Abstract Art

Eyes fluttering open, I inhale the smell of death in the air.

Looking around I see the aftermath of the night before.

It's dark, so I can barely make out the small soft shapes of the unmoving bodies.

Yet I know they are there.

The lightning flashes through the window as if to remind me they are.

I catch my first conscience glimpse of my work of art.

The blood begins to coagulate forming a three-dimensional work of clotted art.

The adjacent wall being the chosen canvass of the masterpiece.

Fragments of shattered skull pepper the floor like confetti from a surprise party.

Surprise party, indeed.

I turn on the light and attempt to take it all in.

The morning storm rages on outside.

I glance at myself in the mirror noticing I am covered in my art.

My face is stiff with the dried paint of my model.

I walk out of the room and hear a barely audible whisper of agony in the other room.

Unfinished work.

I start to make my way towards the cry, when I realize I have all day to finish.

Besides I somewhat enjoy the faint cries of mercy.

It goes well with the weather.

...

I walk into the room

When the model sees me she uses every ounce of her dying strength to curse me,

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?

LEAVE ME ALONE! YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!"

...

I swear to God...some people have no taste when it comes to art.

- Copyright © by The Number 42 /Angel Suarez