Work of a Genius

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John!

Saturday night I will be entertaining again. I suspect you enjoyed my little presentation the other day and would not mind some more of the same. We are both artists, I believe. I a performer, you a painter. I want you to capture what you see. Consider it a commission work. I will make it worth while.

K

P.S. Alerting the authorities at this point would be a bad idea.

John remembered how on the Saturday evening that followed he stood by the window, much like this particular night, and waited. A sketchbook and pencils carefully placed on the nightstand next to him in the company of binoculars, which he finally managed to dig out of the closet and a bottle of beer. He waited for hours, almost giving up when, finally, Kevin pulled up and presented him with yet another victim. A pretty, petite Hispanic girl, by John's assessment possibly Puerto Rican. Her short hair and baggy clothing almost made him think that he was mistaken and another man was Kevin's company. But when she began walking towards the building, he could see her hips swaying in an effortless rhythm of femininity.

Once the performance began, he remained standing by the window and sketched. He drew as fast as he could, consciously pushing the horror and disbelief away from his mind, concentrating on the artistic rather than shocking realism. He worked hard; he broke a pencil, knocked the half-full bottle of beer off the nightstand and began sweating, despite the fact that the late April night was unusually cold, just above freezing.

He sketched the woman's clothing shredded into pieces, her short hair cut off, almost sheared with a pair of heavy scissors. Her finger and toenails cut, her pubic hair shorn, as well. He continued to work without a pause when Kevin made the first incision, cutting straight down the woman's torso, starting at the throat, between the breasts, through the belly button and into the crotch. The scissors seemed to have been sharp as a scalpel, John didn't see Kevin struggling as one would have thought cutting of flesh would require. The woman bled more than a corpse should have and John tried hard to block out the fact that there was still breath left in her. However, he decided a while ago that simple drunkenness couldn't be the cause of her unconsciousness. Pushing those thoughts aside, he continued sketching.

Kevin disappeared into another room for a few seconds, only to return holding a huge butcher knife. By this time, John was beyond horror and disgust. All he did was sketch and capture the images that were presented to him. He didn't flinch when the knife's point dug inside the incision and slid sideways into the body as if making a filet. Kevin labored at separating skin from the tissue and within half an hour, the woman's upper body was bare of its natural cover, muscles and veins exposed to the air. John kept sketching.

The woman never stirred. The original skinning deed complete, Kevin now began to separate the organs. Out came the liver, kidneys and stomach, and finally the heart. It was at this point that John finally jerked himself out of a trans-like state and shuddered. The veins and aortas of the heart were sliced through and Kevin held the heart up high, showing it to John, who carefully observed through the binoculars while still sketching. Finally, he gasped and staggered away from the window. He would have sworn the heart was still alive, even if the woman was obviously dead. It gave off a few rapid beats, spurting little streaks of blood through the holes where the veins and aortas had been, splashing Kevin's shirt, floor and walls.

John had found himself utterly exhausted. He glanced at the clock and although he couldn't tell the exact time when Kevin returned home with the woman, he estimated he had been observing and sketching for good two hours. His breathing was hard and when free of pencils and the sketchbook, his hands trembled almost uncontrollably.

Good God! Whispered John. He wiped the back of his hand across the forehead and it came off wet with perspiration. His hair was damp as if he had just stepped out of the shower and he didn't feel the cold that was enveloping the city and stubbornly lingering inside his studio despite the radiators working hard. In fact, he shivered as if he was struck by a bout of high fever. As if to make sure that none of the woman's blood somehow transferred to his own hands, he examined them carefully and rubbed them together.

He closed his eyes, and the images of a skinned woman danced in front of him. He saw the light and dark red, purple, blue and brown of the intestines, organs and tissue. As he looked around him, he found dozens of pages of his own sketches scattered about the floor. He knew he had drawn quite a few, but it seemed to him, that he had used up the entire sketchbook of paper. He had enough material for an entire exhibition on the topic.

