A boy of eighteen
once proclaimed to his friends and family that he would one
day be a famous artist. A man of thirty-seven opened his
eyes to the clouds floating peacefully through a dark blue
sky.
He still had in
his clenched right hand the neck of an empty bottle marked
Bourbon. Ted Moore knew well the pain of bad hangovers. Before
he could pull himself up from the ground he heard the humming,
along with a person moving about just a few feet away.
A grunt shook
from him as he pulled himself up, and put an immediate end
to the joyful humming. It took only a few seconds for Ted’s
vision to clear enough to see the forest filled with colorful
green, and the man no more than ten feet away at the edge
of the grassy patch, standing near the base of a tree.
But what Ted stared
at were the two, five foot tall stakes that had been hammered
into the ground, and the barbed wire strung densely up in-between
them. In the middle of that barbed wire a body had been hung,
the wiring wrapped around it over and over again, holding
the arms up, the legs out, the head tilted back. Even the
eyes had been pulled open, tiny needles piercing through
the skin to ensure they didn’t close. A smile was pulled
back on the dead man’s face. He wore a necklace of silvery
wire, his body nude and muscular and long since dead.
Beside this masterpiece
the man watched Ted with a look of shock, his features much
different than the beauty of the dead youth. He was certainly
nearing forty, dressed in a gray, pin stripe suit unbecoming
of the surroundings he stood in, the glasses atop his nose
thin wires holding equally thin glass.
Ted couldn’t honestly
say what he saw in the man’s expression, and Ted found himself
staring more at the strung-up boy than the man who had done
the work. He was only vaguely aware of the man’s arm rising
up to bring the hammer above his head, or the step the man
took towards Ted.
“It’s beautiful,” Ted
finally whispered.
The arm dropped
down. Ted’s eyes shifted back to the artist, and the smile
spread across his face.
“You can imagine
my surprise,” Russell laughed as he held out the cup of coffee
to Ted, “seeing a man actually rise up from the grass. Who
would’ve thought someone would actually be sleeping out there?”
“I end up all
sorts of odd places after the long ones,” Ted said, took
his coffee. They sat in Russell’s meticulously kept office.
On the walls he saw replicas of most well-known paintings.
All of them were upbeat in nature, nothing malevolent or
violent in any of the images.
“And you say you’re
an artist,” Russell asked, leaning forward with interest.
“I…I try to be,
but I’ve never really had any success. I can do things, paint
things really well, but not my things. I don’t think I have
anything in my mind too paint, it seems like.”
“And you truly
enjoyed my work?” Russell leaned in even more; his eyes were
alit behind his glasses.
“It was amazing.” Ted
couldn’t honestly say why he felt no revulsion for the violence
that had created the work, and didn’t find a single part
of him recoiling in disgust. He meant every word of it. Perhaps
the alcohol had dulled his senses too much for him to care
anymore, or maybe his string of rejections had removed any
sense of empathy from him, not that he’d ever had much to
begin with.
“I can’t tell
you how wonderful it feels to have someone validate my work.
I mean, I’ve seen various articles over my work after people
discover them, but they so rarely focus on the artistic side
of it, too preoccupied with the death.”
“How long have
you been doing this?”
“Oh, a few years,
but it isn’t easy deciding what the next piece will be, and
I rarely create more than two larger works a year. These
are delicate matters to plan out, after all.”
“I’d imagine it
would be. Not exactly like buying another canvas at the store.”
“Yes, exactly.
Buying another canvas. I’ll remember that one,” Russell said,
smiled with a short laugh. “I’ve taken a liking to you, and
would like to help you if I can. A private lesson, perhaps.” He
tore out a piece of paper and handed it to Ted. “My address.”
“I’ll be there,” Ted
answered, and he intended to follow through. For the first
time in far too many years Ted felt a sense of purpose flowing
through him, and prayed he would finally be able to transfer
it into art.
Ted brought his
aging, near dead pick-up truck to a halt in Russell’s driveway.
The truck didn’t look right sitting in the driveway of such
a lovely home, the lawn well kept, lush bushes and flowers
surrounding the front yard.
Only after Ted
got out of his car did he notice that the bushes surrounding
Russell’s front door were tall enough, and thick enough to
obscure any view of the path leading up to the front door,
and no one would see if the man dragged something into his
home.
Russell opened
on the first ring, smiling, motioning for Ted to enter. They
proceeded through a nicely decorated home, the carpets white,
the furniture deep brown mahogany. Through another door and
the lavish surroundings changed into bare, gray bricks and
a wooden staircase leading down.
Only briefly,
with Russell behind him, and Ted descending down those steps,
did Ted question whether or not he was to be the next work
of Russell’s art, but even then he felt no fear. To be honored
by having the privilege of being worked on by someone he
had already developed such respect for seemed almost welcoming.
Their journey
took them across a cement floor to another room, and then
down a much narrower stone hallway ending in the final door,
and the small, square room.
In the middle
of it, a boy of no more than twenty years old sat tied in
a chair, his head slumped, the bloody gash that had rendered
him unconscious visible on the back of his head full of blond
hair.
