Enter Vincent, glaring at his bare canvas unable to contemplate his first move. Some nights remain better than others. Lately, the swaying wheat fields outside his window can be distraction enough to lose twenty-four hours of progress.
He teeters on his rickety stool to reach for his half empty bottle of liquor. Yet another procrastination play as the dream of creating a single masterpiece drifts further. Vincent pours a drink and takes a long swallow. The bitter licorice taste burns the back of his throat.
A glimmer of lightning from the passing storm illuminates his weathered face. Aged cracks along his forehead run like rivers down his cheeks pooling into his shaggy red beard. Another burst of light reveals a figure darting along his back wall. The sudden appearance of the shadow nearly topples Vincent. He attributes the visions to a combination of an artist’s pressure and his absinthe cocktail, nothing more.
A thunder crack rattles Vincent. The rolling storm clouds carry no motivation to paint, but they may break the heat of a sweltering summer night. Vincent pushes off his stool to stretch his fragile legs. Several sunflowers and dahlias arranged in each corner of the broken down cabin bring warmth to an otherwise depressing room. He picks up a sunflower and brings it to his nose. The petals tickle his beard and a smile lights up his face for the first time in days.
As Vincent approaches the canvas, clinging to fresh inner enthusiasm, the temperature of the tiny room drops quickly. Vincent grabs a heavy wool blanket and wraps it over his bony shoulders before he sits back on his stool. He picks up a brush and dips into a deep violet.
Vincent…
The voice slithers into his ear and raises the hair on the nape of his neck. Vincent spins around holding the brush as if it were a knife.
“Who’s there?”
The room grows heavy as a subtle wind blows across snuffing out each candle. Vincent sits in eerie silence, enveloped in cold darkness. The voice comes at him fast.
Why would he start there?
“Where!?” Vincent snaps back into the thick air. “What do you want from me!?”
His questions go unanswered.
A silky dark mass passes by the corner of his left eye. Vincent jumps from his stool and races across the room.
Vincent re-lights every candle as the storm clouds wrestle with the glow. He pours another drink and falls into his couch feeling the air of the room release its grip.
The bitter drink has the ability to produce hallucinogenic effects. Ghosts? Vincent chuckles, places the glass down beside him and pulls the heavy blanket up to his chin. The blank canvas judges him from across the room. A tiny cracking sound breaks the awkward staring contest. Along the bottom of his drink, frost has crystallized and is crawling up the sides.
That’s no masterpiece.
Vincent clambers to his feet and stumbles from the couch. The blanket refuses to let go, sending him crashing into his easel. The canvas breaks under his weight. On the way to the floor his head smacks a sharp wooden corner. Vincent collapses and darkness creeps in.
The rain subsides leaving a residue on the windowpane that creates an iridescent glow around the night stars. Vincent, placing a new canvas on his easel, gazes longingly at the blurry stars. He never noticed beauty in the night sky until seeing it through the tears of a bruised eye. His hand, as if controlled by an unseen force, paints with a newfound inspiration. For the first time in a week, Vincent’s creativity flows.
The temperature in the room drops again. Vincent can no longer hold his brush as his aching fingers ice up. The voice comes quick, like daggers penetrating his skull.
He’s a cheat, an uninspired fake.
Vincent clutches his head in his hands and lets out a tormented scream.
… Get the knife … a fragmented sentence whispered by a high-pitched female. He’s about to get the knife.
Over and over, the word knife echoes through Vincent’s head and one clear thought remains. End the incessant jabs of the critics by taking away their vessel; maybe the voices are onto something. Vincent retrieves a gleaming knife from the block on his kitchen counter.
Don’t watch.
He slices from the top of his ear down. The sharpened knife makes a smooth cut leaving little time for pain. He waits. The dull ringing persists, acting as a welcome obstacle for the voices.
Blood drips a path to the bathroom as Vincent grabs a handful of bandages. He wraps a long piece of thick gauze around his head while considering taking the other ear. Silence. The throbbing pain providing pause from the constant barrage of critiques. His body shivers excitedly at the opportunity to paint uninterrupted. As he shuffles back through the cabin, a shimmering vision of a young man appears on his couch, then vanishes. Vincent feels around the couch for the mysterious figure. Perhaps the loss of blood could bring about such a strange hallucination. Perhaps. Vincent returns to the stool and paints into the night, moving through the canvas undisturbed.
Nobody sees the world as he sees it…
Several voices continue to rise and fade around him yet Vincent pays no mind.
…a sense of loneliness
Another drink, another stroke as the night continues on. Vincent ignores the freezing temperatures. Another sip. Spinning in and out of consciousness, Vincent’s sick mind wrestles with the confusion of life. No attention is given to the haunted silhouettes drifting by. With one final sweep along the canvas, Vincent drops the brush to the ground and proceeds to the kitchen. He pulls a gun from the drawer and returns to his painting.
Vincent ignores over ten transparent figures that crowd his tiny cabin. The young ghost from his couch floats inches from his face. Vincent bows his head. The unwelcomed guests swim around and through him.
It’s amazing how one man’s opinion can differ so drastically from the next on everyday topics such as entertainment, politics, or art. Spurring arguments strong enough to cause war. One can love a photo with endless passion while it may rain hatred upon another viewing it. Even in the darkest of times, how is it that glowing sand from a moonlit beach can bring a sense of tranquility to the observer. The universe has created perfection, and we strive to live up to that. Try to call the color of clouds at sunrise horrific and you’d probably be called insane.
Vincent kneels and presses the gun into his abdomen. Blood splatters onto his final masterpiece.
Loud thuds and a door is forced open, sending shards of wood in every direction. In an eerily lit room, twenty students are slumped in their chairs. The only light spills from a glowing green contraption in the center of the lecture hall. Strands of cables reach out from the tall, glass vat and snake their way across the hardwood floor to monitoring electrodes pasted to the temples of each classmate.
Soldiers equipped with riot gear charge through the doorway. They shout to an old man sitting terrified in the center of the students.
“Samuel Brown, you are under arrest for the illegal use of History String 13.”
Professor Samuel Brown, his dyed black hair frazzled, waves his hands in surrender.
“No, no, no, Dean Walsh gave me permission, I swear to you, she allowed this!”
Dean Walsh, charges into the room cutting through the crowd. She carries her slender body with an intimidating confidence.
“I said nothing of the sort Mr. Brown. You were well aware that our school was not ready, nor equipped to start handling this type of experiment.”
Samuel Brown frantically pleads his case, “It was a few short lessons, everything is fine.”
Dean Walsh tears the electrodes from the old man’s face.
“Everything is not fine Mr. Brown. The lessons we are preparing to conduct should never disturb anything in the past. Our system was not ready to go online and you knew this! Your lesson leaked into the past affecting innocent people. You’re fired.” With one hand gesture from the Dean, the soldiers move in and surround Samuel Brown.
One by one, the students peel sensors from their heads. A girl nervously twirls her hair.
A boy named Jack whispers in her ear, “As soon as this thing is back online, I’m gonna board the Titanic. How about you?”
A few older gentlemen in lab coats unplug video cables from the glass structure in the center of the lecture hall. A thick ooze creeps onto the floor from the bottom of the tube as a glowing green liquid drips down the center spilling over a large replica of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Exit Vincent, a beaten man perched on the brink of insanity; a brilliant artist who received the final push from a future he helped create. Class dismissed.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 