I’m selling my art. If you can call these diluted, boring, de-personalized pieces art.
I am good at this, and I know it. But if you want to sell, you have to suit the needs of your buyer. And my buyers, people on the street - tourists and moms with strollers - probably don’t want to buy paintings of a ripped open, stripped naked Emme.
Which is all I seem to be able to paint at the moment.
So I’ve settled for landscapes, even an odd portrait. But with every brush stroke, I have to stop myself from smearing red across the canvas. The color calls
to me, begging to be used. The people’s faces asking for me to split their lip, gauge an eye out.
I fight all of those instincts, and then some, because there’s still only one thing on my mind.
Revenge.
I make my first painting with things I find in the garbage of an art supply store, and it sells the same day. Pretty soon, I have a reputation, and people gather around my corner to see my newest works.
I don’t ever tell them my real name.
Never look them in the eye.
I just take their money until I have a small stash in my pocket, the wad of paper notes getting thicker each day. But it’s still not enough, because most of these people are just watchers. They don’t buy shit, just stand around, admiring this and that.
As much as I want to smash their faces in, I prevent myself from doing so. Instead I smile politely, inquire what they like, try to get in their heads. Convince them I’m the next big thing.
***
It’s just another day, the same as every one in my routine. I’m not selling today, instead fighting a hangover from two bottles of cheap wine I had the previous night.
I am not an alcoholic.
But there is no denying the fact - there’s a certain kind of calmness at the bottom of each bottle. And pretty soon, they are becoming the only way I can fight back the red mist.
I’m slumped on my corner, the wind howling through the streets, but just then, it stops. And in the same second, my time stops still as well.
Because on the other side of the road, the one with the fancy shops with expensive things in the mirror, is a couple strolling by, their laughter soft and sweet, their conversation friendly. But the man’s hand on the small of the woman’s back suggest there’s more to their relationship, especially when his palm wanders downward, toward her buttocks.
The couple are Emme and Blane.
They’re walking by only a few feet away from me, not even noticing me. I immediately feel the red mist settling over me and I spit on the sidewalk, snarling at the sight of them.
They made me this way.
They sent me here, to the prison of the streets.
They’re happy without me.
The perfect couple.
Not for long.
I get up abruptly, my head pounding. Whether it is from the hangover or the anger I’m feeling I can’t be too sure of, but I already know I won’t be able to fight the red mist this time around.
They look perfect. He is in that stupid pea coat he always wears, his hair longer, ruffled from every time Emme runs a hand through it playfully. She’s wearing a pretty floral dress and a cardigan, her hair long down her back. She looks fucking beautiful.
An insane desire to sear through her body with my cock consumes me.
Whenever I see something beautiful, an inner need wills me to destroy it. And wouldn’t you know it, Emme is the prettiest of them all.
My hands immediately form fists at my sides and I head towards them.
Ready to smash Blane’s face in.
Ready to finally claim Emme’s pussy as my own.
“Are you the street artist?” someone interrupts me, standing right in front of me. A body steps in my way, bigger and broader than I am, and my eyes immediately shoot upward, annoyed.
“Get out of my way,” I snarl angrily, already moving to get away from him, but he sidesteps me, blocking my way.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he claims, his hands up in the air, whether to defend himself or placate me, I can’t be too sure. Not that I give a fuck.
“You’re about to get some,” I growl back at him, finally getting a good look at the man. He’s about fifty, a silver fox. He’s clad in a business suit, sharp and business like. He definitely doesn’t look like he belongs to this side of the street, more suited to the other side with the luxury shops.
“I’ve heard of your art,” he says, placating, ignoring my outburst. Over his shoulder, I see Emme and Blane going around the corner and I get even more anxious, desperate to get away.
“What of it?” I ask angrily, refusing to pay him any attention.
“I’m a gallery owner downtown. I’ve seen your work popping up on social media and blogs, and I’m intrigued,” he explains quickly, and he finally has my attention.
A gallery owner? This could save me, I think, almost manic.
“Tell me more,” I say, my anger dissipating, Emme and Blane momentarily forgotten, but always in the back of my mind. I focus on the man in front of me, who pushes a business card in my grimy hands. The stark white paper looks terrible against my palms smudged with paint and dirt.
“My name is Mark Richardson. And I believe you have real talent. But there’s something more …” He eyes me thoughtfully, flashing a perfect smile that I for some reason don’t want to smash in. Yet.
“What do you mean?” I ask suspiciously, my heart pounding in my chest. I’m hoping he doesn’t remember my face from a newspaper from when my parents were still alive.