Psychological Love Short Story – Dangerous Realism
Photo credit: chelle from morguefile.com
He stubbed out his cigarette and casually strolled down the hall glancing at the paintings lining the pristine white walls. He had no interest in art and had never dabbled in paint but, his girlfriend painted a lot of idiotic pictures and, wanted them to get appreciated by the numerous art critics and enthusiasts –“Oh she is such a marvelous painter” – “her paintings are breathtaking, such realism…” – but of course that, had never happened. Only he had been her harsh critic and ardent supporter. He knew that she had needed that one painting to catapult into the art scene – to break into the tightly- knit art world – to finally get noticed and applauded. And, so he had taken matters into his own hands.
He ran a hand through his slick black hair and coughed. He approached it and paused smiling slowly. It embraced the corner wall and demanded attention. He coughed – his smile widened. It was truly his brain child. So what if she had painted it? It had taken root in his fiendish mind. Everything – he studied it – the gushing red- blood colour – so life- like!
The pale brown and, the black – all looked so vivid! He whistled to himself – he could still see it and, feel it. The power – the feeling of holding the threads of life in his hands – it had soared him to the ultimate heights of ecstasy.
He had hit upon the idea when his girlfriend had cried and complained –“when I ever make it?” And then looking at him she had continued –“just one realistic painting… I need just that perfect one to make everybody sit up…”
He had thought hard. And then when his landlady had walked in to tell him that his rent was overdue – everything had fallen into place. It had been so simple – a daring plan which had required a lot of guts. But then, he had it in him didn’t he? Right from childhood, when he had twisted the street dog’s neck and watched it whimper till its end. And why – his upright parents had asked. But, he – an innocent 12 year old boy had said truthfully that he just wanted to try it once and see. He had not mentioned the feeling of power that had nauseated and challenged him.
And now, the same thrill would engulf him – and he was doing it for a good cause wasn’t he?
It had been fun – fun to make the phone calls – fun in ensuring that all knew that he was going away for the weekend! And then, he had slipped into the old lady’s flat and done it.
“… but its so neat and clean… how will I get my painting?” she had said when she had come in. And he had winked at her. She had made her point – he knew it. He had taken out his penknife and decided – she wanted more colour – well… she would get it!
He had skillfully slit her throat – his hands had been shaking but he had been aware of the feeling. It was a slow sensation of electricity tingling his every part of his body and his brain. He had just taken the plunge and was swimming against the tide and, he had felt so powerful! And he couldn’t stop – he kept cutting and watching – seeing the rivulets of blood transform into a steady flow of blood.
She had sketched it in her book – exactly like that. She lacked imagination, he knew very well. And then they had left after wiping the place spotless.
It had taken her three weeks to paint it and present it to some high- sounding name in the art society. And here they were – all four of them – she, he, it and his devilish mind. He smiled – it was not a pleasant smile. More red – he mused – she should have used more red – he liked red colour – it had always been his favourite colour.
She came into the hall – her blue print dress crackling with pleasure but deep furrows lining her brow. Her pale pink lips creased into a smile as she came towards him and said –“we did it but it is not good enough – I need one more realistic painting… can you arrange it for me? – she was now caressing his face with her pale white hands.
He looked at it and said, “sure honey… I can do that.”
__END__
