flowers of flesh & blood; a short story

flowers of flesh & blood

A/N; This short story is slightly inspired by the song 'flowers of flesh and blood' by nicole dollanganger. Not by the snuff film from the Guinea Pig series. So if you're easily triggered by abuse, violence, child sexual abuse, rape, murder, gore and suicide please be careful or don't read this at all and take care of yourself!! Also I am not from an english speaking country so pardon my english, I will try to find every mistake buf if I won't be successful and you'll find some mistake please point it out to me so i can fix it. Thanks and have a good one!:)

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From the moment that he was able to lift his painting tools, my father was an artist. Red, blue, yellow, green and purple stained his fingertips. But I will always remember that red was his favorite. There was a certain agony in him that he could release throught the swipe of paint on a canvas. He was tormented. He was crazy. He was beautiful.

My father was a collage of feelings and colors that my mother could never tame but would chase after nonethless. He liked canvases. She liked projects. They were destined to be together. From the moment my mother laid her dark eyes, that went beautifully with every color my father put on her face, on that twisted man, she knew that she wanted to make him something more beautiful than any of his paintings could ever be.

It's hard to chase after wind, though. You cannot capture something that is always beyond your grasp. You cannot stop a man that is only held back by his inner demons. When she realized this, it was too late.

My father was a painter and painters are never normal.

He was constantly battling between reality and something beyond his icy blue eyes that didn't go well with any color so he never put it on him.

His eyes saw something my mother never knew and i couldn't touch. Perhaps the paintings he made were something he saw when his mind clouded over. I will never know. Nobody will ever know.

It was only when I was born that he started collecting himself once more. He could act normal when it was necessary. The streaks of paint faded from his clothing's fabrics and were replaced by collared shirts and belts that were often used as a paint brushes on my mother.

But he was a painter not an actor and he always broke the character he was playing.

I've been told that i was the project that he had worked the hardest on.

From the shattered photographs that laid on the red stained carpet that i watched while my father was painting my back, you never would have guessed that the man with the blinding smile was anything more than a regular father. He hid behind a pair of round glasses and no longer saw the world with his magical eyes.

The fire inside him didn't fade, though. I could feel it when he held me high above his head tossing me around my room. The flame in his heart never faded but only waited.

But that was when it was daytime and the sun blinded his eyes.

After the sun slid down and the moon that gave my father a perfect lighting to paint came out, he started painting again. My father hadn't dropped the practice, after all. An artist cannot contain so much passion inside him without simply exploding. He had to release the fire somehow so he was back to creating masterpieces.

He was a painter. He painted with words. He painted with fists. He painted with the canvas he knew was his.

I would press my head against my pillow that i took from my mothers bed. It was stained with red.