Rusty knives for the pretty girl's stomach. Beneath her – a puddle of blood, growing. A snobbish smirk not leaving her lips, for she is a heartless bitch after all.
Another girl beside her, calling out her name.
„Cassie, Cassie.“
Cassie's beating heart in her bloodstained hands.
Five kitchen knives forming a circle, surrounding her heavily bruised skin. Bruises making an almost heretical shape.
The other girl – Meredith – sniffing and even licking Cassie's abandoned organ, careful not to damage it. Blood covering her chin, dripping.
Both of them standing still as if posing for a picture.
I blink hard, like I'd just woken up from the most beautiful dream to the harsh and ugly reality. I wasn't sleeping. I just phased out a little while painting. I'm sitting at my desk, observing my latest creation. Meet Cassie and Meredith, my annoying classmates.
I have been trying to mix a lighter, but richer shade of red for the blood. Right now it looks almost real, like it's pouring out at this exact moment. When it dries though, it'll get too dark. No good. Still, I am satisfied with how it turned out. It helped me dispose some of the rage I felt towards those stupid girls. I bled it out, in a way.
Now fully dry, it found its place among my other red-tinted horrors.
I peek outside my window. Some kids on their bikes yell silly things to each other. A second, two, and they're gone. I remember I have a math test in two days and a bit of homework, so I take out a sheet of paper. I should at least do the assignments . . . Naturally, after a little less than two hours, Mrs. Bianca's face was looking at mine from behind her cat-eye glasses. I guess I'll do the homework tomorrow.
§
With her face now materialized, I am handing her my finished test. I think I did okay. She motions her eyes throughout the paper. „I see you haven't even read the last one, as usual.“ Witch. But she's right. The last ones are the worst. I force a smile and return to my seat. There's still some time left and I wanted to think nice thoughts. I tilt my head towards Mrs. Bianca. A drop of blood falls down on the blank space of my exam. And another one. Soon, there's a little red stream going all the way down to her pink sweater, soaking her collar. Mrs. Bianca seems unbothered. She does have blood pressure issues. This happens a lot.
„Miss, do you want a tissue?“
A sound of someone's voice kicks me back to reality, only to discover that the teacher really has a nosebleed.
„Not to worry, you still have – let's see – four minutes left“, she says in a funny voice while holding a tissue firmly to her nose. How nice of her.
Hey, shouldn't I be freaking out? Is this some sort of a bizarre coincidence or is it possible I made it happen . . . by thinking it?
Yeah, right. Would be fun though.
Back home, her portrait was waiting for me, incomplete. I stared back at it for what seemed like hours, wanting to finish it, wanting to make her look as beautiful as she was with all the red adorning her wrinkled skin.
I don't want an almost perfect, almost real, almost . . . I don't want an „almost.“
And there it is.
I have been trying to make it LOOK real, and that is why I have been failing. How to make something look real? It has to BE real, of course!
Sure, it would look terrible and sucky when dry, but I'd have a perfect moment. A real moment.
It needs to be safe and clean – though there would be something poetic about simply cutting myself and bleeding directly onto the paper. Too messy for my taste. No control. Red is such an important color, I'm always careful when painting with it.
I wait until my mom goes to the bathroom. I sneak in the living room and search for her blood sugar test kit. Wasn't much of a search since it had its place on the same bookshelf for years. I take the lancet, a replacement needle, a small alcohol bottle and a few wipes. I grab one of those little shot glasses from a nearby cupboard and go back to my room. I do everything by the book and in a minute or two there's a drop of blood on my fingertip. Shit. I'm really doing this. I press the finger hard, just below the little red dot, and put it above the shot glass. Seems like it's gonna take a while, but I want a decent amount of blood, I can do it. I press even harder and watch the magical liquid as it trickles down my fingertip. I focus on it so I don't space out and end up with too much of the stuff. Or worse, not enough. After I fill a very small portion of the glass, I take a clean wipe and press over the wound and hold for a minute. I put on an adhesive, though it stopped bleeding.
Shit. I'm really gonna do this.
I finish the painting same as I would any other. Or, almost . . . It seemed my every move was a little bit more elegant, a little bit slower. Not the mention the smell was a little bit different.
I made her the same as she was in the classroom. Before reality kicked in, that is.
And I did it. I really did.
I made her perfect.
It was a lot better than what I saw earlier in the classroom. This was what I wanted. This was real. I could see it, blood caressing her lips, her chin, her neck. It was alive, moving. And it was so RED.
It wasn't long before it started to dry and look crappy. But I didn't care and it didn't really matter. I just wanted a moment. And I got it.
Two days later, I'm kinda looking forward to seeing Mrs. Bianca again. I'm not entirely sure if that's what I was feeling, but I was low-key excited. Instead of her, our school janitor comes in and tells us our beloved Mrs. Bianca is not feeling well and that we are free to go. Some students even scream out of happiness. Is this what I was feeling?
Cassie, our class representative gossip girl, turned to the class and with a hushy voice, said: „ I heard her nosebleed got so bad this morning they had to call the emergency and drive her to the hospital. She almost passed out!“
Is this another creepy coincidence?
Some of the girls decide to go to a café so I join them. Cassie and Meredith also go with. There are lots of cafés not far from our school. We went to the one that has lots of nice sofas. I'm not much for socializing, so I mostly just sit there quietly. I listen on Cassie and Meredith's conversation.
„Since when are you drinking tea? You only do that when you're sick! Oh, is something wrong?“
„I have a terrible stomachache. The pain woke me up. I took some painkillers, but they did nothing. Literally nothing. Ugh.“
She is rather pale, I notice.
