Art: A Tale of Murder and Madness!

      I’ve never worked a day in my life. I live in a nice apartment in the wealthy town of Nobb Hill. My apartment is surrounded by snobbish clothing stores. You can either buy a car or an outfit with the prices they demand. Incredible, if you ask me.
         On this particular morning I stood staring out my window at the people scurrying about on the sidewalk like ants rushing to the last crumb, or rats surrounding garbage. Ever since I moved in, I couldn’t see people for anything more than greedy slobs all looking for the next big payout. I see dollar signs in everyone’s eyes.
         I remember looking down and seeing a framed picture of my mother and father glaring at me from the table. It was the picture that my sister had left for me the last time she visited.
         I hated the picture. It wasn’t the lighting, or the angle. It wasn’t the scenery or the color. It was the subject. Two animals. Two rats that thought I was a better target than a son. I was the victim of their abuse.
         Why does my sister see them in such a different light? She would think differently if she wasn’t the apple of their eyes. Rot in hell.
         I threw the picture against the wall. It smashed and fell to the floor. The wall was cracked where I threw the picture. On the floor the smashed picture stared at me. Accusing. Always judging. Always glaring.
         It was almost a relief when my grandmother died. I knew that she had me in her will. With her inheritance, I could leave my so-called caregivers. At eighteen, I was on my way out. Thank you Grandma.
         Went out for a walk one afternoon after having settled into my apartment. I imagined that I had moved into a life as well as a new place to call home. My head was filled with visions of my new city being drastically different than the one that I had left behind. I was, afterall, away from the beasts that had given birth to me. That’s about all they had given to me if you want to know the truth.
         My first love of my new life was a park not more than three blocks from my home. It had a baseball field. I liked baseball. Some afternoons I’d sit and watch the games with my cup of coffee, or iced tea on particularly hot days. I’d sit back on the bench and watch the game. Around me parents and children would use the huge park for any number of games I never got to play as a child. My parents fought too hard and often to have time to take me the park.
         One afternoon I sat enjoying my coffee and watching a high school championship game when I heard yelling behind me. Instinctively, I turned to look at the cause of the yelling and saw a woman dragging her daughter along. The girl’s face was red and soaked with tears. She was insisting to her mother that she only wanted to play for ten more minutes. The mother was whispering loudly for the girl, “shut up! Will you shut up! I’ve given you enough time now shut up! If you don’t shut up, I’ll give you something to cry about!”
         I walked back to my new home heartbroken. This wasn’t the new and beautiful new life that I had imagined. Somehow the ugliness that I ran from has found me and revealed itself. I was home again. I didn’t know if I even wanted to leave my apartment.
         I didn’t. I stayed in the apartment thinking and painting for several days.
         I left only because I needed food. I left for food and to begin my plan for getting back at the world.
         The next day after I had made my journey out of the house, I began to paint. I would finish painting, and then I’d leave for more food. When I got back, I painted. That’s how it went for about three weeks.
         Lining the walls of my apartment, far from my parents were paintings that I had done. I never really had a talent for art until I discovered a subject that I truly loved. It became the only thing I had to escape from my parents. When I left and moved into my new place I continued to paint, but instead of an escape I found that the pictures took me back to the misery. I had to stop, but I never stopped admiring the portraits with a fascination I never before experienced for anything.
         The first portrait is a victim of a stabbing. I painted the wounds beautifully. It was like looking at a photograph. I had a knack for painting death. The victim is a white male. He’s dressed nicely. He had just bought the clothes at one of the high end stores on my block. He must have spent a fortune. Sadly, his clothing was ruined. His white shirt splattered with his own blood. In his hands the very knife that spilled his gore. Did he do it to himself? Is it possible to spill your own blood so violently?
         The second portrait is of a person who was hanged by the neck until death claimed her. Her face is black and blotchy. She is wearing a pink tank top and khaki shorts. She had dressed for the heat and had planned to take a stroll in the park.  Based on my painting, it seems that death had made other plans for her. The victim was cut down, but this would have only been merciful had the rescuer gotten to her sooner. Her face would not have been discolored and bloated from the painful death by strangulation.
         The third and final painting is of guy lying dead under a street lamp. He was shot once in the back of the head. It wasn’t execution style, I think the shooter just got lucky. I did. I expected to hit him in the back. It made an awful mess. I remember clearly the shot, followed by the mist of red. The victim hit the ground, his skull open and his brains liberated.
         The only people that know about this are the people that will eventually read my little story. Artists will be appalled that I used their sacred medium for the purpose of documenting my murder. Say what you will, murder and painting is the best therapy I’ve ever experienced.
         I will repeat, say what you will. The bodies will never be found. There is nothing to link me to the crimes. Nothing except the paintings, but they are simply figments of my imagination to anyone who looks at them. 
         Not only that, my art is good. So good in fact that the pieces have been bought. They are going to hang in a museum. No one will suspect that these are more than the craft of a gifted genius. No one will suspect that these are true portraits of murder and madness.