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mytalkingbird
January 27th, 2011, 09:08 AM
All comments are welcomed with open arms.


Painting 470

It is cold and dark. There are strange smells.

I do not like this room with the big oak door, I do not like being separated from Jonathan. There is dust collecting on my canvas and if I had a nose I would sneeze, but I have no nose of my own; no mouth; no lungs; no heart; no body. I wonder why Jonathan has not come to see me in so long, he used to love to stare at me for hours and imagine what I might be. He has wide blue eyes and a long nose, and I know that nobody else finds him so attractive like I do; Cindy does not find him attractive like I do, but he wants her so much.

Good thing she finds him repulsive and says his nose is like a beak, that his hair is too greasy - she said these things when she thought no one was around, but I was there listening with no ears of my own. I heard every foul word she said about him and if I had a mouth I would tell him so that he would not be tricked by her anymore.

I want to hurt her, squeeze her, watch her innards drip from her mouth. I must collect myself, I must not think these things. I miss Jonathan and his beak nose. Cindy doesn’t. She is such a liar.

I miss when he would brush me softly with paint, the smell of the acrylics is still fresh. He would sit in front of me, watching and admiring. Sometimes he would wear headphones and sing to the music, other times he would talk to me about Cindy; how Cindy was beautiful, how Cindy laughed, how Cindy had such a nice body. I bet I would have a nice body, too. I hate Cindy.

She would close the door, she would chatter on her mobile phone to her boyfriend and tell him how pathetic Jonathan was. And if I had had legs I would have kicked her, or maybe I would have punched her with my hands; but I have neither of those bodily functions, they say I’m platonic. I have no opinions. I have no thoughts. They never ask me anything, they assume I have nothing to offer.

Let me out of this room! Let me out! There are other paintings around me, but they are so silent. They do not have a conscious like me that came into existence simply from love, from the ever constant need for my Jonathan.

He will come for me, he has to come, and when he does I will keep him here with me. We will have a happy reunion and he will never leave me again, never.

The other paintings do not have emotions, some are half finished and others are not even started; but they hum and buzz with the excitement of being. There is paint on the floor and on the walls, even on the big oak door that leers at me in the darkness.

Where is Jonathan? I remember our last conversation, he had been so angry then and so full of human life that it radiated off him.

“I’m going to make a masterpiece,” he had said while picking up his brushes from the cement floor. “It will be the greatest form of art known in history, and I will be its creator.”

Naturally he was speaking about me. How glorious and flawless I am, and he was so passionate about it that I could not protest. He talked about how vibrant the red would be, how it would flow against the white so dramatically.

“I’m going to make a masterpiece.” He would say over and over again as he stared at me, as he slashed across my canvas with his paint brush and sometimes a smile would light his face.

I love his smile, except when its for Cindy.

Quiet. Quiet. Someone is coming. Maybe its Jonathan? No, the footsteps are too heavy and there is more than one. Who could it be?

The oak door opens with a creak, light floods in, it does not burn because I have no eyes. Three men step inside, one carrying a notepad and pencil, the other two are policemen; I know because they have been here before, they took Jonathan away once and he did not come back for days. I hate police.

I hate anything that stands between Jonathan and I.

The two police officers begin to examine all the paintings, their eyes sharp and dark. There is nothing kind or tender about their stares, not like when Jonathan looks at us. Where is he?

“Sergeant, I found it.” The smaller officer says when he sees me, and all three men come to stand in front of me. I would spit on them if I had a mouth, I would have enjoyed that.

“Good graces, Robert,” the Sergeant says as he leans in closer. I can see each wrinkle in his face, each hair in his grey beard. I don’t like him, “he painted her death.”

“What a twisted gremlin,” Robert whispered to the Sergeant. I noticed the man with the notepad had to leave the room, he had his hand over his mouth as if he wanted to vomit; Jonathan used to do that, or sometimes he would vomit on the floor.

“He painted an exact replica of the crime before he even committed it,” Sergeant said as he ran a finger across my canvas, tracing out the lines slowly as if he were in awe. That was when the notepad man came back into the room, I can smell the vomit on his breath.

“Sorry, Sergeant.” He whispers.

“Its no problem, Dudley. You’re new to this and this is one of the most detailed pieces of evidence I have ever seen.” Sergeant shook his head, “this is the murder of Cindy Lockwell without a doubt, he even painted the same initials on the bottom of the piece that he carved into her stomach. Its sad, boys, real sad.”

Silence. Breathing. Sorrow. Anguish.

“Take it in as evidence, and the others as well.” Sergeant turns away with the flick of his hand and starts out the oak door. I wanted to scream, to protest, but I have nothing.

“Some creep, huh, Dudley? Got a weird obsession with her from a college course they took together, stalked her down, and when he couldn’t have her he resorted to painting her face a thousand times, then when that wasn’t enough he went and killed her.” Robert shook his head as he picked up a couple of the paintings and began to carry them out.

“Yeah, a real creep.” Dudley said as they both went out.

I hate police. I hate anything that stands between Jonathan and I.

bazz cargo
January 27th, 2011, 10:09 PM
Hi Mytalkingbird,
I like this work. I would be proud to be this off the wall.
You would not believe the volume of horror stories that are derivative and worded into unreadability.
You have a light touch and a criminal imagination.
Thank you for posting this so I could read it.
Bazz Cargo.

mytalkingbird
January 27th, 2011, 11:11 PM
Thank you for the comment, really appreciate it!