Shock

Jake stared at the black canvas. Black was what he felt. Black was what he delivered. Black, however, was not what was expected.

What was expected? A 20 piece collection of new "emotional abstracts" for Gloria's "Feelings" exhibit at her gallery. 20 damned canvases full of shapes and random lines supposedly depicting sadness or glee or whatever godforsaken feeling Jake had at the very moment he painted. The true problem here was the fact Jake was pretty numb by the 8th painting.

Empty.

It had turned out well enough, a sea of blues and greens. "Tranquility in Turquois", Jake had christened old number 8. And it was all downhill from there. Jake had to literally trudge through the following 11 paintings....grasping for anything that would put him in any kind of emotional state.

Now, he was on the 20th and final piece to the collection due in two days....and all he had was a black canvas accompanied by an emptiness. Jake was completely void of any emotion. He felt nothing. Not even anger or insecurity at the fact he could not do one more painting.

Void.

He could only glare into the blackness, watching to see if something would emerge. Either to kill him or to finish the job at hand. At this point, Jake did not have a preference, as long as the hell was over. He would hopefully sell some of his art after the exhibit. Enough to not have to paint again for a while as this project had zapped his artsy juices bone dry. Jake knew better though. Paintings didnt bring in loads of money that often. When the artist was dead, then they were worth millions. Tragic how this world worked.

His mouth was also bone dry. Maybe a few shots of tequila would help solve Jake's mutiple afflictions.

A door slammed and shook Jake out of the darkness. Fucking great. Jeffrey was home. Now he totally needed shots. Lots of shots.

Jeffrey, in Jakes mind, was the world's worst neighbor. Always blaring some kind of obnoxious guitar blaring, drum crushing, ear drum busting noise that some called music. Coming over to ask Jake for stuff, like a cup of milk. You see ladies in movies asking neighbors for cups of sugar, pretending to be in need when, really, they are being busy bodies.

Nosey.

Jeffrey, though, was too dumb to be nosey. And too broke to buy milk, Jake guessed with a smirk.

Jake gave the plain black painting another glance, then made way to the shelf he dubbed his bar, and poured two fingers of Jose into a red plastic cup. He had broken every glass he owned while painting number 12. Shards, named for the pieces of glass he stepped on while painting a disturbing self portrait in reds. Two months later, he was still finding tiny specks of glass here and there with his barefeet despite sweeping and vacuuming multiple times. Finding the pins of glass was always a shock, unexpected and painful.

Shock. Thats a feeling, right?

"Hell yeah, it is." Jake spoke aloud to his empty loft. The drink was working as hoped. A little liquid encouragement, motivation, creativity. Jake poured himself another, immediately throwing it down his tingling throat. The drink lightning to his body.

"Lightning". Again to no one but himself.

Inspired, finally. Jake poured one more, for the road, and got to work. He began painting bright lightning streaks that popped against the black canvas. Whites and yellows mixed together for great effect... Then came the music.

A heavy boom of drums shook Jakes apartment walls. And his painting hand, making a large white stroke from the middle of the canvas to the bottom.

Fury.

Jake lobbed his paintbrush at the wall that joined his and Jeffreys lofts together. White paint splattered everything along the way. The brush left a beautiful splat on the blue wall.

Dammit Jeffrey.

Jake could not take it. He grabbed the mangled paint brush from the carpet and marched right out his door into the hallway of the building. Jeffrey was going to turn that shit off, NOW.

Jake banged on his neighbor's door, fist like a hammer, leaving white paint everywhere he touched. Jeffrey did not answer. Probably could not hear the beating over all that ear bleeding noise. So Jake tried the knob.

Victorious.

The door opened to a mirror of his own loft. The stereo system was on the wall opposite the splattered blue wall in Jakes home. Made sense. Made this guy a huge asshole too.

Jeffrey was on a tattered brown couch with a headset on, playing a game on his tiny tv. He was not even listening to the shit coming out of those speakers. Jakes heart hitched in anger. A couple hours ago he could not muster up a sigh. Now, here he was, full of emotion. How glorious.

He tapped Jeffrey on the shoulder. The man nearly jumped out of his own body. His face looked as if he may have screamed, but who could hear anything over the racket in that house? Jeffrey grabbed his chest, the way most do when they had just had their soul terrified straight out of them.

Jake nearly laughed, then remembered his reason for his visit. It was jack hammering a hole in his brain. He walked back to the stereo, found the power button, and punched.

Sweet silence.

"Bruh, you scared the shit outta me. You shouldnt just walk into someones home like that." Dramatic.

"I pounded your door for fifteen minutes" Jake stated. Exaggerated. Unapologetic. "I am working. Your music is distracting me from a deadline. Please, keep it down."

"Oh, oh sure. Sorry, bruh." Jeffrey still looked shaken up.

Jake forced a smile and turned to leave.

"Hey, since you're here, ya mind letting me borrow some milk? I have cereal, but no milk. Cereals pretty awful with water."

Jake gulped air. "I'm all out myself. Goodnight." Fuck you. He wanted another drink.

Before Jake made it outside into the hallway, a click came from behind him, followed by the bang of that torture music. It made Jake jump in fright.

He turned swiftly to see Jeffrey standing at the stereo, smiling, giving Jake the bird.

Homicidal.

Something snapped in Jake's brain. Much like a rubber band. Like every ounce of composure he had stretched thin and ripped. Then the darkness came.

Jake woke to a hammer fist on his apartment door. Groggy, hungover, he made way to the door, slipping in wet paint along the way. Tracking it, but not really caring. He opened the door to a couple of New York's finest.

"Hello,officers?" It was all he could muster. Nauseated.

"Jacob Johnston?"

Jake nodded.

"You are under arrest for the murder of Jeffrey Shular. You have the right..."

Shocked.

"Wait. What?" Jake was confused. Jeffrey? His neighbor? What the hell was happening?

"...can and will be used against you.."

Jake took a look at number 20.

Terror.

The great white line was still there. Lightning came from all angles. A knife stuck out of the lower right corner, white paint fingerprints on the handle. Red dots sprinkled everywhere like a portrait of a crime scene. The middle of the painting was the most shocking of all. Pinned to the canvas with many small paintbrushes was what could only be a human heart. Jeffreys heart.

Jake vomited on the officers' shoes, then was lead past Jeffreys loft toward the elevators. White and red? paint footprints led from Jeffreys loft to his or vice versa. The door was wide open. Jake seen the stereo smashed. Red covered the walls Jeffrey never changed from dingy white.

They would definitely need painting now.

Painting. Jake scoffed.