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The Painting
The painting was something that I was unfamiliar with, a ragged melding of hard lines and soft colors. Looking deep within,
it was impossible to discern any sort of order. The lines flowed gracefully, while still being sharp. They could caress
just as easily as filet, and they let you know that. The colors were in much the same manner. They at first glance appeared
to be soft pastels, but with each passing minute they burned brighter, until your retinas were sore and you could only look
away. But, for the apparent chaos, there was still something about the work that gave a sense of order. It was odd, but
this made me shudder. It may have seemed random, but there was something more to that painting than just shapes and paint.
It appeared as though the painting had a spirit about it, one that begged to be looked upon, but lashed out when eyes made
contact.
****
I didn’t think about it again for several days, perhaps even a week. I lost track of the time, getting myself engrossed
in other activities that required more diligent practice. But then, for some odd reason, the painting came back to the forefront
of my mind.
I was lying in bed, dreams wistfully being projected on the screens on the inside of my eyelids. They were the usual fare;
routine life, fantasy life, fantasy sex. They were the types of dreams that everyone has every night. And then, out of nowhere,
the painting jumped back into my mind, and sat there, staring me in the face, begging me to look once again upon it.
I was partially awake, and terrified that the painting was able to find its way into my dreams, I woke myself up. After a
cold drink of water and some vigorous rubbing of my eyes, I was able to find sight of the normal kind. But sleep would not
come again that night, the thought that I could be haunted again by that hideous work was enough of a weight around my neck
to keep me from drifting down the current towards unconsciousness.
****
Sleep didn’t come for the next two nights either. The hours were spent lying motionless; eyes wide open, burning, desperately
in need of some relief. But relief was not to be found so easily, as the painting stood in the way, blocking my passage to
paradise like St. Paul with a bad attitude. I was a ragged mess of a man, disheveled and stumbling. I could force myself
through the motions of the day, only to find myself collapsing into a fetal ball in the corner of my apartment each night.
Any semblance of normalcy had long been thrown out, and I was reduced to a shriveled and shivering wreck. As much as I needed
rest, and as much as my life was slowly being destroyed by a collection of brush strokes, I could not help but continue to
think of that horrid painting.
Why was it that the painting had affected me in this way? It didn’t seem to make sense. I was not the only person
to have stared at it, but I knew that I was the only one who was being driven to madness by its simple visage. For me to
be the only one to be haunted by a simple painting proved to be as puzzling as the haunting itself. I knew that these actions
and thoughts were irrational, but I couldn’t stop them. I had been selected to be the target of this evil painting,
and I needed to know why.
****
I was beginning to be frazzled, my mind no longer moving in linear fashion, instead shifting meaninglessly from one topic
to another. But these topics were not really such, they were instead just the spaces between the lines of that damned painting.
Each line seemingly was another thread of the rope that I was winding into a noose, slowly gaining the courage to hang myself.
But I couldn’t kill myself over a painting. That would be foolish, and ridiculous, and it was something that I couldn’t
let happen. But each time that I tried to convince myself that I was right, the painting seemed to glow stronger on my eyes,
and it drove me even further into my madness.
****
There must come a time when enough is enough, but it’s hard to know when that time is. For while it seemed to me that
I had reached that point, it also seemed like I had reached that point several times before. This left me in a paradox: do
I kill myself to be rid of the thought of that painting, or do I let the painting slowly kill me. The fool’s way out
would be to end it myself, but even in hell I would be laughed at for my reasons. So surely that must not be an option.
That leaves me with only one. I must sit here and quietly wait to have the color drawn from my cheeks, and to be slowly infused
with the already vivacious hues.
****
Days came and days went, and yet nothing seemed to happen to me. I waited patiently for the painting to decide to kill me,
but it was playing games with me. I was just another piece of prey, and the painting could play with me, and wait for as
long as it was amused before finally devouring me. But I was growing impatient. I was ready to die, and in some ways I actually
wanted to die, but I couldn’t. If I tried to take my own life, and I had on several occasions, the painting would force
my hand back to my side, strap me down, and wait for me to regain my senses.
****
It had been an eternity, and I was still not dead. The painting seemed to be tiring, as it had started to circle closer when
making its rounds each night. Soon it would get to the task of finishing me off. I was still waiting, and I could feel the
blood beginning to pool on my underside, my top extremities going slightly numb from the lack of circulation. My nerves were
frazzled, on end, waiting to be given the stimulation that they so desired. By this point, even the pain of torture was a
welcome relief from the horror that was anticipating the painting’s next move. I could deal with the physical pain,
as it could be blocked out. The psychological toll was much greater. With nothing but the painting to keep me company, I
had time to think, and time to fear. The fear was slowly eating away at me from the inside.
****
The day had come. “Today is the day,” I told myself. The painting came by in the morning and told me that I
was going to die today. It was such a relief for me to hear the news that for the first time in ages a smile crossed my face.
Knowing that it’s time to die is the only way to truly live. It is a liberating thought to know that everything will
soon be over. It frees up the thought process, and enables you to see clearly what life is about. But even in these jovial
times there were still one or two things that didn’t quite fit in. Why was it that I would be informed of my death?
It didn’t seem right to tell me about it, to let me enjoy the feeling of growing nothingness. It would seem better
to me for the painting to go on telling me that I’m going to live forever, and then kill me in the blink of an eye,
to deny me what I so desperately wanted.
****
The painting was hovering over me, getting ready for the kill. I was the cadaver that he would be performing this surgery
on, and I was more than ready for the operation to start. But he was not anxious. He was waiting for the right time, taunting
me with the scrapes of the scalpel against my skin. I could feel the cold metal, I could feel my blood getting ready to flow
from my veins, but there came no release. As soon as the blade touched, and as soon as my skin pressed to take the blade
as deeply as it can go, it retreated back into his hand, hiding in the soft folds of his skin.
I had just about had enough of this, and I was at my breaking point. I was jerking inside of the buckles that were keeping
me on the table, writhing my best to get out, to get myself closer to anything that can bring me death. But I was having
no luck, as I could see that horrid creature sitting in the corner and laughing at me. The smirk that was on his face is
unforgettable, a contortion of flesh and oil that cannot be of human form or creation. It was simply hideous, and really
that is all that is left to life.
The painting had made its choice, and for me it was time for an examination. I could see out of the corner of my eye a light,
growing closer, brighter. It had to be touching the soft flesh of my eye for as close as it was. The light was warm, and
with it I could feel that warmth flowing through my entire body. It was a welcome feeling; the dichotomy of it and the nothingness
that was previous was immeasurable. That warmth was beautiful, and it was growing even warmer, until it was hot, and I felt
as though I was burning, and roasting myself from the inside. My blood was being replaced by the flow of electricity, turning
my heart into some sort of primitive battery.
****
“Clear.”
I felt a shock, my chest rise, and then fall again.
“Hold on. He’s coming to.”
I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear the voice.
“Sir. You’re going to be ok. We got to you in time.”
****
To this day I’m not sure exactly what it was that happened to me. I didn’t let the doctors tell me anything beyond
the fact that I was dead. Beyond that there is nothing that I wanted to know. I had the answers to the questions of life,
and I was content with that. But knowing what death is, I can say for certain that I am not going to go gently into that
good night.
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