A Bloody Painting
A rotting carcass. Flesh falling off of broken bones. Open wounds, flowing blood. Yet the body is perfectly stitched together. I am only dead within. My reflection echoes hollowness. A plastered smile on my bland face. Can it convince?
A blank canvas. Splattered with paint. Or is it blood? It is just my bleeding dreams and hopes. Scattered bits of oozing brains. Am I dying to create or dying because I cannot? My hand shakes, the paintbrush falls to the floor with a soft clatter. I was never meant to do this. I look at the incomplete canvas. This is the product of my life. What is it? I still don’t understand. Splashes of red, blue, black every color I could grab. Mixed and minced together, thrown together to rip the canvas asunder. This doesn’t work. Nothing works. What am I to do?
A shattered glass. Broken pieces of jagged glass, standing sharp on the floor. To stab, to gash, to cut through my feet. Expensive liquor seeping through the cracks, spreading on the floor. Cold ice melting back into what it once was. I cannot even hold a glass now. I am a weak, pathetic alcoholic. My vision is blurred or is it just how things appear? A little shaky, a little uncertain. ‘You can’t punish me for ruining you,’ I step away from the broken glass. I pour another drink, this time straight down my throat. I feel the uselessness of my legs, I feel them shake, knees rocking as my ankles don’t support my weight anymore. They collapse. The bottle of expensive liquor splashes its contents. They’re gone and with it my will. Tears stream through, mingle with the liquor the broken pieces of glass the melting ice and maybe some blood. But my soul seeps through those cracks too. It’s gone. Maybe it will find someone more worthy. More worthy than this alcoholic who gave up in tears and blood.
Green and white curtains. Green and white. A hospital? A death bed? No, just my bedroom. Ripped and torn to shreds. Who did this? I never had claws. What are these? I tear at my face. The claws rip deep, piercing the skin, the flesh, the multiple layers. Blood flows, heavily. Hot and sticky, tasting like salt and iron. My tongue licks the line of blood and I taste some tears. But I wasn’t crying. I feel no pain, only the numbness. This wound ought to hurt. I can only feel the messy blood rushing everywhere. Where is my pain? Claws are still embedded in my cheeks, gaping wounds in the flesh staring at me. I feel no pain. Desperate, I grab at my hair and pull. I pull harder. I pull until I feel the roots giving up against my tenacity. The skin comes along too though. Torn bits of scalp and handful of hair. Blood rushes into my eyes. Where is my pain?
I wake up. It was a nightmare. There is no blood as I walk around my apartment. Rejected bits of incomplete paintings are strewn everywhere. It has been months since I have been struggling to create. My inspiration, my emotions, my imagination are just absent. I pick up a knife and slice my wrist. I smear it across the canvas. Does this have soul enough? But was I always this incompetent? I have to erase my thoughts and I rush towards my last bottle of whisky. The burning sensation debilitates my body and quietens my failures. A drop of something falls heavily on my lip. I am bleeding, my tongue tells me. My scalp is missing patches of hair. The bottle slips again as the blood from my wrist makes it unable to be held. It mixes with the broken glass from earlier. My heartbeat slows as my blood drains. My incompetence is shrouded by darkness. I don’t have to worry again.
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