Post by Nicholas Cirillo on Mar 19, 2016 2:10:23 GMT
She is just so damn beautiful. Her skin is as pale as the cracked China kept for dinner guests that you are not allowed to turn away. Her face rests in that almost-smile normally reserved for paintings. Perhaps she is a painting. Perhaps this way she will be forever beautiful as a monument to not others like her, not others who aspire to be like her, but a monument to herself. It makes me sick how beautiful she is. Her smile ends in a deep shock of red that does not stick to her lips, but instead oozes. It oozes not downward, but horizontally, meeting her deep red blouse, her hands stained with her own paint, and with the floor that increasingly reveals her crimson reflection.
I begin to cut the flesh. I will carve a new canvas on which I will paint her in a new image. One that is ugly, one that is imperfect. I will not intend for it to be ugly, but how can one perfectly frame the living form on an easel? She is her own monument, and any attempt at imitation is a mockery at best. No, I must paint her on her own living canvas. The red paint with which I stain my brush still throbs, the pale white canvas still wrinkles and furrows. It is the closest one can ever be, albeit in a monochromatic medium.
There is a strange beauty in killing. It is so simple it is almost exhilarating. Their journey ends and yours just begins. It is almost as if you pick up their bookmark and turn to the next chapter. It is sad that they must struggle first. But it is because they do not know what is next. They are afraid of what is next. We are all afraid. Even I am afraid of what I will create.
It is an elaborate irony that she must die for my work to proceed, but it must be done. Not for her, not for the world, but for myself. She was so selfish to be so beautiful, and I must be selfish now to capture her beauty, forever. I lift my sopping red brush to her parchment white skin. I try to capture her beautiful smile, her upward tilting lips. But the red lipstick I paint oozes downward, and my own lips tilt downward in an unfulfilled frown.
I begin to cut the flesh. I will carve a new canvas on which I will paint her in a new image. One that is ugly, one that is imperfect. I will not intend for it to be ugly, but how can one perfectly frame the living form on an easel? She is her own monument, and any attempt at imitation is a mockery at best. No, I must paint her on her own living canvas. The red paint with which I stain my brush still throbs, the pale white canvas still wrinkles and furrows. It is the closest one can ever be, albeit in a monochromatic medium.
There is a strange beauty in killing. It is so simple it is almost exhilarating. Their journey ends and yours just begins. It is almost as if you pick up their bookmark and turn to the next chapter. It is sad that they must struggle first. But it is because they do not know what is next. They are afraid of what is next. We are all afraid. Even I am afraid of what I will create.
It is an elaborate irony that she must die for my work to proceed, but it must be done. Not for her, not for the world, but for myself. She was so selfish to be so beautiful, and I must be selfish now to capture her beauty, forever. I lift my sopping red brush to her parchment white skin. I try to capture her beautiful smile, her upward tilting lips. But the red lipstick I paint oozes downward, and my own lips tilt downward in an unfulfilled frown.
And of course by that I mean I enjoyed it like an episode of American Horror Story! I liked the macabre atmosphere. In all fairness I think the story scared me more than anything because the pacing felt like repeated stabs to the chest.