I feel like my heart is going to break out of my chest, it was beating so hard.
The two girls leave to the toilet.
I'll just have to wait and see.
They are gone for a while. Shit. I get up to check on them. As I get closer, I can hear someone puking loudly. Both of the toilets were closed. I knock on the first one. Meredith manages to open the door, wiping her mouth with her other hand.
„You should call someone.“
She wants to say something else, but another wave of puke prevents other things from coming out.
Fuck. Meredith is puking blood.
„Victoria? Is that you?“
It's weird to hear Cassie say my name.
I peek to the other toilet to find Cassie looking at me, crying.
„What's . . . What the fuck is this?“
She shakily lifts up her shirt to reveal a myriad of bruises on her stomach. Shit. I move away to feel some of the other girls bumping into me. I cover my mouth with both my hands. Everything's a blur. Time stops existing. Muffled screams around me. Did someone call an ambulance? Meredith turns around, holding something in her hands. Could be toilet paper. I move away just a little bit further, my hands still covering my mouth. Yes. Just like in my painting. Oh, what would they think if they saw me smiling?
I am sitting in my room. No idea how I got here. On my desk, all my „bloody“ art scattered about. What am I doing? It must all be some perverse coincidence. I realize I'm quite thirsty so I get up to fetch some juice from the kitchen. I hear the TV is set on louder than usual. Must be the news. I say hi to mother.
„Oh, Vicky, look at this! Who would do such a thing? Who would even think of it?“
I look at the screen. I don't know what happened, but most of the footage was blurred. I guess because it's too gory. Yikes.
„Monstrous. Listen.“
They were overly dramatic, as was she, yet there was something vaguely familiar about this story.
Failing to place it inside my existing memories, I take my drink, when I hear they're interviewing a victim's friend. Huh, that might be somewhat interesting. I again turn to the TV. Shit. This is too much to be a coincidence. I sprint to my room, almost spilling my drink over the pile of papers. I hysterically dig through them, throwing most of them off my desk, making a big mess. Found it. It was her. The girl from the news. It's been months since I painted her. I never even spoke to her, I only saw her one day, talking with some guy. Maybe something happened, maybe it didn't, maybe I was just frustrated with my own love life. Does it matter now?
Either way, I painted them sitting on a bench together. A cute couple, one might say. If one doesn't mind the entirety of the guy's skin missing, and his head, chopped off, peacefully laying in his lap.
Oh my god.
I laugh. I laugh so hard it starts to hurt.
I kneel down and start cleaning up the mess I made. I study every paper carefully, imagining how they all must be suffering. A certain kind of joy enfolds my insides. A certain kind of . . . serenity.
Until my own face appears. Shit. I forgot about this. Shit!
Stitches on my neck.
Not much blood, but I don't think I wanna know what this feels like. My head cut off then stitched back on. Don't wanna lose it again.
Having all my artwork back on one pile, I'm thinking about my conscience. I'm not evil, nor am I a sociopath or anything like that. I take a bigger paper bag then tear everything into smaller pieces and throw it inside that bag. I grab a lighter, check if it works then go in my backyard. Luckily, it is dark outside and no neighbours will think I'm doing something weird. Like, setting a small fire. So I do it. And wait until the fire goes out. I'm glad I took a bag, not because no pieces flew away (though that was also good), but because I didn't have to watch my work die.
I don't know how long I've been there but I know I won't be able to sleep tonight. Strangely so, I thought after this I would feel empty. Instead I feel – content. When I can't sleep I paint. When I feel content, I paint myself. I should be safe. Whatever happened, however it happened, it should be okay, right?
A little bit of red on my lips, some brown on my hair, green on my eyes. I start feeling tired. I imagine my paper face bleeding out. Oh, it would make her . . . No! I must not. It's fine like this. I am fine like this. I sigh. It's done then. I don't usually put anything on my walls, but this seems like it should be put up, so I take some tape and stick it high on my wall. I yawn. Maybe I could take a nap at least.
Bad idea.
§
I dream I'm swimming in a pool of blood. Now why would I do that?
The foul stench of blood filling up my nose.
This is turning out to be one hell of a nap.
I feel myself waking up. The terrible smell still around me. As I open my eyes, all I see is RED. Am I still dreaming? I try to get up, but my body feels so heavy. My movements seem slowed by the ever-growing dizziness in my head.
Dizzy?
Must be my room itself was bleeding out – my mind logically concludes.
I feel my bed is warm and wet as I struggle to sit up. Is the floor also fully covered in blood or am I finally losing my mind?
I blink at the painting on my wall. Oh. Shit. I have to deal with this, and quickly.
I get up and make two steps towards the wall, each one making me more and more tired and eager to return to my bed and lie down. Yes, I could lie down. I get on my knees and after feeling the wet floor, decide against it. Oh right, the painting. I opt for crawling. I feel weak. I focus again on my portrait. Blood is gushing out of her eyes, ears, mouth, down the paper and the wall, finding its way to the floor. Paper is completely soaked now, I wonder how it's still holding up. It's bent from all the blood oozing out.
Drip, drip.
I manage to move closer. If I could only reach it. Tear it in half, that'd do.
Drip.
It's so simple.
Drip.
Suddenly, the wall tumbles down to the right. I think I might throw up. Why is my face all wet?
Drip, drip.
Ice-cold sweat down my back. Or is it blood? Oh, silly, blood would be warm.
Drip.
Almost there. Almost.
Drip.
Right above me.
Drip.
Nope. Can't reach.
Dripping stops.
I look up. It's not there anymore.
Oh. It fell.
I look around. It's all red. Even if it wasn't this hazy, I wouldn't be
able
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