The Best in The Room
The sounds of clinking glasses and tinkling laughter felt like nails across a blackboard. It reminded him of the yapping barks of his mother’s Chihuahua. He ground his teeth in frustration, repressing the overwhelming urge to tell everyone to be silent. After all, these were potential clients and customers. It wouldn’t be good for his finances if he ruined the mood of the evening. Finances were important since he was kicked out, his bedroom converted into a dog playroom.
He grudgingly admitted to himself that the art contest was an absolute success. People milled around the room, sipping champagne, and making idle conversation about art, both in general and the specific pieces in the room. He bet his mother’s eyes were rolling like slot machines. It was all her idea, to have a fancy art contest and invite all the nation’s top artists to take part. All they needed to do was create a show-stopping piece and pay the entry fee of £250,000. Winner receives a million, though. All entries were then to be put into auction. Considering there were over a hundred people in the room, mother was making a pretty profit even after the prize money is dished out. He didn’t even want to think about the auction.
His own mother hadn’t wanted him to participate in her competition. She had laughed. She had claimed that, even if his art had been any good, people would only think she had judged it with such high praise because of their relationship as mother and son. She recoiled at the idea that she would be accused of favouritism.
He had entered anyway, of course.
His entry featured a signed letter stating it was to be donated anonymously to his mother afterwards. This meant his painting had to be submitted anonymously too, but he had been reassured by the entry team that he would still be able to access any prize winnings, should there be any.
It was beautiful, the best piece in the room. Each stroke was born from genius, colours mixed to perfection. Of course, the deep red of the Forbidden Fruit had been easy to make, with the help of precious Pringle.
He stood back to admire his artwork; a curvaceous Eve reaching for an apple from the Biblical Tree of Wisdom. The flourishing garden of Eden creates a green halo around the famous scene that caused the original couple to be expelled from paradise. He had kept the flowers to muted and pastel tones, eager to keep attention drawn to the blood red apples and the rosy ass of Eve. Her body exposed, she seemed to be leaning away from the viewer as she reached for the forbidden fruit. Her position provided a clear view of what he could only assume was Adams favourite fruit. He had even included a little juice. He sniggered – oh, it was truly sinful.
A group of women walking by raised their eyebrows at him before stopping to observe his masterpiece. Their faces transformed from confusion to shock, then furrowed into frowns. They threw him disgusted glances before continuing their walk around the gallery. He smirked silently and slipped off to a dark corner, somewhere he could observe his mother’s reaction.
He didn’t have to wait long. She emerged from the crowd, glittering in the artificial lights. She wore gold and a grin, gripping her clipboard and pen with a vibe of glee. She thanked people for coming as she passed them and seemed to have time for all who stopped her. A few asked about her dog, and she had to push away tears as she explained that Pringle had been missing for nearly a fortnight. The police refused to search anymore. The artist stood pouting, waiting for his mother to stop talking about her silly dog and to admire his masterpiece.
Eventually, she turned towards the painting. Her hand shot to the wooden cross resting on her breasts. It hung on a golden chain and the rings on her fingers bore diamonds and sapphires. A gasp escaped her and drew the attention of everyone around her, gradually silencing the room. He laughed quietly to himself and slinked deeper into the shadows.
The mother turned, face as rosy as the apple and scanned the crowd. She knew who painted this.
But alas, as the mother couldn’t find the demon she had spawned, she turned her attention to the only piece of him she had; she viciously attacked the painting of Eve and the apple. The crowd swiftly dispersed with mildly panicked but hushed voices, uncomfortable at the destruction of artwork, the outburst of violence and the unsaintly profanities. The artist smirked in the shadows, leaving only when he watched his mother wipe her hands over her face. She stood alone, glittering gold, amongst ruined canvas. He knew that the liquids on that canvas were not just paint and water; painting Eve had been a pleasure, indeed.
His mother screeched in frustration as people swiftly evacuated with awkward shuffles, her art competition and reputation ruined. Sinful, sticky liquids coated her cheeks and dripped onto her wooden symbol of Christ, tainting it to match the woman’s soul.
He could still hear her screams from a block away. He grinned under his hood. There was no doubt in his mind that his painting had been the best in the room.
All rights reserved. © 2023 Melody Casling (melody.casling)
