Mystreet oneshots

Art// Ein....Angst

(( Written by Winter ))

I would say I took interest in art at a very young age. Young enough where drawing on the walls of your childhood home was not encouraged, but to be expected. No one would have blamed me, I was just a kid then.

Actually the first time I drew on the walls, was when I was four. My mom and dad bought me so many crayons for my birthday, a pack of 72 and none less. I loved those crayons, every single color. However, I did have one favorite, red. Red has been my favorite color for 23 years, 23. I never lost interest.

My mom came home the day after I got the crayons and yelled at me. Maybe I deserved it, the lower part of the walls had red scribbles in every place they could, it was covered. My crayons were taken away, all 72, including the red crayon. I was so mad then, so very mad. She had taken what was mine, and I didn't like that. So I did the only reasonable thing I could think of.

I painted the walls red.

This time it was my dad who yelled, but not at me. He yelled at the site in front of him. I remember it so vividly, he was crying and I think at one point full on sobbing too. However I didn't cry, I didn't mourn the death of my mother. The blood on the walls left me feeling very numb and very happy.

They didn't know how she died, the police that is. My dad had called them immediatly when he found her lifeless body. Since they didn't know, they covered it up my claiming it was suicide. I got my crayons back.

After that incident, I became a big fan of art. You know, they say art is different for everyone. Art could be drawing, painting, pictures, music, writing, performing, and so many other things. I really enjoyed painting , I still do. But I only ever use the color red.

I tried liking other colors, I really did. When I was thirteen my dad allowed me to dye my hair blue, just the front section. We got the dye and he let me even dye it myself. When it was all done and over with, I was happy with the outcome, almost.

Don't get me wrong, I liked the idea of colored hair, but it was all wrong. My hair was blue, it needed to be red. I remember having a panic attack after looking myself in the mirror. It seems silly now, but it was a big deal then. In fact my dad heard me falling to the ground and had to pry my hands away from my head so I couldn't hurt myself.

Eventually I calmed down and did actually end up liking blue. It took a lot of convincing myself that I was fine and okay, but I did actually keep the blue. That became the only thing that wasn't red in my life, and I was okay with it. My paintings stayed red.

I remember in high school when the counselor called my dad because the art teacher found my art... disturbing. I didn't get it, they were all red, they were all mine. I should be able to decide if my art is disturbing. Either way, my dad and I had a talk that night.

He said that maybe I should tone it down, try some other colors. He just didn't get it, I didn't want to use other colors. Red is the best of them all. After trying to explain several times and getting ignored through all of it, I decided telling him wouldn't be enough. So I showed him.

Head detached from body, I think he finally understood. Art is better red. Red is art.

I left the body to rot in our house. It was art, it needed to stay. It was the best thing inside the place, honestly.

After high school, I went to college, majored in graphic design. It was okay, just okay. But to me, it wasn't nearly as fun as painting. I dropped out my second year after my roommate had killed himself. He wrote on the walls with his own blood before he died. This is art.

I think it's safe to say I wasn't suspected.

I moved in with a good friend of mine who I actually had met in college. He dropped as well, drugs make you do crazy things. I lived with him though, because he understood. He got it. The art I made was beautiful, he called it special and said I would make a killing selling that stuff to some of his friends. I never did though, I kept all the paintings I made, they were mine.

My new roommate was the best one I could have asked for. Not only did he understand art, he let me paint the walls whatever I wanted. He let me do any art I so desired. He was my favorite person. So that's why my next painting was created with him.

It was really a collaboration if you think about it, we both took part. I painted the picture while he provided the red. I miss him.

Things are different now, I'm alone. But not completely alone. I have my art, my huge house full of red. I don't invite people over anymore, they wouldn't get it. They don't understand. I am devoted to this, to my passion. That's why I'm writing this letter to you now, so you understand when my body is finally discovered. Now you'll know.

I found my red crayon last night, the one I got when I was four. It was just laying at the bottom of a cardboard box I had laying around. It was worn down obviously from its many uses. But it was still there, it was still red.

I decided I needed to make one last painting.