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muserevival2014-10-04 08:03 pm
fruktansvard) wrote in muserevival2014-10-04 08:03 pm
Entry tags:
078.2 drabble
"Here is the tragedy: when you are the victim of depression, not only do you feel utterly helpless and abandoned by the world, you also know that very few people can understand, or even begin to believe, that life can be this painful." - Giles Andreae
Ella Fitzgerald plays from an old record player in his front room. Down the hall passed the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, there is a spare room lined with paintings- some stacked to the side of the wall. Before an eisel with a fresh canvas stands Fabian. A black cloak splattered with paint drapes off his body, a cigarette hangs from his lips. To the side: a small table holds a bottle of red wine and a glass almost empty.
He inhales and starts to mix paints. Look upon his masterpieces, what would you see? Misery, despair, displayed with fascination and beauty. Tortured souls splattered across his canvas. Many nights he spends grasping at something to fill what has been long gone. Every now and then he finds the house empty, the bed empty, his life empty.
So he drinks, he paints, he writes. Let it flow right out of his finger tips to the disappearing white. Let his black cloud of emotion uproot itself into art. Tonight, his subject is something from long ago. A man, sharp and handsome, reaches out from black flames.
He steps back, pushes the brushes into water and stares at it. Finishing the glass of wine, those nimble piano fingers delicately place it down.
He takes a pint of red paint, a knife, and completely destroys it with a scream. Red splashes against the floor and wall around the eisel, canvas tears, and once he's done he falls down against the wall and buries his head in his knees with a deep breath. Pain on his fingers, paint in his hair as they curl into the black and he just lets go.
Fabian Malstrom. Original Character. 278 words 1520 characters
Ella Fitzgerald plays from an old record player in his front room. Down the hall passed the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, there is a spare room lined with paintings- some stacked to the side of the wall. Before an eisel with a fresh canvas stands Fabian. A black cloak splattered with paint drapes off his body, a cigarette hangs from his lips. To the side: a small table holds a bottle of red wine and a glass almost empty.
He inhales and starts to mix paints. Look upon his masterpieces, what would you see? Misery, despair, displayed with fascination and beauty. Tortured souls splattered across his canvas. Many nights he spends grasping at something to fill what has been long gone. Every now and then he finds the house empty, the bed empty, his life empty.
So he drinks, he paints, he writes. Let it flow right out of his finger tips to the disappearing white. Let his black cloud of emotion uproot itself into art. Tonight, his subject is something from long ago. A man, sharp and handsome, reaches out from black flames.
He steps back, pushes the brushes into water and stares at it. Finishing the glass of wine, those nimble piano fingers delicately place it down.
He takes a pint of red paint, a knife, and completely destroys it with a scream. Red splashes against the floor and wall around the eisel, canvas tears, and once he's done he falls down against the wall and buries his head in his knees with a deep breath. Pain on his fingers, paint in his hair as they curl into the black and he just lets go.
Fabian Malstrom. Original Character. 278 words 1520 characters