Death and the Everyday

Chapter 4:Release

***

Before starting to work in the dim of night, I decide to create an atmosphere for myself. The Masterpiece has become the work of my life. Working on it feels sacred. I grab some candles from the small drawer and place them around the room – on the floor, on the windowsill, and few near the canvas itself. The paints are not as dry as I feared they would be, and so with the first stroke of the brush, the process begins. Time goes on as I move my hand in an attempt to feel the inspiration, and suddenly, it comes, flowing into my mind, washing away the stillness and the doubt. I mix the colors of red, shifting tones, creating the contrast of the seemingly same color. The canvas must appear as if it were alive. When the time comes for the darker colors, my hands begin to feel numb, and my eyes grow weary.

I go to the kitchen to hydrate and to wash the brushes before applying the new color. I do not light the room, performing everything in the cold darkness. The paints that go down the sink with water, seem to be black – in the light of day they would be red, but in the night, everything is the same. It is something interesting to behold, something otherworldly…

While the burner begins to warm up the kettle and everything around with the stream of fire, I try to fight off sleep and to think on The Masterpiece. The pace at which I work seems rather fast for the work to be perfect: however, I cannot ignore that unexplainable power of night fuels my artistic nature.

The kettle whistles, and I turn down the burner. While the tea is brewing, I look outside the window to see the falling snow. It is the 2nd of December, and I cannot remember the last time it snowed this early. When I was a young girl, perhaps it occurred more often. The last winters, however, were not so beautiful, there was filth and cold. Could this be a sign, a message of hope, a warning to stay home and continue my work?

As I go back with a cup of strong tea, I look over The Masterpiece and do not see any problems, or things that require fixing. For the first time, quality and quantity go toe to toe, and the progress itself inspires me to continue. Taking up the clean brush, I soak it in the black paint, then begin to move my hand along the edges of the canvas, creating the ground, the clouds, and the many shadows that are present in this sea of red.

A sense of importance fills me as I inflict changes upon my work. The Masterpiece stood here for months, and now I am making such progress. The paints are fresh, the picture renewed with more details, and its meaning becoming clearer to the viewer who has not yet come by that vision. The roots of life from which we come, and the ground in which we go.

My heart begins to beat intensely, and it is getting difficult to breathe. The inspiration and strong tea are not enough to help me make it through the night. These limitations pain and anger me, and I understand that I cannot go on. Not like this. Because art is only as good as when you are willing to work on it either through effort or inspiration, but not through frustration. And so, with two more movements of the brush, I decide that this is enough for today. I take a step back to marvel at what I have painted: the colors of red and black that are visible in the light of the candles are captivating, the message imprinted on the canvas is becoming clearer and deeper. I smile at the beauty, at the progress, at myself. Pride and joy fill me up – emotions and feelings long forgotten. Oh, I will show them... show the world that art, TRUE art still lives, and that they were wrong. ALL OF THEM WERE WRONG!

As I set the brushes aside, I fall onto the bed, still wearing the bathrobe, covering myself in a blanket, thinking of tomorrow and hoping that the artistic flow will remain as powerful as it was today. My heart keeps beating heavily, and for a moment, I wonder if I have finally spent too much strength, that when I close my eyes I will die of exhaustion and endless stress. It surely feels like it, and I’m afraid, but then the certainty comes back, in a form which I did not expect.

“You cannot die. Not when The Masterpiece is so close to completion. Not when the dream is almost at hand.”

***

As I open my eyes, I feel the hit of a headache, no doubt from a long sleep. There were no dreams in that black void of my mind, and I do not feel any strength or inspiration either. The body feels numb, and the hunger makes my stomach echo with pain. I could keep lying in bed, ignoring the desire to eat and increasing the pain, but tomorrow my workweek begins, and if I sleep now, then I will not be able to sleep at night before the shift starts.

“What does it matter? You’re going to leave soon anyway.”

