Turpentine & Vetiver

7. Aftermath -art should comfort the disturbed & disturb the comfortable -Banksy

It was getting late, and Thorn was hoping that most of the crowd had dispersed by now. He left his office, locking the door, and quietly crept upstairs to the Artist's Loft area. The strings of miniature white lights winked at him through the darkness, and the concrete floor was littered with blood-red chrysanthemums. He saw that Inky was still there, her friends had left for the night, and she was sitting on the lounge bench staring up at the sky. Thorn watched her arrange a menagerie of origami animals on a long glass table beside her, and he smiled to himself. She was drinking a glass of champagne, and Thorn wanted to walk up to her and introduce himself.
Inky didn't appear to notice him watching her from the shadows, standing in seclusion behind the drink cart. What am I supposed to say to her? Thorn wondered, as he knew that Miranda had probably already warned her about him. Thorn remembered the first performance art show he'd been a part of at the Gallery- Cayson and Elder had encouraged him to branch out from beyond only making paintings. He'd met up with Miranda, Cayson, and Elder at the local coffee shop, listening patiently to their ideas, unable to interject a word in. Miranda has been nervous at first that Thorn would have to cut her- but there must always be a blood sacrifice, even in art, he'd explained darkly. He despised Miranda, wished that he could rid the world of her pointless existence, but knew that he'd have to wait- killing her now wouldn't work, so he'd have to settle with bodily injury.
   Thorn remembered the scared look on Miranda's face the first time they were onstage, her brown eyes full of silent terror. His pieces were an abstract visual representation of the Red Void, and he wondered if people truly thought he was psychotic rather than just a weird artist. Both were true, though he hoped nobody would guess this fact. He had told Miranda he'd been medically trained, which was a partial truth. He'd taken many anatomy classes in school, and knew where to cut that would bleed profusely, even if it wasn't that deep. The sight of her blood on his knife made him smile darkly to himself, for he was merely preparing for the day that he'd eventually put an end to her shallow life. She was like a damn parasite, trying to gain local art world fame and notoriety through his art shows, as she herself lacked the talent and motivation to promote herself. Thorn thought that she was a terrible actress as well, she obviously cringed at the sight of blood, the slight pain from the knife- and her introductions to the shows were always long-winded, pseudointellectual drivel. He shook his head, pushing away the unwanted thoughts to the back of his mind.
   Once again he stared at Inky, who had her back turned to him, and was staring upwards at the dark sky. She didn't have her ubiquitous black briefcase or her odd black leather bag with its assortment of metal hardware, ancient keys, and other accoutrements with her tonight; and she wore a thin black silk shirt- partially transparent under the light of the paper lanterns- along with her usual heavy black lace-up boots and black jeans. Her hair was less messy than normal, the choppy, ink-colored strands looking like the glossy feathers of a raven's wing. She turned slightly at the sound of a window closing in the distance, and Thorn stepped further into the shadowed area he was hiding in.
   What's wrong with you- just go talk to her- you're the only two up here right now, he thought, his mind racing with an unexplainable nervousness. Then, an ominous noise started, it began far away, as if coming from the dark sky itself. The Red Void? he wondered, though Inky didn't seem to have heard the noise. Discreetly, Thorn took a small, sharp knife blade from the pocket of his charcoal-grey suit coat, pressing the cold steel against the side of his left forearm. My shirt already has blood on it, what's a little more? He hoped that this was just a false alarm, and didn't want either of them to witness the horrors of the wretched Red Void tonight. Not when they were supposed to meet... The blade bit into his skin, and several small red droplets fell discreetly to the concrete floor.
   The noise ceased, and all he heard now was the distant waves crashing against the shore, the air cold and still surrounding him. His blood ran down onto his hand, staining his white shirt. He glanced over at Inky, who now appeared to be half-asleep. Well, hell- I can't exactly talk to her now, he thought in disappointment. Inky looked cold, her arms folded around herself, the thin shirt she wore offering no protection from the night air. The breeze scattered the origami creatures from their organized procession, and Thorn stepped out of the shadowed area he was hidden in, slowly walking across the rooftop loft.
   Maybe I should just leave- I don't want to scare her, Thorn reminded himself, noticing the blood that still dripped from the shallow cut near his left wrist. I really should get this cleaned up first, he thought, and silently left Inky on the rooftop. I'll be back soon, I promise. He went back into his office, finding his small metal first-aid kit in a desk drawer. He cleaned up as much of the blood as he was able, then bandaged the rest up, rolling down his bloody sleeve to hide the cut. I could just lie, if anyone asks, I'll say that I accidentally hurt myself on the paper slicer, he thought humorlessly. Thorn stared at his reflection in the window glass, taking off his awkward wool cap and attempting to remove some of the blood from the collar of his shirt. As an afterthought, he grabbed the black Moleskine journal- perhaps Inky might want to read some of the less murderous entries- though some of the poems were blatantly about him stalking her. He glanced over at the words he'd written earlier in the evening, after his performance art show.

            AT FIRST GLANCE
   WHAT THEY PERCEIVED ME
TO BE DOING         WAS UNHOLY
- I STOOD ON THE STAGE
                      FEELING NOTHING

IN FRONT OF THE
                     DARK RED CURTAINS
AN OMINOUS SOUND ROSE
- AS IF FROM THE ABYSS

             THEY DIDN'T KNOW
         WHAT TO THINK OF ME
- STANDING SILENTLY
          EYES LOWERED, AVERTED

THEN THEY WAITED
                              FOR THE KNIFE
AND EVEN THOUGH
                         IT WAS ALL AN ACT
THEY TURNED AWAY,
                        ABSOLUTELY
                                      DISGUSTED.

THE MUSIC ROSE TO A CRESCENDO
      I STOOD THERE BETRAYED
              BY THE PORTRAYAL
     OF MY OWN PERFORMANCE

   He resented himself for being so truthful on the paper, though this was in all honesty what he felt, or at least a less distorted version of it. Maybe he'd even share these words with Inky- if he didn't completely ruin his chances of talking to her tonight by waiting so long. Thorn locked up his office again, heading back up to the Artist's Loft. Inky was still asleep on the bench, her face turned skyward, legs curled beneath her at an awkward angle. Thorn wanted to wake her up, she didn't look very comfortable- how could she have possibly fallen asleep out here in the chilly spring air? He didn't think that she'd had that much to drink- from his recent observations of her, Inky didn't really seem like much of a drinker, preferring tea or coffee.
   Perhaps I should have brought her some tea- there's some in the break room, he cursed himself for not having thought of this option earlier. Thorn turned to leave the loft once again, but then the air grew infinitely colder, the horizon glowing red in the distance. The air around him smelled like ozone and a burnt, metallic odor. A low, eerie horn resounded through the sky, and the atmosphere around them on the rooftop seemed to peel back, exposing the terrible reality within, like a bandage peeling back from a deep wound. The Red Void- is it here now, because we are in the same location? Perhaps it wants her blood as well... Thorn stared in horror at the hellscape that was unfolding around them both.