His body seemed to have held only a few small drops of energy, not enough to allow him to pick up or even look at the sketches properly, let alone put them away. He dragged himself to the bed, crawled under the covers and fell asleep almost instantly. He slept better than he had since Isabella left. He didn't stir or awake until late in the morning, feeling re-energized. The days following, he painted with a renewed vigor that he hadn't felt in months. He barely ate or washed, slept little and dreamed of nothing.

After the initial time, he didn't chicken out anymore. When the still beating heart was bleeding in Kevin's hands John simply snickered and continued with the sketching. The brains, wombs, and lungs didn't move him beyond an initial hm. He did wince the first time when Kevin separated the skin from the body and cut it off at the sides, lifting it up high to give John a better look. Then he flapped it like a towel and blood spattered everywhere, on Kevin's face and clothes, even the window. John flinched but forced his mind to remain calm. He promised himself he would not show weakness again.

He placed all his paintings in different settings than the original inspiration. Some were in the dark cobbled streets of Victorian era, which might have easily been the scene of the Ripper murders; others were situated in sadomasochistic dungeons with tools of torture visible in the background. One was sited in a small clearing in the woods, surrounded by mushrooms and small purple flowers, much like the place he used to play in when a child. The mutilator's face was never seen; the victims looked different from the women he had seen in Kevin's apartment. It was partially due to his expectations of being found out and entrapping himself into the as of yet unsolved cases of murdered Chicago women. On the other hand he had made women look like he wanted them to look. All brunettes, tall and slim, yet curvaceous. If he had enough presence of mind to step out of the situation, he would have realized that they all resembled Isabella in some way. But he didn't think and he didn't want to think beyond the art. If he began dwelling upon the things that had become a part of his already cacophonous life, he might not be able to stand it. Somewhere deep down in his heart he was aware of that. And so, he thought of nothing more than colors, painting, and the next time Kevin would stage a performance for him.

It had taken a while to catch up with the schedule of his neighbor's madness, but eventually he figured out it usually happened in two-week intervals. He had always been an industrious artist, but never this prolific. Art seemed to ooze out of every pore of his body. His fingers trembled with excitement, his heart raced to the point of overdrive and sometimes he had to will himself to pause for a minute and catch his breath.

The archive of the new art grew daily. He knew this was his best work ever created and unlike other times, he couldn't get enough of it. He didn't get bored, just like he didn't simply vary the scenes. They all seemed completely original and although a series of sorts, unrelated to one another. He was proud of himself and he wished to show it to the world. The time would come, but it wasn't quite right yet.

*

Like so many times since that initial April encounter, this particular night he stood by the window and waited for Kevin to pull up the blinds, yet nothing happened. This time there was no performance. No satisfaction of the gruesome. Five o'clock in the morning found him waiting still, long after the lights in the apartment across the street went out and the first flicker of dawn appeared beyond the tops of the trees lining his small street. He pulled up a chair and sat down, still by the window, still faithfully waiting. And yet, nothing happened. He dozed off and woke up just in time to see the woman that came with Kevin leave the house and walk down the street, carefully looking about her and finally raising her eyes to meet his gaze.

John froze on the spot and almost screamed. The familiarity that he felt about the woman became clear. It was Isabella. His Isabella. She was alive and well. He tried to look closer and make certain it really was her. The long, brown hair that was so dear to him was now shorn off in a fashionable bob and dyed raven black. That's why the night before he couldn't tell it was her, even thought she looked like someone he knew. He wanted to jump up, scream and wave, but he did none of it. He simply sat there, tears stinging his eyes, his heart breaking with fear.

The bastard! He was angry with Kevin; for putting her in danger and strangely he was even angrier for letting her off like he did.Fucking freak! He whispered, unable to tell whether the insult was meant for Kevin or himself.

