Random Short Stories

Artist

It began with a still life painting of a dimly lit kitchen. There was a set of knives laid neatly on the surface alongside a length of worn rope. The details on the rope were exquisite, more than I usually put into my works. I didn't remember painting it, but the paint on my hands and brushes was proof enough that the alcohol I'd imbibed last night had worked its magic on my muse.

There was something about the painting that bothered me, though. It didn't feel like mine. I decided to sell it. Despite the fact that still-lifes are typically worthless, the painting managed to fetch a small sum. I set the money aside and promised myself that I wouldn't drink that much again.

But the paintings kept coming. A landscape. A house. A tree hung with rope. A noose. The same knives, bloody and wet.

My anxiety grew. I hadn't had a drink in over a month, but the blackouts didn't stop. I didn't like where these paintings were going. What was wrong with me? I sold them all, the art dealer commenting on the perfectly shaped leaves on my tree. I could only smile-grimace at her. I threw out my brushes and shredded my canvases. I took a long weekend to myself.

The next morning, it was there.

A woman.

The art dealer dropped by that morning as I was putting the painting out in the garbage, and she seemed somewhat nervous as she looked at the first portrait I'd painted in two years. She bought it despite my protests, despite the tear, despite the look of abject horror on the woman's face.

I tried not to think too much on it.

Until the police came knocking three days later. The officer held up a picture of a woman, though this one looked less afraid. Did I know this woman, they asked. I didn't know. I swore that I didn't know, the fear from her painted eyes infecting me too. I didn't know. I didn't know. I didn't...

The officer showed me photos of my paintings. The kitchen, the knives, the tree hung with rope. Only, they weren't my paintings.

A crime scene.

No. It wasn't me.

The officer smiled gently as he pulled out the handcuffs. If I would just come along, they were sure to get this all sorted out down at the station. They were going to have a look around my house.

I didn't fight as the handcuffs clicked around my wrist. I didn't look back to the painting on my living room wall. I didn't flinch when they read me my rights.

I only looked down at my hands, red. Red with paint.

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I wrote this during my Math test. I really have no idea what this trash is