Still Life

Becky walked down the street, hand in hand with the guy she met at the bar. After searching for what seemed like forever, it looked like she had finally found a decent guy in Jerry. They had spent the entire evening sharing pleasant conversation over a nice meal at what turned out to be the favorite restaurant they both shared. She was cute and flirty... he was charming and a little on the reserved side.

At one point in the conversation, he had mentioned that he was a painter of some sort, and, being an art fanatic, Becky had insisted he show her some of his work.

As they walked back to his loft, Jerry turned to look at Becky. He blinked his eyes, trying to focus as his vision began to blur. It was happening too soon. He struggled to remain in control, but his imagination was taking over.

Her skin became translucent and he could see the blood pumping through the veins underneath. Her heart was beating quickly, its pitter-patter giving a rhythm to the blood's flow as it coursed throughout her body.

He saw her angelic face, spattered with rivulets of blood, her throat slashed open from a jagged tear that ran from ear to ear. Jerry saw the terrified look in her eyes as the life drained out of her, slowly oozing out of her with every pint of blood.

Then, he imagined her face, contorted and twisted with pain as he vivisected her young body, methodically separating each segment of each limb... carefully arranging them on his canvas so that he could photograph her. He became excited when he began to picture the lush, red blood smeared across the pure, white canvas.

All he had to do was get her back to the studio.

It was no surprise that still life drawings were his favorite activities in art classes. The teacher always pushed him, repeating the phrase like a mantra:

"Paint what you see. Paint what you see."

Becky had asked to see his work. Tonight, she would become a part of it.

He quickened his pace, both excited by the evening's prospects, and afraid of losing control before arriving at the safety of his secluded loft.

He never understood the art classes that talked about surrealism or pointillism or cubism... Jerry was a realist. And, following his teacher's advice, Jerry was going to take Becky home and paint what he saw.


(407 words)