A Collection of Short Stories

The Artist

Warmth yields to sharp coldness.

His feet pad softly down the marble steps, attempting to hide the heavy weight of their owner. A few seconds pass between each step questioningly as keen ears search for any sign of stirring. Finally, his feet land in solid darkness.

With his free arm splayed out, he drags his arm through the dark, clawing for the cold, rounded metal. His fingers find the frigid metal, clutching onto it as if his life depended on it. Silently, he twists the well oiled knob and is greeted by the icy tendrils that wrap around his scantily clad body. He takes laboured steps inside the room and silently locks the door behind him.

Empty. Dense black.

The room is barely illuminated by the minuscule panel reinforced by bars on the left wall. A thin shaft of pale grey struggles to pierce the coagulated dim of the room, broken up by thick uniform lines. He cautiously sets his possessions down: an easel, a knife, an artist palette, a thin brush, parchment paper and a fountain pen.

The easel is set up in the centre of the room, the canvas thrown roughly on it. He ignores the squeaks and thuds that reverberate throughout the bare room and seemingly through his own bones. No one would be able to hear him in here.

In graceful, circular motions, he revives the canvas with pale colours of grey, black and red. He works methodically and swiftly, the image already manifest in the forefront of his mind. Paint sloshes erratically, splattering onto the cement floor.

When satisfied with his piece, his frail form stoops down to snatch the fountain pen and parchment paper. He leans himself against the stinging cold concrete wall, ignoring the uncontrollable shivering that seized his body. In this claustrophobic space, with the chilly air stiffening his warm body, he begins to write on the paper.

Delicate, fragile lettering decorate the almost brittle material. Splotches of dark liquid slowly but surely invade the flesh coloured paper. Crystal clear drops rhythmically splatter the ink, the black tendrils bleeding throughout the textured surface.

He finally sets the parchment paper aside, directly in the moonlight's path, delicately arranging the papers in a sentimental manner. One hand roughly brushes away the rest of the tears whilst the other plunges into the dark, returning with a gleaming knife.

He stands up once again, his frozen limbs protesting from the sudden movement. He slowly meanders a few steps forward. His vision becomes obscured by his pale, lustrous eyelids. His right hand slowly makes its way to the left and, with a quick jerk, the pale skin of his forearm yields instantly to the sharpened blade of the knife.

Red. Black. Grey.

He takes laboured steps around the room with lidded eyes, dragging his dripping arm in circular motions. But he is too lost in the tranquillity of his mind; he barely notices the pain. It cannot compete with the icy cold that was taking over his body.

Red liquid seeps through his pale skin, the warm slick gravitating towards the floor. The frigid cement devours the warmth of the life-giving liquid. After replicating the image that still remained in his mind, he kneels down next to the parchment paper. By now, his whole body has been anaesthetised. His final action for the night would now be easier to carry out. Words flash in front of his eyes, the very words he wrote only moments before.

***

The shrieks of vultures drown out the helpless moans of their innocent victim. The mass of black converge on the frail flesh, allowing life-blood to seep into the ground. For I am dust and to dust I shall return.

I have become burdened by their taunts, which haunt me morning, noon and night. They refuse to leave this globe of mine. They have distorted the very reason for my being. To paint. To create.

But I stand by what I've always said.

It only takes a little bit of pain to create extraordinary works of beauty.

***

His right arm deftly makes its way up, struggling against the weight of the cruel metal. When his arm is directly in front of him, he closes his eyes, embracing the darkness that he used to cower from.

Even breathing ceases to be no more.

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