Crimson Paw Prints

The rain beats down heavily on the windows and tree branches scrape at them with each gust of wind. It’s dark already-- I’ve been working in here all afternoon. To be fair, though, this is my favorite room in the house and I happen to be keen on my current project. I feel a color smear on my chin as I graze my knuckles along the stubble. Zoe scratches at the wooden door asking permission to come into the room. I lean in and try to focus on the details of my painting, taking my time with each stroke. Precision is important, I think to myself, not a single hair out of place-- Meow! Zoe’s cries have grown demanding and, with a frustrated sigh, I drop my head in defeat and make my way toward the door to let her in. She slowly slinks across the room with careful steps, observing every inch of the floor before her. As I head back over to the canvas, Zoe perches on the windowsill closest to me. 

At last, the room is silent again, just how I like it. It’s the only way I can fully concentrate on these sorts of projects, like I said, every detail matters. I look down at the materials I’ve laid out neatly next to me and frown, noticing my favorite color is running low. A purr swells from Zoe’s belly, calming me before I get too upset about not having enough of that color. This painting is important, I want to get all of the details as close to perfect as I can-- just like Joanne. You see, I’m making a portrait of my girlfriend, my muse. With each stroke, I try to capture her beauty; her essence forever on paper. Wavy, golden-brown hair and bronze skin, sun-kissed and oh so smooth. As my brush blends hues of brown into the shape of her curves, my lips recall once caressing that same spot. Meowww! I glance up at Zoe, who’s now sitting straight up and looking down at the mess on the tarp. 

“I know, Zoe, I made a mess. Just hang up there till I clean it, I’m almost done,” I say softly. Zoe’s a black cat-- never found out what breed-- with a silky coat and, although a lot of people call her color unlucky, she sure has been a lucky charm for me since I found her 7 years ago. I think the saying goes, ‘what’s meant for you will find you’, or something like that. Well, it sure did. She was a kitten, maybe two months old or so at the time, in a smashed-up cardboard box next to a dumpster down the block from my house. There was another kitten in the box but it hadn’t made it. Broke my heart to think of her staying there and starving, so I took her home. Honestly, on a subconscious level, I related to her a lot which also lent a hand to the pity I felt for her. I was trying to sort my life out, but I was so conflicted about my passions and desires-- too afraid to take a leap, harboring fears that it wouldn’t all work out. I felt like a shy, helpless kitten; how could I become a lion, I would wonder. 

I snap out of my branching memories and focus once again on my painting. Most of it’s done, thankfully, I just have a little highlighting to do. Being that red is my favorite color, I incorporate it into everything I paint. Call it a signature of sorts. This piece will depict exactly how I see Joanne, my glowing red goddess. I don’t do portraits very often, maybe once or twice a year, so they’re very special to me and I’m meticulous about every little detail— I don’t want a single droplet out of place, I think to myself as I lean into the canvas and make slow, deep red strokes around her frame. It’d cost too much to make a mistake now. Meow! God damn it! I look up, seeing red from more than just the canvas, to find Zoe. Only, rather than sitting by the window, she’s on the floor in the midst of the mess I made earlier. I let my shoulders slump as irritation tightens in my chest. I usually clean everything up right away but, when the red spilled earlier, I left it on the tarp-- perhaps that was my own eagerness to start this piece getting the best of me. Furthermore, the way it splattered looked quite lovely and, since I’m rather fond of Joanne, I didn’t mind putting off the cleaning so I could get this done for her. 

I met Joanne because of Zoe, amusingly. Zoe has helped me grow in a variety of ways, opening my mind to change. Not long after Zoe came home with me, I started painting. It was simple at first, I’d go to the parks and draw landscapes to paint later on at home. That’s where I first saw Joanne, she was reading on an old rickety bench one afternoon. You couldn’t miss a beauty like her; she radiated like sunshine on a summer afternoon. She was the first person I ever drew. I’m a bit shy to admit that I looked around for women that resembled her wherever I went, on the train and in coffee shops. I drew them too, for practice, until I finally gained enough courage to do it. I painted my first portrait. I wasn’t nearly as good at it as I am now, in fact, the whole ordeal was extremely messy, but I showed it to her one afternoon when she was reading in the park. I thought she might not like it or think it was weird, but, to my surprise, she had noticed me too all those afternoons in the park. Her finger softly grazed the stroke marks as she noted how vibrant the red was, I fell in love on the spot. We were inseparable after that, but I still managed to find time to paint a portrait now and then. As much time as Joanne spent with me, she still didn’t know me.  

I shake my head and my mind let’s go of those useless thoughts. It doesn’t matter anyway, we’ve come a long way from then. There’s no going back. I add a few final touches before signing my name on the bottom right; LION. I let my brush drop out of my grasp and hit the floor as I step back and soak in the woman on the canvas. God! I’ve done it again, I think to myself. I’ve finally made the one; a true masterpiece, my crimson queen. 

The sound of Zoe licking her paws snaps me out of my proud bubble. 

“Zoe!! No! What are you doing?” On the floor, Zoe’s little red paw prints track across the tarp. She’s making the mess even bigger. Usually she stays on the windowsill, I recall, why is she getting so close to my work today? I roll my eyes at her, curled up next to Joanne. Maybe it’s because she knew her so well. After all, Joanne was here with her nearly every day in the past few years. Except on portrait days of course. On those days I’d have a damn near clone of her in the house, but Zoe always knew better. Cats are good with scents, but Joanne wasn’t. Joanne never noticed anything deathly important. Maybe I’ve simply perfected my craft over the years. With each portrait, I grew bolder. Like I said, I don’t do them often because they take so damn long to plan out and execute. Every detail matters when you’re playing with lives. 

“Well, hate to tell you this, Zoe, but she’s gone. Say your final goodbyes, it’s time for me to clean this up.” I always found the clean up to be rather annoying, and usually it’s not even this messy. Today there’s even more work because I decided to keep her corpse on the floor while I painted. I’ve spent so many years next to that body, I couldn't bring myself to wrap it up as quickly as the others. She meant so much more to me than them, I mean for God’s sake, she influenced each of the women I picked for previous portraits. All of them were merely practice for my greatest work. I let a sigh out, looking down at her blue lips, still beautiful as ever. Kneeling down, I place a soft kiss on her cool cheek before folding the tarp over her body. Zoe strolls over to the door and sits, patiently waiting. 

I smile to myself as I think about how I’ll always have Joanne with me now. See, the best part of my portraits is that it truly has part of the women in it as well— the shine and shimmer of their bodies natural paint. Crimson red, my favorite color.

Blood dries so well, you probably couldn’t even tell the difference-- people are extraordinary at overlooking details. Prey is an odd word for me-- I don’t consider myself a predator, but how could she not see that I was truly a lion?