*

Later in the morning he began questioning his own sanity. Quietly resting in bed and unable to sleep, he wondered if he should destroy all he had created in the last few months. His heart bled to think of the act of obliteration, but he believed it might have been better if he simply stopped thinking - like he had done so far - and put an end to it all.Make a fucking bonfire, he said to himself quietly.Right here in the fucking studio.

Yet, he felt like paralyzed. Each time he told himself to get up and do what he had been thinking of, he couldn't move. It was like a force deep inside prevented him from the demolition. It was like when one is afraid to stand too close to the underground train tracks, worried that the oncoming train will hypnotize them into leaping off the platform to their certain death. One thinks about it more often than one is able to consciously admit it to oneself, but of course, one doesn't go through with it. This was the same kind of situation. Standing up in class and screaming off the top of one's lungs, drawing horrified and amused glances from all present - but only in one's mind.

As John lay in bed dwelling upon things he could never do - not now, not ever - a scraping sound of paper being pushed under the door jerked him out of his thoughts. He turned his head towards the noise, but didn't move immediately. Carefully listening for the sound of footsteps, as if in a dream, he thought about what to do next. He felt half awoke or stoned. His actions were not clear and it had taken him minutes if not longer to decide upon each following step.

After what seemed like an hour John finally dragged himself out of bed and picked up the small envelope off the floor. His name was displayed with the same careful handwriting in red ink as it had been on the first one. He tore the envelope open without care of preserving it.

I am ready to see my commissioned work. Drop by tomorrow around seven. I'll be waiting. I hope you appreciate my thoughtfulness last night.

K

John looked around the familiarity of his studio apartment, his eyes scanning dozens of paintings that he had created in the last few months. He found it hard to part with any of them. They were like his children - a phrase he had always snickered at when listening to artists describe their work. Now, after all this time he had finally understood what they meant.

*

The following day the time dragged more then ever. John took a shower, mentally scolding himself for neglecting his personal hygiene as of late. He shaved and even walked into the basement of the building to launder his clothes in the washing machines available to the residents. He cleaned the studio, washed the dishes and carried several big black bags of garbage into the dumpster in the alley. He felt like a revived man. He was ready to show off his art. He knew it was good and he was proud of it more than of anything he had ever created.

Happiness was something he hadn't felt much in the last few months and now, it filled his heart to the point of bursting. If only he could find the right patron to sponsor him, he believed he could create a display that would stun the masses and carry his name throughout the artistic world, right to the top where he had always wanted to be but somehow doubted he'd ever land. This was his time, however, he was certain he had it as good as made. This was his opportunity and the collection of paintings in front of him was what would make him a household name.

Five o'clock came and then six, but there was no sign of the blue Mustang in the street below. John had almost decided not to keep the appointment when the blinds in the apartment, which was so familiar to him now had sprang up, and there was Kevin, waving and smiling at him, gesturing John to come over. John swallowed hard and waved back. It was now or never. If Kevin liked what he saw, John's confidence would know no limits.

He grabbed four of the canvasses that he had prepared earlier, carefully wrapped in the brown paper and carried them with him. He tried the door of Kevin's building but it was locked and just as he was ready to turn around, the sound of a buzzer and an electronic click let him know that Kevin was aware he was downstairs.

He entered the building and was astonished to find the entrance hall and the staircase made of pure marble. The walls were a colorful, if somewhat faded mosaic of what looked like an old Arabic art with lions and palm trees rising from the ground to the ceiling. They looked like the remnants of the walls surrounding the hanging gardens of Babylon. The sight was quite overwhelming. John thought of his own gray and drab building and for a moment he regretted that the decision of destroying something as lovely as the hall he was standing in.

Slowly, he ascended the staircase, his heart beating wildly and blood booming inside his ears. The sound of it was so loud that at first he thought he imagined his name being called from somewhere above. He looked upwards over the railing and there was Kevin, waving and smiling.

"Come on." He said cheerfully.

The canvasses were huge and awkward to carry and John was quietly cursing himself to have chosen the stairs over the comfortable ride of an elevator. When he thought carefully, however, he couldn't remember seeing an elevator door in the hall.Doesn't matter. He said to himself.I'm here now.

