And I love painting.
But why the heck would a darn painting have a bad effect on my loved ones? Ah! Blame it on my choice of canvas and colours.
The exhale of colours felt very holy to me.
Hence I decided a physical purification was important.
Took a bath. Used the scrubber well to clean whatever clogged the skin.
And being fair skinned, the shine shone well.
Dressed in the towel, I headed towards my easel.
I let the towel fall. The canvas was ready.
I looked at the knife. Ready it was to sink into the canvas and flow.
The bath had softened my skin well. All I had to conquer was the first jab. The rest would be very easy.
I had no picture in mind. I just wanted to flow.
The sharp knife I held against my skin and pressed it hard.
It pierced the dermis layers and the blood oozed.
Umm the first spurt of colour. The canvas's lost virginity.
I celebrated both.
It pained me. Bad would be an under description.
You see, an unconscious stab is bearable. But a conscious one hurts the worst.
A painter would dip brush into his colours and paint. I was digging the canvas for my paint. What a feel. And so unique.
I continued the carving. Careful not to slash myself anywhere, for a nerve badly cut would mean my canvas would fade. I would die.
Death for self was acceptable, but not for my masterpiece.
I continued with my work. The white marble floor stood testament to the blood flow. To the world it was gory but to me, my creative flow.
It took me 20 minutes to complete the painting. But with so much blood on my canvas, it was impossible to see the outcome of my passion. The blood wouldn't stop. I looked like I had been de-skinned. And when the salty air from the open window blew against my skin, the pain became at its worst best. Worst best, ha, what a misnomer!
An idea struck. I ran to the beach outside and jumped into the sea.
It was salty and the best disinfect for my skin.
And the sand that it carried would get lodged into my skin and texture my painting.
It's been six days since I last painted.
My canvas seems beautiful. It's "curing".
No artist, I say, would have lived his art like I.
My mother almost fainted when she saw me in my artistic state.
My wife is still to recover from the shock.
Every time we try to make love, she fears a spurt of blood.
Again the sheets have to be changed.
Again the reminder of my painting days.
Again the pain.
Everyone hates me for what I did.
The onlooker adults gasp and children cry seeing me.
And I boast my painting is an eye catcher.