A kaleidoscope of colors shifted lazily through moving shadows. Opening up my leather-bound sketch book I did my best to capture the scene with a simple pencil. A warm, soft breeze kicked up and caused waves in the sea of grass below the small hill I was perched upon. The branches of the old oak tree behind me groaned slightly. The gentle scent of wood smoke greeted my nose with a comfortable familiarity. It was a most beautiful day.
High above me a large feathered form circled, shortly joined by others. The soaring birds distracted me enough to snap me out of my stupor. I became aware of the erratic buzzing of flies and the smell of iron. I turned around to admire the artwork that had brought me here in the first place. Tied to the mighty oak tree was the father, stripped of his clothing and castrated. his detached appendage was jammed into his mouth. At his feet, his family was on their knees, as though in prayer. The mother was in a similar state as the father and on her right was the daughter, to her left was the son. I chose to leave the children clothed and whole save for the slices in their necks. The ground around the roots was drenched in blood and the ants were working frantically at the feast that I provided.
The McGuire family had been so wonderful to me the night before. I, a mere stranger walking up the dark country road at night, was accepted into the farm home as a guest. They fed me, gave me a shower, cleaned my clothes, and gave me a bed. The least I could do was allow them to become a piece of great art. The children were the easiest, a quick slice of a blade with a hand across the mouth was all it took. I found the mother in the shower, I was able to enter the room quietly and stick her in the throat before she could scream. Her plump breasts were rather enticing, but I am a man of restraint and I let her pass without further disruption. The father, on the other hand, tried to put up a fight. I found him in the living room, reading the family bible. It took him only a moment to register the blood on my hands. He threw the bible at my head and lunged for the fire poker. I had dodge the missile and managed to close the distance before he could free his desired weapon. I submitted him with a quick series of punches to the head.
When Mr. McGuire came too, he found himself tied to the tree. He stared down in silent horror at his family, all tied up in prayer, worshiping their brave leader. He then looked at me and let out the most animalistic scream. He kept screaming as I carefully removed his manhood and shoved it into his mouth. I always find that the heightened emotions of the forming art connected me to the work on a deeper level. I left the father to scream in muffled agony. I went back to the house and used the family bible to light a fire. By the time I made it back up the hill, to the tree, the sun was already breaking over the horizon. It was a most beautiful day.
The smoke from the house had begun to dull the beauty of the fluttering butterflies. I slid my sketchbook into my jacket pocket and strolled down the hill, past the burning house, across the road, and into the shelter of the woods. I found a creek and followed it for several hours. Eventually, I found a quaint little gas station. The white-washed bricks of the small business were streaked with green algae. The payphone outside had an “out of order” sign crudely attached to it. Inside numerous strips of fly paper fluttered in the wind of a small rotating fan. I grabbed a bottle of water out of the cooler and a few snacks. The cashier was a portly fellow who seemed to become nervous upon seeing me. I flashed him a warm smile, bought my treats with some cash, and headed back into the woods.
As I wandered through nature I was treated to a constant symphony of chirping birds and gurgling water. The breeze brought the aromas of wildflowers and leaves to my nose. It was a most beautiful day. As the sun settled I spotted an orange glow flickering in the darkness. I carefully made my way toward the light. As I got closer I saw an old, disheveled man sitting next to a campfire. I announced myself early so as to not startle him. He looked weary and apprehensive as I stepped into the light. I smiled and assured him that I was not but a lonely traveler. After a while, he seemed to relax and he even offered to share with me some canned food he had been carrying with him. As we conversed he told me his life story. He had once had a family and a promising career, but alcohol had taken control of him and he was now a homeless bum. After he drifted off to sleep I slid my knife into his neck. He woke up with a gargled scream, blood sprayed from his neck into a fine mist. He tried to grab for me but I simply danced out of the way of both his dirty hands and his blood.