Moving out of bed, I walk into the bathroom, removing the bathrobe with flowers, and turn on barely warm water to accelerate my awakening. As I step into the tub, it turns out to be cold. As the water falls, my body shivers, goosebumps covering it, and the headache partially fades away, allowing thoughts and memories to flow into my mind. The screams of my mother and father, their constant demands, their lack of faith in what I was and could be. The water begins to feel a bit colder, and so I turn the tap, and it becomes warmer, and the steam begins to cover the little bathroom. I do not want to leave this place, this…warmth. Could that have been different? Could I have persuaded them somehow to see that I was born to be an artist, that the words of the Old Crow and their own plans for me faded in comparison? As my hands touch the wet hair under the stream of water I squeeze my jaw in anger. NO, IT WAS THEIR FAULT, NOT MINE. I SHOWED THEM MY EARLY WORKS, MY POTENTIAL, MY WISHES. IT WAS THEY WHO DID NOT CARE. IT WAS THEY WHO DEMOTIVATED ME. IT WAS THEY WHO SOUGHT TO BREAK ME AND TWIST ME INTO WHAT A PERFECT DAUGHTER MUST BE – OBEDIENT AND BEAUTIFUL, YET ALSO STRONG AND RESILIENT. THEY DID NOT WANT A DAUGHTER BUT A PERVERSION OF A PERSON, WITH NO DESIRES OF HER OWN.

THEY WANTED A LEGACY BUILT ON TOP OF MY DREAMS.

The water is becoming slightly hotter, and I feel relaxed, somewhat. I touch my skin, clean and fresh. In my mind’s eye, this body is as beautiful as it was years ago. Soon it will be so. Once The Masterpiece is complete, I will be free from this pain, from the fears and anger. My life will turn around and change for the best. Putting on the bathrobe, I walk out of the bathroom and immediately feel the cold of the apartment freeze my legs and chest. Despite the uncomfortable feeling, my eyelids feel heavy, and so I go to the kitchen to make some strong, invigorating tea. I stretch my hands toward the warming kettle, hoping that the inspiration will come as I taste the hot drink. It is not as strong as I need it to be to keep me awake, but the longer I wait here, staring at the wall, the more doubts and fears will cloud my mind.

I move out and go back to the room. The icy floors and the chilling wind from the wooden windows infuriate me, hastening my awakening. I must harness these emotions, these feelings and thoughts. I must use the desperation and jealousy as fuel for myself. Once The Masterpiece puts me on the map, I will leave behind this rubble, these neighbors that defy soberness and sleep as a concept, instead preferring loud music and outbursts from alcohol and all other intoxicants. I wonder if I could use their decadence to get rid of them…

“They ain't worth it. These people can’t be fixed, can’t be reasoned with. They are standing in our way, but if we interfere, we might not be able to elude the fight. And if we did something we wanted, then WE WOULD BE SUSPECTS. Our dream, our Masterpiece will be at risk. We can’t act now. Perhaps later. Perhaps never. Their path is degradation, which will eventually seal their fate – and that fate will be to drink themselves to death, or to be killed in the process.”

The Voice is offering some solid advice, and I accept it. As I walk into the room once again. I gaze upon my work, trying to feel the inspiration. But there is none. I feel spent. Tomorrow comes another day at the factory. The last of the few that remain. Freedom is at hand. The chain that binds me is about to be broken…

***

I wake from the sound of the alarm clock. It rings relentlessly, the buzzing of the metal echoing in my ears. Turning it off, I immediately get on my feet, eat my breakfast consisting of porridge with pieces of apple, then put on my boots, jeans, and a coat. Because of this choice of clothes and the shortness of my hair, few would understand that I was a girl, not a man, especially from a distance. It is a strange feeling, but it is for the best. When I go there, I let my mind drift away, somewhere that is not peaceful, but distant and quiet. I venture deep into my thoughts, into the whirlwind of doubts and fears and things from the past, and then time elapses as I find myself near the factory. The walk takes a while, and I just got on the road, and now I was here. An interesting trick of the mind, but I do not know if I should welcome it. To be so deep in yourself at the expense of all that surrounds you is dangerous, and I cannot risk my life when my work on The Masterpiece is near completion.

I change into the robes and begin to weld the pieces provided by Uncle Lyosha. We do not talk much. The day feels uneventful and passes by rather quickly. I wonder why it all feels so hollow. Why does near success numb me that much? Why am I not celebrating? Is it weariness that holds me down? The doubt that I am capable of creating something great? Or am I scared that all of my thoughts and perceptions are wrong, and that I am a hack, that I am lying to myself, that I have been lying to myself all this time?... Definitely the last one.

The voice of Uncle Lyosha awakens me from that inner turmoil.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“Well…Your face was rather strained.”

“I’m okay. Thanks.”

