-where art takes us-

Red

I park my truck on our driveway and get out with a huge paper bag full of movies. I set the bag down on the kitchen counter and start preparing the snacks.

While waiting for the popcorn, I drag a few pillows and blankets from my bedroom into the living room and prepare everything so that we can sink into it while pissing our pants with every coming jump-scare.

Because I've already finished all the preparations, I sit down on the couch and make myself comfortable. I sit there for a whopping 2 hours and snack on the popcorn in front of me. I don't think she's coming anymore.

I had already thought so when she said this morning she had to go into town and take care of a few things. She has probably taken a hotel and is staying there for the night. I told her that we can postpone it but no, she insisted on doing it today. She should have just accepted it. Empty promises don't help anyone. With her memory, she probably even forgot it, otherwise, she would have called. Granny enters the room and gives me a wistful look.

"Bora you know she is not come. Why you not start without her? I watch with you if you want. But only one, I have my bedtime to keep.".

"Thanks but I think I just go to bed, it would have been nice if she called to cancel it... I will be in my room if you need me.. Night granny." I give her a kiss on the forehead and climb up the stairs.

As I change into my PJs I notice that I have to change my socks again. I already did so the second I came home but the small bandages don't work as promised. I get into the bathroom and search for the first aid kit.

With this, I sit down in the bathtub and wrap my feet in cloth bandages, which I pull tightly to stop the bleeding as best I can without cutting off my entire foot from the oxygen line. I am used to physical as well as psychological pain which is why I am not really bothered by any of this. A small puddle of blood has collected in the bathtub.

I get paper, canvas and brushes and dip the brushes in the red liquid. I hold the brush over the paper, thinking about what exactly I should do with it now. Over time, more and more blood drips onto the paper and forms a pattern. I form the picture to my ideas, reach into the puddle with my hand and smear my hand over the canvas. As if in a trance, I move over the images, more and more emerge from my subconscious.

Red, textures, rage, pain, regret, everything flows into the attempt to express something that cannot be said. Things that nobody wants to accept but is aware of every minute. The viewer should feel all of this when he looks at it and yet no one will ever see it. A blind man's view.