Macabre

Picasso

My brush hits the white of the canvas with a soft beat, a whisper of bristle, giving a raspy sigh at the sensation. With the flutter of my wrist, a flick of bone and muscle, a masterpiece is created. Hues of red and brown, rusted rubies. A mix of pink in some places, maroon in others. It's extraordinary what you can do with one medium. A single color matched into various shades. Sunset, sunrise, life, death and all that lies between. One image worth a thousand words, or two worth twice as many. A whole gallery to depict the demise of dozens of lost souls.

The project was nearly complete, my studio filled to the brim with new pieces. Images depicting life, the final breathes of my musings. Their last moments, those of agony and utter joy, compiled at the sight of where they are and what they'll become. My art will outlive us all, withstanding the void of time, destitute in mirth but everlasting in darkness.

I have been ridiculed, my genius laughed and mocked. This though, this new creation, will silence them all. They will no longer giggle behind my back, whisper in droves of condescension over me. I am a true artist, a true patron of the forced portrait. They'll see me now, see my true potential, my greatness.

My brush continues, swirling about the canvas. It peaks and turns about, creating a thing of beauty, glorious in its wake. As the bristles run dry I look down at my palette to find that it too has gone stale. With a frown I turned towards the corner of the room, I hated pausing during my work.

In the low light of the edge of my studio, stood a chair and in that chair, a person. Their head shot up as I approached, a clear sense of fear sparking in their eyes. They began to shake, their head bobbing back and forth, frantic mumbles coming from behind the gag that I'd wedged in their mouth. I smiled and shook my head before removing the handkerchief from between their teeth.

Naturally there was a scream, a cry for help, a plea for the sake of their life. Life itself was such a frail thing, so vast yet always fleeting.

I pulled my knife from the bowl that rested beneath their right arm. There were already cuts strewn about the surface. I searched for an open space, I'd have to switch arms next time.

"W-why don't you just kill me?" The man stuttered out, his breathing erratic in terror.

I allowed the knife to rest gently on his skin as I released a deep sigh. "How many times do we have to go over this? If your brain dies your heart stops beating, if your heart stops beating your blood stops circulating. When the blood stops circulating it goes cold and clots. I can't work with clotted blood."

He nodded slowly, tears vainly falling down his cheeks. I rolled my eyes as my knife dug into a vein, some people.

With my palette replenished I returned to my work. This gallery, in all its hostile glory, would be the talk of the century.