The Artist

"It's very hard to paint in a studio apartment in San Jose with a man who's learning to play the violin" That's what she told the police when she handed them the empty revolver.

Marian was a quiet girl. She kept to herself. She decided to get an apartment with her boyfriend back in the spring. Everything was fresh and new, it was the perfect time.

She sat down on the couch, a lit cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She crossed her legs and took a long drag off her cigarette. Pushing a few blond dreadlocks out of her face, she began her story.

"Every morning it's the same thing. He gets up at the crack of dawn and starts it up. Starts playing that damn violin. No, I can't even say playing, he... he..." She looked slowly around the apartment as if searching for the perfect explination. She leaned slowly toward the officer scribbling down her story and whispered,"He tortured it."

The officers could tell she was eccentric the moment they walked into the large one room apartment. She was an artist. Her paintings hung around the room. The tall brick walls were hardly visible under them.

Marian got up and moved to an arm chair. "I couldn't take it anymore. I've had enough. He got up this morning at 4:30. I got out of bed and walked to the dresser, and I shot him. I shot him six times."