Ted stopped before
him, while Russell moved around to the back of the chair
and placed a hand on the unconscious boy’s shoulder.
“Why did you like
my work?” Russell asked. “Or better put, why were you not
revolted by the brutality of a life strung up in such a horrific
fashion?”
“I couldn’t tell
you exactly what it is that appealed to me so much, but seeing
what you had created, the violence that had led to it didn’t
seem to be particularly relevant. All I could see was the
effort and emotions you had placed into the finished product.”
A quick jerk brought
the boy’s head back to reveal his throat, and as Ted watched
Russell ran the blade swiftly across it, spraying a fountain
of blood down the boy’s exposed chest. And within those last
few seconds the boy’s eyes fluttered open, his mouth grimacing,
a low, painful moan echoing through him. But almost as soon
as the eyes had managed to open they were closing again.
Ted found his
gaze shifting away from the grisly scene, found his stomach
turning in on itself, his mouth suddenly frowning.
Russell let the
head fall back down until the boy’s chin was against his
bloody chest. The breathing had stopped. When Ted looked
back up he could see Russell staring at him, and understood
the man had been staring at him the whole time.
“The death itself
disturbs you?” he asked.
“I guess. It…it
isn’t art yet. I’m not detached enough from the act itself.”
“But what about
now? Seeing this boy sitting before you, are you seeing a
corpse, or a blank canvas waiting for your touch?”
Having those words
spoken to him, Ted did see the blank canvas opening up, the
possibilities, so endless it seemed, just waiting to be realized.
Russell stepped away from the boy’s corpse towards a cabinet
in the back corner. He opened the metal doors to reveal the
blades of all shapes and sizes hanging there, waiting to
be used, and Ted’s gaze shifted back to the boy.
It was time for
his first lesson to begin.
But the lesson
proved lacking. As soon as it came time to start, all of
those doors began slamming shut. Ted could almost see them
in his mind, one after another, the boom so loud Ted couldn’t
concentrate on anything.
Three hours had
passed away at some point. The mutilated corpse Ted found
himself standing in front of had no artistic merit within
it. He saw only a stomach torn open, the organs pulled loose,
like an animal had ravaged the corpse at some point.
From somewhere
an image came to him, perhaps a photo he had seen of the
very same, a corpse after a pack of wolves had had their
way with it. This wasn’t unique, nor was it his own. All
he had down was what he always did: recreated someone else’s
art.
Ted stared down
at himself, his clothing splattered in red, small chunks
of severed flesh sticking to him. When the door opened behind
him he glanced back at Russell walking in.
Russell took in
the monstrosity Ted had created, a young boy’s face torn
to bloody shreds, his muscles covered in congealed blood
visible through the ragged remains of his skin, his eyes
punctured into wet sockets.
This boy had not
died to become a work of art. Ted had taken who he was and
turned him into nothing more than a piece of trash waiting
to be thrown away, never to be viewed or cared about by anyone.
Russell said something
to him, but Ted couldn’t hear the words. The small, cement
room with its single bulb hanging from the ceiling was closing
in on him, sealing him away from the world of true creativity.
He could see empty sockets staring up at him, a ruined mouth
frowning, and Ted found the tears begin to pour down his
cheeks.
Some part of him
registered Russell’s soothing tone as he guided Ted away
from the meaningless corpse. The dim basement rippled through
the streaming tears. Ted had never wanted a drink so badly,
the wasted canvases he had left strewn across his floor at
home nothing like the overwhelming emotional breakdown he
suddenly felt.
And deep within
the pain a single impulse pulled at him, one he’d felt before,
but never so overpowering.
Ted had known
something about Russell, about the articles on the murders,
and Ted had deep down felt a sense of envy towards whoever
the person had been, the same sense of envy he felt every
time he walked into a museum and saw what he would never
be.
The need to be
known, to be famous, was what had driven Ted since the day
that eighteen year old boy had first stood before his family
and proclaimed his future success.
Russell handed
Ted a drink in the study, a room quite similar in elegance
to the office Ted had seen before. He let the whiskey warm
his stomach as he listened to Russell’s subdued voice.
“I feel I should
apologize. Having found someone to share this craft with…it
overwhelmed me. I hadn’t considered the prospect that you,
well…”
“Would be such
a failure?” Ted asked with a cruel smile.
“You’re being
too harsh. This isn’t about whether or not you failed, but
whether you were ready for such an advanced step so soon.
I must confess, the first time I actually took a life for
my art the mere presence of the body sent a charge through
me like nothing I had felt before. A part of me had assumed
the same would be true for you as well.”
“Who was he?” Ted
asked. Tears were building in his eyes again. The whiskey’s
warmth couldn’t stop them.
“Please, you’re
in no position to deal with such information right now,” Russell
said. “Who the boy was doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone
and you still have a chance to build upon this experience.”
Ted leaned closer
to the desk Russell sat behind. “Then you’ll continue to
teach me?”
