Back to Fall 2011 Issue
Back to HomePhilip Roberts lives in Nashua, New Hampshire and holds a degree in Creative Writing with a minor in Film from the University of Kansas. A beginner in the publishing world, he’s a member of the Horror Writer’s Association, and has had numerous short stories published in a variety of publications, such as the Beneath the Surface anthology, Midnight Echo, and The Absent Willow Review. More information on his works can be found at www.philipmroberts.com.
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BY ASSOCIATION
(continued)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.
By Association by Philip Roberts - 1 2
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