Turpentine & Vetiver

2. Baptism -they muddy the water, to make it seem deep- Nietzsche

HUMANITY? WHAT A LAUGH
WE ARE NOT EXACTLY
HUMAN

FLESH BONE AND BLOOD
YET WE ARE NOT THE SAME
TWO DIFFERENT SIDES

YOU DENY THE DARKNESS
EVEN THOUGH IT'S INSIDE US ALL
YOU CUT IT OUT
HOLD IT HOSTAGE
UNTIL IT COMES SPILLING LOOSE
ONTO HUMANITY

THEN YOU WONDER WHY
AS I HOLD THE KNIFE
TO YOUR THROAT

WHY ME? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?
AS IF I FELT ANYTHING
IN THE FIRST PLACE
AFTER ALL,
IT WAS YOU WHO TRIED TO
CONDEMN ME.

   He heard a noise behind him, and turned around to see one of his teachers trying to read his poetry over his shoulder. "Excuse me," Thorn said quietly, carefully closing the black Moleskine and hiding it in his jacket pocket. Though he was agitated that someone had invaded his personal space, Thorn was always excessively polite, trying not to offend anyone and draw unwanted attention to himself. "What are you working on?" the teacher asked, adjusting his black glasses. Thorn shook his head, wishing that he had not been interrupted during his writing process. "Just a few notes for- math class," Thorn lied, then stood up to leave the classroom. The teacher gave him a quizzical look, but left it at that. Please, for the love of god just leave me alone- I don't want to have to explain myself, he thought. Thorn walked out the door, the hallway of the school smelled like pencil erasers and stale coffee. At least it was Friday, and he didn't have to be around other people for a few days. Maybe he would go to the art museum- his parents didn't approve, although a lot of the artwork had religious themes, they still saw it as blasphemous somehow. What a bunch of hypocrites, he mused.
   For several years, Thorn lived in a dark monotony of school, home; internal darkness and depravity growing day by day. His parents never allowed him to get a driver's license when he turned 16, so he bought a rickety old bicycle with some of the money he'd saved up from his part-time job at the local slaughterhouse. Everyone thought it was a bit disturbing that he was able to be around all the blood and viscera of the animal carcasses- but Thorn found it relaxing in a perverse way. He worked in the processing area, slicing open the dead cows, pigs, sheep- removing the entrails and various internal organs. In secret, he collected the drained blood, hoping to integrate it into his art.
   Luckily his coworkers never caught on- they did not wish to talk to the quiet, strange 16 year old with his cold, dark eyes that were usually hidden by a layer of black hair. His parents tried to force him into cutting his hair, his father berating him for his appearance. By this time though, he was somewhat able to defend himself, he had gotten stronger from hauling the heavy animal carcasses, and Thorn knew that his father was secretly intimidated by his presence. Knowing this made him smile darkly to himself- sooner or later that bastard would get what he deserved, Thorn was plotting murder in his head almost every day now. He dreamed of slicing into the flesh of those who had betrayed and abused him, and these images were what helped him hold onto his sanity when he was in the depths of despair.
   He hadn't seen the strange girl in his visions any longer, and wondered if he'd just imagined her so that he hadn't felt so alone as a small child. The Red Void still haunted his existence, and the paintings that he made were growing exponentially more disturbing as a result. He was glad to have no friends, for how was he to explain all of the evil things in his room, let alone his own head. Thorn's younger brother, Colin, was strange as well, but in a different way. He had gotten interested in conspiracy theories- anything from Satanic rituals, Illuminati secrets, Freemasonry, and secret codes, ancient languages. Thorn himself had been slightly interested in this, but his brother would not allow him to look in the notebook filled with the strange information.
   In fact, his brother constantly tried to get him into trouble, being a natural instigator. He remembered the last summer, how Colin had a brief phase of pyromania, and would light things on fire and try to blame Thorn. Of course, his parents believed Colin, and there was no amount of proof or explanation that they would accept- as though they knew that both of their children were weird- it was easier to use Thorn as the scapegoat, for he was the black sheep of the family.
