Friday, February 09, 2007
My ridiculous Story of a serial killerA Great Artist – Draft One
He is ugly. That is what you would think, if you ever chance upon seeing him on a busy street. He is that kind of man, you would go out of your way just to avoid touching him, for fear of catching on to some of his ugliness, which was born from a childhood accident. But it does not bother him at all, the way he looks or the way people look at him. For his mind was always on his art. He is a great artist, and there was no denying it.
He has a normal family, but the way he was brought up, was anything but normal. From the day he was brought to the world, he brought along with him frustration everywhere he goes. He cried all the time. When he saw his mother, he cried. When he saw his father, he cried. When he saw his sister, he cried. Everyone tried to give his parents suggestions of what might be wrong, but no one knew for sure what was wrong, not even the doctors.
But as time goes by, his parents noticed when the day turned dark, that is when the little boy would stop crying. His parents then came up with a brilliant plan—to lock him up in the dark room, so they could continue a normal life with their little girl. Soon they all but forgot they had a son or a brother, except when it was time for meal.
It was in that small dark room where the boy learnt to move around on his own. It was in that room the boy ate, slept and shit. The only sort of smell the boy ever knew was that of his shit, his urine and his sweat laced with a subtle something else, which might have been the smell of food of his mother’s perfume when she sent in the food.
All manner of speech the little boy learnt he learned it through overhearing his family’s conversation. All his knowledge of what the world might be like, the people, the animals, the objects, he also learned it through overhearing his family’s conversation. He is a smart boy and he is very good at visualizing what the world might look like. He could tell the time, too. When he hears pans and pots cankering, he knew it was time for food again.
Then came one fateful night when he was fifteen. His house caught fire while his family was asleep. He was trapped in the dark room and he was burned, badly. Just when he thought he would be burned alive without a chance to see the world, he fainted.
When he next came to, he was told his family we burned down together with the house. It was precisely at that moment when he realized he could see something other than darkness.
He was fascinated by his vision, and he felt like he would burst with all that he has seen. There was so much to see, the colours in the ward and the shapes of all objects. A real vision he could place a name to, the sun, the bed, the door. Even the people, he realised in stunned silences, they came in all shapes, colours and sizes. Some were BIG like Mrs. Murphy, and some were small like Dr. Whyte. He was overwhelmed by his discovery of sight.
When Dr. Whyte next came to check on him, he brought with him a file and pen to record the boy’s condition. He placed the file and pen beside the boy’s bed, when he left. The boy reached over for the file and pen. Instinctively, he started drawing and drawing on the sheets in the file. He knew he had to create all that he has seen somewhere for fear that he would be locked back in the dark room.
But his fear was unfounded; he was soon allowed to leave the hospital on his own. In this rural side of the country, no one really cared much about anything except where their next meal will be coming from.
He never felt happier, to be able to go about freely from place to place, and to be able to see so much. Everywhere he went, he drew. Anyone who has seen his drawings were in awe by his acute drawing and he like that— to be appreciated by what he has created. Soon, he was seeking for other ways of creating not just what he seeing but what improvements his own mind’s eye had made on any object, even on people.
Despite his achievement, he always kept a low profile and today, he is man, no longer the boy that he was. He creates his art anytime and anywhere he wants and he would do anything to see the result of his creation.
Tonight, an inspiration strikes him, again. And now, he was on his way to the isolated cabin away from town, where he knew a single woman lived alone.
When he reached, the lights in the house were on and the drawling of the voice from the television was going on and on. He creped away, towards the back of the house where he knew he would be facing the television and the woman with her back facing him. He thought it was probably a good thing that the fire which had taken away his parents, had taken away his identity too. For now, though he has recovered, his skin produced no hair and his palm was as smooth and tight as the rest of him. Thus far, the police still had no lead on his few killings in the name of art.
He climbed through the opened window silently. He stood behind her for a long while waiting for her to perhaps acknowledge his existence, but she was oblivion. His patience ran out. He grabbed her face from behind, pinched her nose hard and clamped her mouth shut. He liked them clean, when they stop moving. They were all alike, he mused to himself. When they are in shock, they struggle a little, then die. They rarely put up a good fight for their life, not that he wanted one anyway. All he wanted was to create.
When he felt her go limp after a long while, he jumped over to the other side of the sofa and began to strip her down. Then he bends to scoop her up against his body and laid her down on an empty space beside a huge wall. He went out again to get his bag where all his equipment necessary for this creation are.
He placed the bag beside him near the dead lonely woman. He then took out a large needle; poke a thick thread through the needle’s eye. He pressed one side of the woman’s ear against her face with one hand and started meticulously sewing her ear to her face. He then move on to her next ear and did the same. Not too bad, he thought to himself, it reminded him of Vincent Van Gogh’s picture of himself after he chopped of his ears.
He moved on to sew her eyes shut, then her lips together. Then he pressed her nose together and began sewing them, too. Next he started sewing from the woman’s bottom all the way towards the front. Satisfied that he had sealed all humanly openings, he took out a small knife and slit the woman’s stomach. It was a small but deep cut. He ensured that it was small, so nothing will spill out overly much, but deep enough so he could dip his paint brush into her body.
Again, he mused, the woman’s body was lots of wonderful thing. Firstly, she was an art creation and now, a substitute for a tin of paint.
He dipped his brush into her body, lifted it up causing the flesh to protrude out and more blood to overflow. He brought the brush and painted a few simple words against the huge wall. Then he went back and started sewing back the gash on the woman’s stomach as neatly as he could. He did not like that little flaw, but it cannot be helped.
It was just too bad she could not witness his brilliant art creation, he thought. At least, he knew, she must feel proud to be chosen to represent his creation.
He wiped off the blood which has spilled over the cut, clean up the messy which would otherwise distract his art work and gather all his belongings, which was not much, just a needle, a bundle of thread, a paint brush and a knife, into his bag. He walked out through the front door with the intention of calling the police to inform them of his latest art creation, took one last look at his creation and smiled satisfyingly before he left.
Right upon the floor was his creation with all her openings sealed and painted on the wall were these words, “Nothing comes, nothing goes”.
PLEASE READ THESE TERMS:
JOANIE
I am pretty much like every other girl. Perhaps not that much. I like thinking for my own. One thing I can't tolerate is for people to tell me they know me. I find that terribly arrogant.
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