Sugar Daddy

Paintings

A young woman was staring adoringly at the young boy running around on the lawn. A soft smile planted on her lips, as she held her slender arms at the kid. "Come to mama dear~ Come here." Her voice was soft and soaked in affection and caught the child's attention right away. He ran into her arms, which picked him up right after. 

The boy giggled happily as his mother swirled around, securing him in her embrace. The child was looking at her lovely smile with widened eyes, how her soft brown hair locks  dancing with the wind. His mother was the most beautiful flower in the garden. His mother was the safest place. The lady stroked her son's cheek, her heart was melting at the innocence in his big round eyes. "Mama loves you so much". She kissed his forehead. "Mama loves you the best. Oh...you are my own heart"

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Her face was twisted with horror and disgust. And her gaze was filled with murderous intent and hatred as she faced the teen Infront of her, who was barely fifteen; still a child. Still holding the traces of childishness in his features. 

He was terrified. His cheeks were wet with tears and his swollen eyes were filled with devastation and horror. The horror of being abandoned. His lean arm was trembling as he reached for his mother, begging her with his eyes, pleading not to go. 

She swatted away his hand heatlessly, ignoring the betrayed look in those still big round eyes. "Don't touch me!" She spat. The venom in her voice was sinking into the young man's skin. "Don't touch me with those bloodied hands!"

The rage and hatred in her eyes burned the already suffering teen, who flopped down on the floor, whimpering painfully. "Just...What are you?" She continued. The boy could not bring himself to raise his head anymore. 

"You are a monster"

******

 Beam woke up in the middle of the night, to a beautiful melody enveloping the apartment. He groggily pulled himself up and sat on the bed,looking around to see that there was no sign of his lover. But the sheets are still warm. 

He just waited there for a while. Listening to the music which was obviously created by a piano. The melody was very captivating. It feels lonely and mysterious. But at the same time he felt like it's daring him to tamper with the unknown. It was soothing. But at the same time it was stirring the emotions of passions inside him, riling him up to discover the mysteries of love. 

He got out of bed and put on a night shirt that reached his upper thigh. And without bothering to button it properly, and left the room. And he could easily discover where the music came from. Stepping out of the master bedroom, Beam could see the faint light coming out from the slightly opened door to the ‘forbidden room’. The music continued, enchanting and overwhelming his mind. And Beam easily entered into the banned. 

The room was lit with the faint lights of the candles, placed on various places in the spacious room. The walls were filled with paintings. There has to be more than a hundred. His eyes roamed on each and every picture. Every painting was properly framed. Some pictures were very detailed and complex. Some were reserved to a one certain object; Like the first painting, which held the picture of a knife, precisely a kitchen knife. The bloodied blade was dripping. But the background was painted with warm and joyful colours, contradictory to the horrifying object it held.

The next was a man in his forties, sprawled on a couch, which was stained with the blood flowing out of the man's chest, from a deep cut, right on his heart. Just like the first picture the atmosphere was serene rather than gloomy, and the man's face was not twisted with pain as it should be. Instead it held calm and peaceful, a drop of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. 

Is that contradictory a mistake? Or lack of talent? Or….

Is that how the artist saw the scene? Pleasant instead of horrifying?

The paintings went on, most of them carried the same vibe. A young woman who was shot on her forehead, lying on a lawn in a beautiful white dress. Another young lady, who's throat was slashed; blood gushing out like blooming red roses. A middle aged man, who was shot on his chest lying on the floor of an office room. And had many paintings of dead men, younger and older, A Painting of the Teary eyes of a lady. 

Beam hated himself for thinking how beautifully they were painted. Every painting carried the aura of beauty and grace, instead of terror and death.

 "So this is the mind of a killer". He thought to himself.

And there were many paintings of a lovely lady, clearly Miss Layla Jaturaphoom; reading on a couch, making coffee, playing with two young boys. Sitting on a picnic blanket, wearing a summer dress. 

Beam already guessed that the artist of those peculiar paintings was Forth. Those pictures confirmed it. Why else would he have such a collection of intimate Paintings of his mom hidden in a room? 

 First pictures were lovely and radiant. She had the most beautiful smile. Rest of her pictures were mostly portraits, where her face was distorted with anger and disgust, her eyes were red and brimmed with tears of hatred. Is that how she was looking at him? Why?

But some paintings were totally irrelevant to those; a half filled champagne glass, a violin, a sunset at a beach, hands of a traditional dancer.

Beam was walking toward the end of the room, now acknowledging the one certain unavoidable presence in the room, the heir to multi billion company, sitting on a long low stool at a grand piano, who played without being bothered by a young man pacing around the room, studying everything he kept hidden.

Beam stood a few feets away from Forth, who continued playing with the same passion. As he looked around, his eyes were met with a one certain painting. It was quite hard to miss anyway. Why? Because there were many more of that same Painting. Ten same paintings, he counted. Not a single detail is different. Paintings of a young man leaning on an iron barred fence, looking at the distance with sad eyes and a peaceful smile. A single tear rolling down. Wait…

"It's me!!!" Beam clasped his hands against his mouth as his mind screamed. "That's In Front of my old apartment!. But how did Forth…."

His gaze hurriedly moved into the next painting; clearly another picture of him, soaking in Forth's bathtub, his face looked ethereal with his closed eyes and relaxed expression. And to his curiosity, there was a golden halo above his head. 

Beam blushed. Is that how forth saw him? As an angel?

With a fast beating heart he eyed the last painting. And his heart clenched with the sorry for the elder. 

It was a painting of him, sleeping on Forth's bed, turning back to the painter. The sheets were pooled at his waisted, leaving the whole back naked. His body was glistening in the moonlight. And there was a pair of  beautiful wings, with soft looking white feathers attached to his back. And a golden halo above his head. 

An angel

Whose wings were stained with the handprints of blood.

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A/N

The piece Forth was playing - "Paris" by Sofianne Pamart

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=eO092cgYuRs