Art Is Red Is Art
The bottle fell to the floor. It burst open. The contents spilled. The bottle rolled. He spoke to me again. I did not reply. His eyes were shifty. His white clothes were shifty. I did not like shifty.
I sat quietly in a dark room, minding my own business. The bed was hard and cold. A breeze crept in through one of the crevices. The breeze hurt my teeth. I did not like my teeth to hurt. So I clenched. I clenched until I could taste blood. I clenched until I heard a crack. I swallowed the bone. It was sharp. I felt it travel deep down into the depths of my tummy tum-tum. I looked over to the wall. I remembered its pleasant texture: smooth, bumpy, smooth, sharp-clump. I ran my nails down the wall. I let my nails feel the texture: smooth, bumpy, smooth, sharp-clump. I repeated this. I repeated this. I repeat this until my nails bled, and broke, and until their tops lifted off, revealing soft red skin underneath. I did this until I had painted beautiful red streaks down the wall. They did not like this. They were untrustworthy. I did not like them. I did not like them. I did not like them.
They were dragging me. Off to the feed. I refused to consume anything of theirs. I hated their disgusting tiny cylinders, and flavourless liquid. I hated it. I hated them. As they dragged me, I tried to paint the white tiled floors. There was rough cement between the smooth tiles. So I scraped my toenails along the cement cracks. I loved the rough texture. But it wasn’t rough enough. I caught my big toe on a tile edge. But it did not bleed, and so I wept. They would not allow me to paint the floors. I did not like it when they disallowed me such pleasures. I hated them for it. I hated him for it. They would not allow me to paint the floors. They would not allow me to paint the floors.
The bottle fell to the floor. It burst open. Both the contents and the bottle rolled away. He spoke to me again. I did not reply. His eyes were shifty. His white clothes were shifty. I drove my head into his. He fell to the floor. I crouched down, and chewed into his neck. He gurgled. I chewed and chewed until I could taste his blood. He gurgled. I licked up his blood. I spat it back out. Red splatters, red splatters, red splatters. I bit into one of his eyes. His eyes were shifty. I did not like shifty. So I bit into one his eyes. It was squishy. I liked the texture. So I chewed at it, chew, chew, chew. I streaked the walls. He splattered the floor. An eyeless man and I, together we painted away the pain. No more bottles, no more pills, everything will always stay the same.