Before Russell
could even shake his head his eyes gave away his answer. “This
isn’t like the classes I teach. If you’re going to actually
end a life for your art you have to be certain that you’re
prepared to give that person a truly unique, if macabre,
work of art. What happened tonight simply can’t occur again.
You can’t use live creatures to train yourself. Your training
needs to have already been taken as far as it can go, and
only you can figure out what your creative voice should be.”
Ted felt the mental
snap. Perhaps the alcohol had done it, or perhaps all he
had needed to do was see that morbid face he had left down
in the basement. “What if I don’t have a fucking creative
voice?” Ted screamed, face red, eyes livid.
“Then you shouldn’t
be wasting life on your failed endeavors.” Russell’s face
settled into a light, tense frown. “I’m afraid this is final.
I won’t reconsider. This doesn’t mean you have to give up
completely.”
Ted stood up from
the seat without another word. Russell had nothing else to
offer him. Both men knew it.
He felt Russell’s
gaze follow him out the door, felt Russell’s presence behind
him up until he stepped out onto the porch, and heard a soft
apology before the door clicked shut behind him.
In his hand he
stared down at the rectangular piece of plastic with Russell’s
name and picture in the middle of it. Russell hadn’t seen
Ted grab it off the desk. Ted slipped the driver’s license
into his pocket before getting into his car.
His only light
came from what the moon could provide and the small beam
of his flashlight wedged into a tree, illuminating his nude
body glistening with sweat. The supplies were simple. Ted
had gathered two stakes, which he hammered in the ground.
Neither was as large as the ones Russell had hung his last
work of art on, and Ted accepted his knees would be on the
ground, but that was something he could live with.
The razor wire
Ted had purchased was similar, yet uniquely different from
the barbed wire Russell had used.
Alone in the dark
woods, Ted found himself smiling for the first time since
he had stared down at the butchery he had committed. He couldn’t
recall how many years it had been since the last time he
had felt such a strong sense of purpose and commitment.
He strung up the
wire, arranging it carefully, his eyes giving him a level
of precision he wasn’t acquainted with but gladly accepted.
The bladed wires lapped over each other again and again,
and in the glow of his flashlight Ted could see the true
image taking shape, and knew what he would look like when
the time finally came to pull himself into the cold metal’s
embrace.
A light, upbeat
tune whistled through him as he lay out the knives he would
use. Even though he knew he was merely copying the basic
elements that Russell had already established, Ted also knew
something only Russell would be able to appreciate: what
Ted prepared to do was so much greater than Russell’s crowning
achievements, because every bit of passion from each cut
would be reflected in Ted in a way Russell could never attain.
Ted picked up
the first knife, the largest one he had, the paintbrush meant
to do the broad strokes, to define the image. The cut was
swift and powerful. He felt the force of the blade run through
him like a force of nature, felt his entire body alive, joyful,
and aware of what he prepared to do.
The blade dug
through the flesh, sent an entire strip of wet, bloody skin
to the dirt ground. With precision unlike any he had been
capable of before he cut through his own body, formed a design
with loops of dripping red, dipping here and spiraling there.
He didn’t even
feel the fatigue he knew was coming over him as more and
more of his blood trickled down his body. The large knife
stained in red fell into the grass. He grabbed quickly for
the next one, forming smaller marks in the skin, adding new
depth to the violence.
As the second
knife struck the ground and the next one began its work,
the notion came over Ted that these markings were like those
one would paint on themselves to give celebration to a deity.
It felt as if an outside power filled his body, gave him
the strength to never falter.
Everything was
coming together. Was this the way Russell felt as he made
those last incisions? Perhaps something similar, but Russell
would never be able to throw himself into his work the way
Ted was accomplishing. He would never know the joy Ted felt
as he stared at the slick muscles and intricately cut designs
in the harsh glow. Russell could only give others the glory
of being turned into something so magnificent.
In that way Ted
surpassed him, but he felt no hesitation to give Russell
the credit he deserved.
Ted dropped the
final knife onto the ground. The effort it took to turn off
the flashlight and throw it into the woods was almost too
much for him. The blood loss made him stagger, nearly fall,
as he turned towards the wiring.
But that was fine.
Everything had been prepared. Ted opened his left hand for
the first time since the cutting began, and let Russell’s
bloody driver’s license fall to the ground.
There was nothing
left. Ted felt his eyes close as his body fell forward. The
design was perfect. Almost immediately he could feel the
wire cut into his raw muscles, dig deeply. All he needed
was a simple jerk to properly wedge his arms and legs into
the sharp blades, to feel them dig deeply into his throat,
two meticulously placed blades cutting into his closed eyelids.
Whether he wanted
it or not, Russell was about to become famous. Ted had a
feeling people would be talking about the man for years to
come, analyzing everything he had done, and marveling at
the artistry he had accomplished. And Ted would be the pinnacle
of that work, and a secret he knew Russell would keep until
the day he died.
All artists eventually
died. It wasn’t the artists that people cared about, but
the art they were capable of creating. Ted found a smile
creeping onto his face as the end reached him. He finally
understood how creative he had always been.