   He and Colin looked nothing alike- so most people assumed that they weren't even biologically related. His brother had blonde hair and blue eyes- typical German looks- while Thorn had black hair and eyes, and was pale, as if he hadn't ventured outdoors in some time.  The neighbors always whispered amongst themselves that Thorn must be adopted, as he didn't fit in with the family. He knew that this wasn't the case, as his dead sister Amelia had the same dark hair but had pale blue eyes, and looked a bit like his mother. It didn't matter either way, because he never fit in with these people, they were nothing more than biological relations whom he despised. Thorn didn't want to be in this family, and he was positive that they didn't want him around, either- their mistreatment of him and lack of regard proved it to be true, but he was used to it by now.
   After work at the slaughterhouse, Thorn rode his bicycle down to the beach, a glass mason jar of blood sloshing around awkwardly in the bicycle's cupholder that had been meant to hold coffee. He had stashed some canvases he'd purchased in a crawlspace area near the town's lone lighthouse, and meant to cover them with the carefully acquired animal blood. Free blood- the livestock from whence it came were already dead, so what was the point of just rinsing it all away down the drain? There's no such thing as free blood, Thorn thought, everything that bleeds must either die or sacrifice a part of itself.
   The wind blew in from the East, and Thorn was strangely calm, the terrible dark thoughts that were his constant companions were gone, and he felt an odd, peaceful solitude. He stared out across the coastline, at the steep white cliff faces under the lead grey sky. He imagined his favorite color, if he had to choose- was the dark grey color, it was beautiful in a neutral, quiet, unassuming way. The only other time he had seen anything like this was when he'd seen the girl from his visions- her eyes were like dark November stormclouds, framed by black eyelashes, holding strange secrets that he was not privy to. Remembering her made him feel- almost sad, as if he was able to truly feel emotion and not just a ghost of a feeling. What happened to you? Did I imagine you? Maybe you could sense me, too- and my darkness made you run far away from me. It's okay, I'm used to being abandoned, left alone in the dark...
   Thorn left his bicycle by the lighthouse, taking a large canvas from his stash, along with the jar of blood. He walked slowly out across the sandy beach, then found a spot that he wouldn't be interrupted or disturbed to work on his dark artwork. The bright crimson blood desecrated the pristine white canvas, the contrasting colors making him feel- alive, in an obscene way. The blood dripped down in abstract patterns that he found pleasing to look at- because although he didn't really feel much emotion, when he did- it was like everything came crashing down in his mind like a tidal wave, sweeping away his carefully constructed facade.
   Sometimes he welcomed this loss of control, allowing himself to feel- something- undefinable, for a brief moment; yet other times it was too much, and his rage flowed out- he used his knife to slash wildly and aggressively at the canvas, shredding it into bloody ribbons as if he were trying to destroy a piece of himself. I am destruction, Thorn thought darkly. I am capable of so many atrocities...so why the FUCK do I even exist? Then, it passed, the anger gone like a fleeting memory, a cloud across the sky.
   Today was different, though- he didn't feel the pent-up rage, only the unfamiliar calm. He watched the blood slowly trickle down the once-white canvas, smiling to himself. I want to exist, he thought, with a peculiar mental clarity. Soon I will be able to escape, only two more years until I turn 18- two more years until my ultimate freedom. I can survive it, I've already been through so much and lived to tell the tale. He knew that he didn't want to tell anyone though, it wasn't something he felt obligated to share. Once the blood had dried on the canvas- a rust-colored, sticky smear, a sanguinary offering- Thorn hid the finished painting once again, and the empty feeling inside his mind slowly returned- but not as intensely as it usually did.
   Luckily, the demons that chose to haunt him were not consistent- and he knew that there had to be a way to banish them- sending them back into the void forever. Once he was back in his room, he locked up his 'art supplies' in a black file cabinet, away from the prying eyes of his parents and brother. So much blood, and it could be you, Thorn thought in dark amusement. Yes, I'm sick in the head, but it's too late for me- and nobody can save my damned soul now. He laughed quietly; a broken, disturbing sound, because after all- what psychopath has a soul?