The Damn Painting (Short Story)
Hey guys! This is my first short story that I wrote in one day, so sorry if it’s a bit messy/bad. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. And also, the story is a bit disturbing. You have been warned!!!
Many in Italy and around the world admire the Italian painter. He was an old man, yet a creative and artistic man. He painted many masterpieces that many call his art revolutionary. People praised the painter by his accuracy and detail that the painter drew from sceneries. Making the painting like a picture, but has a deep emotion tied into it.
However, a man came across a painting that seemed to catch him by surprise. The art showed a farmhouse. It was not just any farmhouse, but a farmhouse that the man used to live until his two parents mysteriously vanished without a word or sign while he was a young teenager.
The man was disturbed. Seeing the details of his old house that he spent his childhood with his late parents made the detective so sad but yet so confused that he had no idea how to react. The man stared at the damn painting for hours. Motionless. He looked at every detail in the picture; the house, the bench in front of the yard, the tools, and the tree. It was all the same, just as he remembered. He stared and pondered deep in thought on where his parents would have gone and tried to answer to himself why the painter decided to draw this particular house.
That night the detective couldn't sleep nor eat. He was lost in his thoughts. He couldn't find a way to answer the reason why his parents left a 15-year-old all alone in the old farmhouse. He felt upset yet confused, and that led to frustration since that same pattern took place every time the man even thought about it. After many years no one was able to explain the reason why his parents disappeared one night. So he was always alone for the rest of his adolescence. Cursed with the confusion of where his parents that he loved so much went to.
The man became mad from the thoughts that he had kept going through his head for many moons. He barely ate, and his eye socket became dark and baggy. Making him seem pitiful and deprived of a restful night. He visited the painting that the painter drew again. He stood there once more for hours in the day. Frozen while the only thing moving were his eyes. He looked depressed. He seemed eager to find the answer but also looked hopeless, just like a corpse with empty eyes.
On the third day of August, the man visited his house for the first time in years. The man remembered that this day was the same day that his parents disappeared. He took the train to the nearest station and walked out with empty eyes, emotionless while his body was fragile. He walked up the mountain. Memories of his younger self started to wash into his head, stabbing the man's heart with pain from all the once happy times to a frustrating end in a matter of few hours on the same damn day.
He walked for a bit more and finally stopped in front of the big old house that seemed to be swallowed by mother nature. The house was covered in vines and new bushes and grass. The man walked up to the door and knocked, his heart filled with hope, hoping to have his parents open the door.
The door remained closed; no one was inside. The man's frustrations grew. His anger and his sadness grew and grew to the point that he broke down at the front of the house. Shedding tears and chocking and screaming to the top of his lungs that he never knew he could with such pain.
It became dawn. The man still kneeled at the same place. His voice was gone, and his eyes were puffed up from tears that he shed. The man rose slowly. He hasn't eaten properly in days, and his body seemed tired from all the energy that he has emitted. He walked away, with his eyes glued to the ground. This was goodbye.
He walked towards the tree that was near his house. The memories flooded once more, but this time the man didn't have the strength even to react nor ignore. He stared at the roots; then, he trailed his eyes upwards to the trunk, then the branch, then the leaves.
His eyes widened, and his jaws dropped. What the man saw was something that would have only been shown in a nightmare. Higher up on the tree, there was a bit of room that the branches did not cover. Up in the clearing, he saw two old skeletons hung up. The man's knee buckled. He screamed in terror, but all that he was able to let out was air since his voice was out from earlier. Tears poured once again, blurring his vision, but he was able to make out the skeletons' outfit. One was a man, and the other was a woman. Their clothes were tattered and covered in blood. The skeletons were covered in dust and strangely stayed intact.
The moon rose, and the sky turned dark. It was a quiet night. Nothing made a sound. The man remained wide-eyed, he was dehydrated and looked even more horrendous after what happened. Then, there was a distant noise coming from nearby. Footsteps. The sound became louder and louder. The man seemed confused, asking himself, "who is wandering in this place during this time of day?"
Then the man was able to make out what he was seeing. He saw the famous old painter, the same one that painted the damn picture. The man was even more confused. Questions were starting to crowd his head, but that quickly became to an end when the man witnessed what he had seen.
The painter stood in front of the tree, his head up towards the skeletons, and his trousers down to his ankles. He was pleasuring himself, grunting and moaning. He went on and on. The painter then muttered, "oh, how beautiful you two have become, being a masterpiece that I have done."
The man was mortified, he froze and remained motionless. The man was witnessing a killer and a mad man that no one in the right mind finds normal. The painter groaned and released. He was pleased and was satisfied. He then lifted his trousers back up and hummed away from the tree.
The man started to panic. He found out who killed his beloved parents. He wanted to run and disappear and relocate himself anywhere but where the painter stayed. He took a step back but made a grave mistake. His foot stepped on a twig, making a loud crack in the quiet night. The man's heart dropped and quickly looked up towards the painter. The painter and the man made eye contact.
The painter grinned. He turned and ran with an unusual posture towards the man while his hands were up in the air. The man panicked and ran away as fast as he could. The man was able to hear the painter shrieking and laughing with joy while yelling, "come back!" and "where are you going?" very unfittingly. The man sprinted in the direction he came from, but unfortunately, it was downhill. The man lost his balance, his feet tripped and let to the man tumbling down the hill with extreme force. The man stopped tumbling when he reached downhill. The painter eventually caught up with him and found that the man remained unconscious.
The man woke up. He felt groggy and felt pain at his anus. He looked around the place. It seemed like he was in a wooden shack. The place was filled with odd smells that the man couldn't make out specifically. He then noticed paints and brushes all around the shack, along with some weird plants and colorful powders and rocks. He tried to sit up, but he was unable to move. Startled, he looked down. He was naked and strapped to a bed that seemed to be moist with strange fluids.
Then, the painter walked into his view. The painter looked down and smiled at the man, saying that he was looking at a true masterpiece. The man, confused and in panic, tried to talk but was quickly reminded that he lost his voice. The painter sighed and shook his head. Disappointed that the man has lost his voice. The painter touched his chest and made his way to his cheek. "Do not be afraid, my masterpiece." He whispered, "For you will be one of my many creations and be praised by many."
The painter made his way towards a rusty IV pole with empty blood bags strung up at the tip. The man pulled out a needle and connected it with a tube that leads to the bag. The old painter giggled and said to the man that this will indeed be painful, but will soon end with a glorious release while fulfilling his destiny.
The painter dug the needle into the arm of the man, where the blood was located. The painter explained to the man that he needs new paint for the new painting that he has in mind and telling him that his healthy blood will be the main recipe to make that happen.
The man panicked and tried to scream for help. The efforts were, however, useless. He resisted will all his might but was all in vain. As the hours passed, his body began to grow weak. His lips became dry, and his body became thinner and thinner. His eyes slowly lost the sign of life. Until finally, he lipped his last words and breathed his last.
The painter made his paints and made his way out of the wooden shed during the time at dawn. The painter then painted once more, expertly drawing with fine detail using exquisite mixtures of color that he has made himself. The painting was once again, a masterpiece that many praised, and became a new collection of his damn paintings.