• The doctors had said I was insane, whatever that means. Insanity is relative, based upon the opinions of those who accuse others of being “mentally unstable”. I am not insane; I am not inane; I am not crazy, twisted or a loon. I am an artist, a visionary.

    I had first been institutionalized in the year 2000, for trying to paint with blood: My blood, to be specific. I had taken a razor and sliced into my veins, emptying myself onto a clear palette. I had marveled at the perfection within my paint, and wanting more I foolishly cut myself further. I was found not long after, barely alive and collapsed on the floor. My parents claimed it was a suicide attempt: an escape from life. They were quite wrong. My near-death experience had brought me closer to living than I had ever been.

    After that day, I was desperate to harness life’s essence in art: I wanted my work to radiate the raw beauty of a person’s life, and what better way than to paint with that person’s life-force? Of course, for many-a-year I was found to be insane by both doctors and police, and was condemned to live in a special correctional facility. But this was not to last!

    As I said, I am an artist: I weaved a story that those jailors would believe; I escaped from that god-awful mental hospital; and I finally tasted sweet freedom in the midst of 2013. I recovered a few necessary tools; a brush or two, an old shirt, gloves… a gun. When at last my resources were gathered, the challenge I faced was to find a subject for my next masterpiece. I perused the busy sidewalks, glancing at faces of passersby. From my perch upon the park bench, I saw hundreds, if not thousands of people pass me on their way to work, school, appointments, etc. I was searching for the perfect face, one whose features were so soft, so gentle as to contrast the boldness of their blood. After many days of searching, I finally found her. Her forest-green eyes and long, brown hair reminded me of the peaceful park where I had been scouting from. Her lips were plump like a sofa and her cheekbones round and gentle. This was the one. I strode over to her as she passed by, casually bumping into her and dropping my art supplies. The materials crashed to the ground, and the young lady quickly began to help me retrieve them: “Oh dear, I am so sorry sir! I wasn’t watching where I was going, please, let me help you!”

    I simply smiled and nodded, examining her features even closer than before. Once she had handed me my things, and was turning away, I reached out a hand and grasped her shoulder.

    “You know, Miss, you have a beautiful figure. Would you mind terribly if I painted you? You see, I am a travelling artist, and I need a new muse. I believe that your face and eyes would be perfect for my next creation.” At first she refused, but my silver tongue convinced her. I asked her if we could go someplace quieter than the bustling, teeming area of downtown. Slowly, if not reluctantly, she agreed and said that her home was not far away: Her fate was sealed.

    She led me to her home, into her foyer, where the painting would be done. She turned away, and my pistol rose: the way her blood had spread on the wall, the petals of her flesh dotting my painting, the smell of hot iron in the air; it all made sense to me. I dipped a brush in the crimson paint, stroked it along the walls, and created a living work of art. The color leapt from the canvas, flooded my senses and caused a giddiness to overcome me. Such pure, untainted beauty! I reveled in my art, laughed like a schoolboy, spun and flung paint upon the ceiling. I took a deep breath, tasted the salt and felt the warm, dwindling life-force fill my lungs.

    Sirens pierced the air, and my happiness dimmed slightly. I raised my hands, examining the fresh paint- no, blood; the blood of this woman whom I had killed. Crashes echoed throughout the house, and shouts of apparent awe and joy assaulted my ears. I turned, and there they were, the critiques of my art: Their wide eyes and slack-mouths gave me such bliss. Oh, such beautiful paint! Those who had doubted me would see my talent! With open arms, I beckoned to the navy uniforms, waltzing toward them: “Welcome, my dear friends, to my exhibition!” A slight pause for effect, and then applause sparked through the air, so potent that it knocked me back. I laughed with ecstasy, falling to my knees in a bow. I held my side as hot, sticky paint cascaded from my body: The laughter ended, and I was part of my masterpiece.