As he lay dying I carefully cut off his face. I used sticks and his shoelaces to hold his arms up even with his face. In his hands, I delicately placed his face in such a way that he would forever be able to reflect upon himself. Finishing my work I quickly cleaned my hands and sketched the display. I was feeling a tingle in my spine, I knew it was almost time. I put away my sketchbook back in its rightful place and sauntered deeper into the darkened woods.
I walked until I found a moonlit clearing. The leaves were bathed in a harsh pale light. Fireflies drifted through the trees, glowing like the stars in the sky. I fell to my knees and looked up, the tingle in my spine became a vibration that passed through my body. The stars brightened and swirled, I saw the birth and death of solar systems, the flat circles of time, colors I couldn’t describe, and I heard music I couldn’t understand. I took in as much as they would show me, my reward for giving them great art. As I was disappointedly let go I took a moment to appreciate the world around me. The fireflies still flew around, the cool breeze still brought the smell of wild wildflowers I noticed that I shared the clearing with an adorable young deer. I spotted a nice large oak tree and felt it was an appropriate place to fall asleep. It had been a most beautiful day.
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I woke up the next morning cold and damp. the smell of rotting flesh and vegetation assaulted my senses. I slowly cracked one eye open and saw not but gray, cracked mud and gray, decaying trees. The fawn I shared the clearing with lay there, half rotten, maggots worrying away at its one remaining eye. Flies of various types started to buzz around in the growing sunlight. I tried to sit up but found my body sluggish. I quickly became aware of how thirsty I had become, I felt weak. My newfound misery was disrupted by a forced cough and the unmistakable sound of a shotgun chambering a shell. I managed to slowly get into a sitting position and raised my hands from behind me came a rough voice, asking if I had been the one who murdered that family and hobo, I never murdered anyone I proclaimed. I was merely a traveling artist who had gotten lost. Although I dared not look behind myself I had the sense that there were a few men behind me. I heard one come closer, heavy boots sinking into the gray mud. Without warning a viscously heavy kick slammed into my ribs. I unfortunately yelled in pain, which received much laughter from the surrounding men. I rolled to my side and looked up. I counted three men, a middle-aged me and what I had to assume were his two sons. This was proving to be a most miserable day.
The older man came close and knelt in front of me, shotgun pointed at my chest. He told me to hand him the knife and my sketchbook, I figured it would have been foolish to disobey. As soon as I had disarmed myself the two younger men set upon me like rabid animals, kicking and punching me to near oblivion. Mercifully the father stopped them before too much damage had been done. The father flicked through my sketches and gave me a sad look. To my utter astonishment, he asked me about the vibrations and what I had been shown. My spine began to vibrate as he talked. At first, I thought that they were coming to my aid, but the vibrations were different. They filled me with dread and terror. He shook his head and said something about how I was never intended to have any knowledge of them. He then told me that I had to become great art.
I tried to get up and fight but his sons grabbed me and held me down. One of them fondled me in a way my body wouldn’t deny while pinning my legs. The father sat on my chest and started chanting in a language I had never heard. The other son let go of my arms and painfully grabbed my face. The son who was groping me stopped, his amusement was satisfied. I screamed as the father slowly cut out my left eye. I screamed as he slowly cut out my right. I screamed as he slit my mouth wider on both sides. I stopped screaming as someone tore open my shirt and my knife was used to carve into my chest and stomach. I played silently as my pants were torn off and a stick was shoved into me. I passed out after that.
I woke up sometime later, I think next to a road, I felt the hot pavement below me and I blacked out again. I woke up a week later, handcuffed to the bed. I was intensely questioned and threatened. I was yelled at for the wonderful art I had made. The questioning turned into jeering and insulting, and then a guttural chanting. I screamed as the detectives cut off my lips and nose. I cried as they applied tourniquets and slowly cut off each finger and toe, followed by the hands and feet. I whimpered as they cut off my balls and sliced open my asshole.
That’s how I ended up in whatever prison this is. That’s how I ended up blind, crippled, and disfigured. That’s why I cry every night. That’s why I will continue to cry until someone finishes turning me into great art.