Nekro-Narcissistic

PROLOGUE

There's a name for this kind of entertainment, something tied to reality yet so far removed, it's almost comical. Reality television. Ironic, since this is the farthest thing from it, a scripted dramatization of life. Every once in a while it's nice to just shut off your brain, grab a big fat bag of chips and lay on the couch. And what would you find? What's the newest, hottest trending reality TV show? Something with stakes, drama, action, comedy, anything you could possibly want?

Inanimate Insanity.

The name rolls off the tongue perfectly too. What more could anyone ask for?

It's the kind of name a child would repeat incessantly, begging their guardian to switch on the television to enjoy alongside lunch. And they'd look back on it as a fond memory, even if they eventually grow out of enjoying such things, it has ingrained itself amidst the misty memories of staying up late and waiting for the next one to come. The suspense absolutely killed you. But now you know. And even when you know it all, from start to finish, you go back and see it again. You might even notice small things that you missed by focusing on the bigger picture, little treats you savor upon each rewatching. It never failed to surprise.

Your parents might even bring it up every once in a while, even after you'd long forgotten.

"What was that show you loved so much?" Mom asks.

"The one with the funny name, the uh...Inert Insaneness?" Dad misremembers.

Inanimate Insanity.

Parasite.

With a roll of the eyes you cast the thought away.

You retort angrily, "I grew out of that years ago! It isn't real, anyway."

It wasn't real in the same way that wrestling is, the storylines and characters played up by actors. Sure, they threw their punches. And people got hurt. But at the end of the day they knew what they were getting into when they started.

No one's loss.

Just as it was a fond memory, it becomes a bitter resentment over time. You cringe and seethe at the very notion that such a silly, stupid thing ever kept you up at night, sleepless, worried sick for the outcome. You'd screamed louder than a football stadium at maximum capacity when the side you were rooting for was victorious, and shed countless tears when they waved goodbye. It was a feeling deep in your chest, just shattering your little heart.

What a stupid thing to feel over such nonsense.

But in the moment none of it mattered, because you were happy.

Perhaps you aren't resentful because of how you were. You are scorned because you've never felt such a simple joy about anything since. Just a silly show, the one thing that made you smile.

Inanimate Insanity.

But that's merely a hypothetical.

Here is a definitive.

The artist has access to their tools: all the colors of the rainbow, a box set of colors, the fancy kind with a sharpener in the back.

The canvas: Lined sheets of paper.

The planning: All on the spot.

Not the most optimal way to go about such a thing, leaving little room for error being so brash might have setbacks.

He isn't even using an eraser, he just scribbles over any mistakes or tosses crumpled balls of paper over his shoulder, not caring where they land.

When he's finished, he lines each page alongside one another, like soldiers preparing for war. His battalion at the ready, he squints his eyes.