My name is Johnny, and I’m an artist.
We passed on Fifth Avenue and her hair was the color of roses on a wet day, when the sun is dying and the sky cries. She walked past and that was all I saw, that flash of musky blood as it whipped in the wind. I notice things like that, the subtle colors and the way they play in the air. I notice them because I’m an artist. Her hair was blood and roses, the city cloud and stone, my eyes ocean and blue jay. For a tantalizing second the colors mixed and it was heaven and hell, warm apple pie at your grandmother’s funeral. It was such a brilliant display, a splash of splendor in a dull world. I was lost in the losing moment, brought to a literal standstill by the beauty of her color. My neck screamed whiplash as I turned to watch her leave, her color mixing indiscriminately with the wheat and the jade and the plum. And then she was gone.
I saw her again a week later. This time it was in a coffee shop. I was admiring how espresso clashed so nicely with orange peel that I almost missed her roses. It barreled into the corner of my eye and my world was set ablaze as the espresso flowed perfectly into her roses. The far away yells of the other customers lost their form and I was trapped again in her color. But my immunity was stronger now and her poison was weakening. I broke the spell and followed her out the door, trailing behind her as she weaved through the crowd. I had to have that color. To let that rose slip away would be a great sin on my part as an artist. An artist needs his color.
I followed, entranced by her rose, until she wandered into an alley. Her other colors swirled in fury as I stabbed her to death. Her blood didn’t hold a candle, no, not even a match, to the rose of her hair.
Back at my apartment I added her rose to the other colors. Plums, leathers, ravens, gold, and now, roses. My masterpiece was almost complete. Only a few more flowers left now.
My name is Johnny, and I’m an artist.
~ Gabriel Arnold