all. 

Her innocent eyes perforate my skin as I try to hold her startled gaze for as long as merciless time will allow me the pleasure. Merely a few heartbeats pass before she turns away swiftly and disappears as quickly as she had come. My smile grows wide as I imagine the beautiful artwork I’ll soon be able to create here on these very walls.