Turpentine & Vetiver

6. The Performance -we have art in order not to die from the truth-Nietzsche

Thorn stared out the window, feeling restless and agitated. He'd had far too much strong black coffee today, it had woken him up but left him irritable, his normally calm heart rate elevated uncomfortably. He felt shaky and overheated, the collar of his white button-down shirt itchy against his skin. The constant obsessive thoughts about Inky were doing him no favors- at first Thorn imagined he was going to lose his mind as a result- though inside he knew that a part of himself had been lost long ago, or never truly existed in the first place.
He flipped through the stack of black and white photographs he'd secretly taken of Inky, temporarily removed from the safety of the black cardboard box- tied with a thin piece of red ribbon and stashed away in his filing cabinet- locked away from the prying eyes of unwanted viewers. Is this just a sick obsession- or is it something more, now? He wondered absently, brushing his black hair out of his eyes. I didn't think it was even possible for me to feel this way about anyone, he thought, his mind consumed with a singular thought. Inky. He partially blamed her for his stalkerish behavior- she kept her studio window open most of the time, and generally wandered around half-clothed.
   Thorn didn't think that she did it on purpose, as a form of exhibitionism- rather that she wasn't really aware that anyone could see her. It was entirely inappropriate for him to be watching her, but he couldn't stop himself now. He'd never felt an intense attraction to anyone like this before- and especially not to the very person who'd opened the Red Void, causing him to have so many horrible experiences. This was wrong on so many levels. Sometimes at night, when I can't sleep, I fantasize about killing you- I don't even want to, not really- but I could follow you home after work late at night, and it would be so, so easy... Thorn stared at her out the office window, thinking that she'd be easy to kidnap, she seemed small and fragile enough- she was on the smaller side of average height and weight- but sometimes looks were deceiving, and she seemed like she might run away like a frightened deer.
   If he was able to take advantage of the situation, he could catch her off guard; follow her in a rental car- then he could tie her up and bring her back to the strange dark building in which he lived- in a dusty, obscure small town where he could easily make her disappear, erase the evidence that she ever existed outside his dark mind. The only problem with this was that it wasn't his true intention when it came to her- despite the circumstances. A part of his dark mind did want to kill her in a violent, bloody fashion- but for some unknown reason he also felt strangely protective of Inky, possessive even. If anybody else tried anything, Thorn knew for sure that he would kill them in the most brutal, painful way imaginable that he could conjure up.
   He didn't torture his victims- but if anyone touched her, he'd definitely make an exception. Thinking about killing someone only allowed the darkness to grow in Thorn's mind, the cold depravity taking root, imagery of blood and violent acts rushing through his mind like wildfire. These thoughts, combined with the dark sexual thoughts about Inky, were almost too much for him to handle. Again, he felt extremely frustrated in every sense of the word.
   Maybe I should just do the world a favor and kill myself after all- before it's too late- sacrifice myself to the Red Void and its horrors within... The only issue with this was his sense of self-preservation was far too strong and overtook and outweighed these self-destructive thoughts. Again he found himself staring at the array of photos he'd taken of Inky, knowing that this was probably the closest he would ever get to her. After all, WHO in their right mind would want to be involved with a serial killer, a psychotic freak, a barely-functioning sociopath? Thorn wasn't sure if he qualified as a psychopath or a sociopath- but he assumed the former, since he'd known that something was terribly wrong with him as soon as he was able to be consciously aware of it...
   It wasn't that he didn't feel anything though- that was the mistake most people made. It was just hard for him to process any normal kind of feeling besides numb, cold apathy, mental pain, and a dark, quiet internalized rage and hatred. General distaste for humanity overall. Antisocial tendencies. That, and he did kind of like the blood, enjoyed playing mental games with those that were unfortunate enough to set him off. Although killing- the actual act itself usually made him feel nothing except emptiness inside, like a dark abyss with no end in sight. A void, so to speak.
   Later that evening, he stared blankly into the mirror in the narrow hallway of the dark building he occupied. He was getting ready to go down to Tapestry for his performance art show on Artist's Night, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing anyone there except possibly Inky- if her friends convinced her to show up. She seemed just as quiet, introverted, and socially awkward as he was- minus the whole psychopath aspect. Thorn wore his dark, charcoal grey suit with a white button-down shirt, and a black wool newsboy cap, which looked slightly odd with his too-long hair. He didn't recognize the person staring coldly back at him- which was a relief, because sometimes he couldn't stand to look at himself. Maybe Inky would talk to him tonight- if she wasn't scared away by his performance. The piece itself was representative of the Red Void, though abstract enough that he figured only he and Inky would understand the point he was trying to make.