“Damn that injustice, dear. You know, I actually asked a buddy of mine about work. And he said…”

“I don’t need work,” my voice is harsh, and the old man recoils a bit. His face is a mix of surprise and concern. Despite the anger, and the fact that he is trying to meddle, I cannot hate him. He is trying to help. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just tired.”

He nods but does not say anything else.

“He’s scared and offended, But that should not be your concern. You didn’t beg him to find you work. And what is it that he offers you? To waste your life at another place, that’s what he offers you. You do not need it. All of it. The workday is over. Change and go back. The Masterpiece awaits…”

Adhering to the Voice, I go out to the changing room, discarding the work clothes soaked with spots of oil and put on my everyday clothes. Going out of the large, grey building, I am greeted by the falling snow and the darkness that dims over everything. The long day has worn me out, the snow has buried the road — so I turn towards the railway tracks. Looking at the night sky, I can see the moon surrounded by black clouds. It guides me through the darkness, because there are no streetlights along the railroad.

There is a sound of a footstep behind me. I turn around to see a male figure trying to catch up to me. He is moving a bit sluggishly, and yet I feel fear gripping my heart. We are alone out here, so screaming for help will not do me any good. But I am not defenseless. There is a knife in the pocket of my coat. I grab it tightly, feeling my nails sunk into my palm and the bony crack in my knuckles. I do not turn around. I can’t. Not now. I hear the steps becoming louder. Closer. They are uneven. Lousy. The person following me is either as tired as I am or…drunk.

“The prey thinks itself a predator. KILL HIM. FILL YOUR BOTTLES WITH HIS THIN BLOOD AND USE IT AS THE FUEL FOR THE MASTERPIECE.”

Whoever is stalking a woman in the dark deserves no pity, no compassion. I feel anger beginning to turn into rage, and fear makes my body tremble as never before. Seconds later, I hear the steps are close. Too close. Then I turn around and see Stepanych. The old bastard, the reason I was fired, the man who always tried to step on my toes. His eyes are so black in the dark, full of hatred and menace that has never been there before. I understand what this is. He does not want me in his bed anymore. He wants me deep in the dirt. And in that moment, as I understand the magnitude of the situation, he launches himself at me, and I hit him with the knife on the face. The sound of metal edge cutting flesh and bone is terrific, and I feel the shaking of my body. But even after being hit, and taking a step back, he tries again, and this time I find myself lying on my back between the rail tracks. He tries to get his hands on my throat. They are longer than mine, and he succeeds. The smell of alcohol envelops us as he begins to shout.

“You bitch! Think you can insult me?! Me?! You are filth! Slut! Ugly nothing!”

The rails begin to shake slightly. The train is approaching, but the fool is either too drunk or does not care. I try to strike him with both of my hands: my fists become paws with claws. The shaking of the ground grows stronger. Will I die here from the hands of the old drunk without finishing The Masterpiece? NO, I WILL NOT!!!

I scream and try to scratch the hell out of his face.

“GUT HIM! GUT HIM! GUT HIM! GUT HIM!”

I am starting to see the lights. The train is nearing the place where we fought. And then it begins to honk, but the train itself did not even try to stop. Stepanych lifts his head, and the grip of his hands on my neck weaken. In that moment, I hit him right in the neck. He coughs, and I begin to hit him at the jaw again and again until he falls to the side. Then I get on my feet and jump to the side, away from the rail track, into the snow. And there it was. Just twelve or so meters away from where we fought. Stepanych tries to stand, desperately trying to get away, but he falls on the rail and cannot get up again. The ground begins to shake near him, and the sound of honking and metal grinding drowns the scream when the wheelset cuts him in two pieces, and the bottom of the train tears his legs apart.

It was over. Stepanych – the pathetic excuse of a man who lusted after me and tried to kill me – was no more.

“It killed him.”

“NO, WE KILLED HIM! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! THE FOOL CAME TO HURT, YOU AND NOW HE IS DEAD! How does it feel to kill the one that plagued you?”

I could not answer that, nor could I understand my feelings, because the train began to stop, and my relief turned into fear once again. There were people inside the wagons, soon-to-be witnesses. The machinist in the head car probably saw what I looked like. And so, I try to run, but then remember…

THE KNIFE!

I run back toward that bloodied spot, find the knife, grab it from the snow, and start running away. The tears from choking freeze my cheeks, and a part of me wants to fall into the snow face down and cry. But as I run against the wind, hearing the distant voices behind my back, I know that I cannot do this. The Masterpiece awaits me.