When he reached Kevin's floor, he found one of the doors open and decided it must have been the apartment he'd been looking for. He walked over and knocked, carefully poking his head inside.

"Come in! Come in!" Came a reply, mixed with soft music of jazz in the background, much like the kind John frequently listened to.

Interesting. Thought John. He wouldn't have figured Kevin to be a jazz guy. He entered and closed the door behind him. Somewhere deep inside his stomach he could feel a knot of hunger. His bout of regeneration since this morning had awoken the primal senses that he had not felt in a long time - hunger, cleanliness, probably need for sex, too.

He walked through the apartment and found it to be meticulously clean, almost to the point of clinically tidy showrooms, which he always admired but knew that no normal person could keep up in real life. This time, however, he had found one. There was not a speck of blood to be seen anywhere, which seemed more than strange. Each performance of Kevin's was the peak of horror and grotesque, full of blood and guts, severed limbs and digits, extracted organs and dissected veins. One would have thought there'd be a macabre scene of the crime. Yet there was nothing to testify to the horrors committed and endured. Even the air smelled fresh and clean. John was more than astonished, although over the months of his makeshift dealings with Kevin, he got used to the unusual, so he didn't dwell upon it long.

John entered the kitchen where Kevin was waiting, pouring glasses of white wine and clearing the table.

"I hope you don't mind." He said and smiled. "I like white and so I simply picked it without asking."

John shook his head. It seemed so easy. No introductions, no false civilities. They knew each other beyond the handshake and polite inquires of matters they didn't really care about. He found his neighbor truly a handsome man. Unlike so many men he had known, he had his art to present as a shield when admiring another man's beautiful physique. Most of his friends, or what was left of them would never have the courage to admit they had thought another man attractive. With Kevin, there was no doubt about that fact and John admired his long, strong jawed if somewhat gaunt face, electric blue eyes and dark brown, almost black hair, which created a contrast many desired. On Kevin it seemed genuine. He didn't believe the man wore color contacts or dyed his hair. He was one of the 'beautiful people', someone who triggers envy by simple appearance in the room. Tall and athletic, the rest of his body seemed to match his face. He could have been a ragamuffin, a punk or as he appeared now, an elegantly clothed man in his late twenties, and the fact that his beauty was nothing but perfection could not be overlooked. If circumstances were different, John would have loved to paint him. Not now. Like with Dorian Gray, Kevin's beauty was skin deep, behind which the monstrosity of apocalyptic proportions was hiding.

"I'm not much of a wine drinker." John said finally, feeling obligated to say something, no matter how trivial.

"Ah yes," replied Kevin and offered a glass full of champagne-colored contents. "You're a beer man, right?" He nodded as if John had replied. "And maybe a shot of whiskey or something?"

Despite the heat John shivered. There was a gnawing fear inside his heart and the feeling of hunger that he thought he had become aware of before must have been the first sign of terror that he felt when in the vicinity of a sadistic murdered. No matter how much he appreciated Kevin's willingness to share, he didn't attempt to fool himself into believing his neighbor was anything but a common criminal, a monster.

John, my man, he talked to himself while carefully observing the handsome man with whom he was sharing a drink.You ought to take your ass out of here right now.

Yet, he stayed. He finished the wine in a few swift gulps, finding it sour and dry, much to his distaste.

"May I?" asked Kevin and reached for the canvasses, which were now set on the floor and leaning against John's leg. Not waiting for the reply he reached for the wrapped paintings delicately, as if afraid he might damage them and spread them against the kitchen cabinets and one by one, carefully tore off the brown paper.

John's stomach turned again, this time, however, it had been in different fear. It was a familiar feeling of anticipation and angst. The first glance of a critic at what had been his life for a few months. His work, his art, himself really. It was like being naked on the catwalk, trying to ignore the watchful eyes of the crowd, all the while shyly peeking into the darkness and hoping for the best.