***

I get home quickly, and when I do, I close the door, leaving the keys inside the lock. Then I go to the bathroom. Removing the bloodied clothes and tossing them to the floor, I look over my naked flesh in the mirror: there are bruises on my neck and shoulders. Stepping into the shower, I begin to wash it all away. Instead of hot water, icy water splashes all over my body. I shake and shout, cursing it all: this day, these events, this fear that rises within me, and the fact that I cannot just turn it off, that I must wash of the blood from my face and from under my nails. The cold brings me pain, and I clench my jaw to prevent my teeth from chattering, but I cannot stop the rest of my body from shaking.

The surge of adrenaline starts to pass, replaced by the pain that is crushing down on my mind and senses. I turn off the freezing water and walk out to immediately wipe myself with a towel. It brings me a semblance of comfort, but that is not enough. Once it becomes soaked with water, I put on the bathrobe with flowers to get warm. As I am about to go out, I notice the clothes on the floor. The bloodied clothes. Once again, my heart skips a beat and I toss them into a bag.

I want to go out, to throw the evidence into the trash, but then I hear these animals outside the door. They shout and swear at each other, accompanied by the music from that cheap player, and that crap they listen to rings in my ears. I do not remember the exact moment when it started, was it there all along and I did not hear it? I go back and sit at the kitchen. If they see me like this, they might remember it, and they will surely rat me out to the authorities. I should think it over and decide the best course of action. How to get rid of the clothes and… What did it matter? I could not go out now. And perhaps I would not even need to. To be seen throwing out the trash in the night would be suspicious in itself, and I felt something I have not felt in years – a sense of strange easiness, or better yet, a sense of release. I wonder if it were hate and anger that stopped me from painting, that it wasn't the work, but the irritating people who stood in the way of my creation.

I slip into the depths of my mind. There I see Stepanych’s death over and over again. It was a hollow feeling, yet in the moment, it felt…

“Liberating.”

All of my hate, pent up over the months was just gone. And I felt another thing – a flicker. A push of emotions and feelings that pushed through the fog of desperation and self-loathing. Not only had I finally taken out the one who had bugged me, who insulted me, who saw me naked in his filthy head, but I had also released a portion of the weight that had been pulling me down. The event gave me so much energy. For the first time in a long time, I actually wanted to paint. I understood that what came to me now was true inspiration, something brought by emotions and experience so vivid that I could not ignore the call. I went to grab the matches and lit the candles placed around the room, feeling the sanctity of the moment, knowing that today I would be one-step closer to finishing the work of my life. Then I prepare my tools: paints, brushes and palette. Finally, the work begins: I move the hand wielding the brush over the canvas, mixing paints, cleaning brushes and going at it again and again. It felt like minutes, but was it so? My legs are not feeling well, so either I have grown weak – this body is more decadent than I thought – or it has been hours. The curtains revealed a light of morning.

“I was painting the whole night…”

I shut the curtains and go back to look at the work. The light from the candles was enough to see what was on the canvas: there was so much red here – bright red, dark red, the tree and root of red, the river of red, and black earth with shades of red. Yet... it isn’t perfect. Not yet. There is still one matter to take care of – the coloring. The Masterpiece was not only about uniqueness, message, and beauty, but it also needed to attract the eye, to call the attention of those who would wander into the gallery seeking something worthy. Suddenly, I feel that there is nothing left to give. No inspiration, no raw emotion. I decide to take a shower and have a good rest. And then try to paint tomorrow morning and perhaps finish this quest.

Going to the shower, removing the bathrobe, I wonder at the choices I have made these last few days – abandoning medication, being forced out of the job, killing a person, and more importantly I was nearing the end of my path as a aspiring painter. Do I really need to heal? If I can evade the troubles, such as the one with Stepanych, I can retain my ability to paint.

“It wasn’t you who sought him out. It wasn’t you who sought revenge. HE WANTED TO HURT YOU. But you were stronger in will and spirit. He had nothing. He had given up, because he didn’t even try to crawl out of the train: he only cried and screamed, like a coward who attacks women in the night.”

“True enough. It was his fault, not mine. In so many ways…”

“He should have given up on trying to have you months ago. Should have let you work as you did. But he was a creature of lust and petty. He was a tyrant in his own home, a person despised by all the factory workers. But filth like that always has friends. Remember? We will have to hide our involvement.”

“And how do I do that?”

“By acting nonchalant. The militia will come, and they will learn of your dispute, there is no way around it.”