   He drove the black rental car into town, parking in the alleyway between the Gallery and the back door of Tapestry. There was a small line of people waiting outside the bar, and Thorn sneered at them in disdain. They would probably think that his performance was disgusting- oh well, to hell with them all. Before getting out of the car, Thorn stared at the sharp butcher's knife lying unassumingly on the passenger's seat. It was a prop for the performance art piece, but how he wished to actually use it, kill Miranda on stage for real. He sighed, picking up the knife, getting out of the car and walking into Tapestry through the back door.
   Cayson and Mr. Elder, the co-owner of the Gallery, were waiting inside, drinking bourbon in the backstage room. Miranda was there as well, with her suitcase full of performance art props, wearing a floor-length long-sleeved white vintage dress. Cayson said something to her, and she laughed annoyingly. Thorn stood hesitantly by the doorway before the other three noticed him. "Nervous about the show tonight, Thorn?" Miranda asked, arrogantly flipping her curly red hair over her shoulder, voice laced with sarcasm. Thorn shook his head. "I don't get stage fright," he muttered under his breath. He hoped that Inky was out there in the audience, because this entire night seemed to be rather pointless.
   The four of them made deliberations before the show was to begin, and Miranda exited the room to set up the stage, taking her suitcase of props. She spoke briefly, the speech sounding hollow and pretentious. Then Thorn followed Cayson and Elder out to the stage, where they set up art supplies for the show- it would be a live painting session of their performance art piece. The lights dimmed, and Elder lit some candles in the sconces surrounding the stage. Thorn didn't look to see if Inky was somewhere in the audience, but he hoped that she was. Cayson motioned for the bartender to bring them a spare barstool and a second round of bourbon shots, though Thorn would have preferred a gin and tonic. The four stood on stage, drinking silently, looking out at the crowd.
   Miranda sat on the barstool, covering herself in black feathers and white flowers. Cayson set up his paints and easel across from her, and looked over at Miranda, who nodded, signaling the show to begin. Elder set up a video camera, staring at the audience through his wire-rimmed glasses, then snapped his fingers. The show was about to begin. Thorn slowly walked to the center of the stage and stood behind Miranda. He stared out darkly at the audience, and finally noticed that indeed, Inky was there, sitting in the corner by the window with her friends. She was drinking a large glass of red wine, wearing a thin black silk shirt, peering curiously out at the stage from behind her dark hair. Thorn avoided making eye contact with her, but the way she looked at him- she didn't seem scared, merely curious.
   Mr. Elder pressed play on the audio device, and the noise of windswept, rustling fall leaves filled the room, along with low, rolling thunder. An ominous violin began to accompany the soundtrack, which sounded like the music of the void itself. Thorn pulled the butcher's knife out from behind his back, the blade glinting sharply in the dim, candlelit room. The speaker box began to emit a wretched noise, howling and baying of hounds, sounding like the auditory version of hell. Thorn lifted the large knife, his eyes fixed on the audience, then slashed down the back of the white dress Miranda was wearing. The crowd looked collectively shocked, leaning forward in their seats, expecting blood. Not yet, he thought. All in due time.
   One of the candles went out, leaving the bar cloaked in a smoky haze. Miranda stood at the front of the stage, now wearing only feathers, flowers, and white lace undergarments. Thorn was disgusted by this, wishing that it was Inky with him on the stage instead, as seeing Miranda half-naked only filled him with disdain and apathy. Nevertheless, he proceeded to wrap her with the coil of red silk ribbon from her suitcase of props. Cayson was painting the scene from across the stage, and he appeared to be staring lecherously at Miranda. Disgusting, thought Thorn, who glanced across the room at Inky, who was staring at the stage. Her friend -Dani- looked disgusted, muttering something to the group of friends before getting up to leave. The blonde-haired boy tried to stop her, but Dani pushed past the table, disappearing through Tapestry's door into the night.
   I haven't even gotten started yet, he thought. There's not even any blood... He saw Inky look back at the stage distractedly, the ominous violins had grown louder in frequency and pitch. Miranda stood still, completely bound in the thick red ribbon, a small pool of blood now apparent at her feet. Thorn didn't realize that he'd actually cut her, though it wasn't very deep, a thin slice across her pale shoulderblade. She moved away from the barstool, reaching out an unbound arm to the audience. The feathers and flowers clung to her skin, appearing to grow from her body. She shook her head, and they fell to the ground, soaking up blood. How Thorn hated her at this moment, playing the victim as always, trying to gain some sick validation from his art.
   Someday, I am actually going to kill you, he thought, and sliced through the air with his knife, this time deliberately cutting her on purpose, the bright red blood escaping from her skin, splattering onto the stage and staining his charcoal suit. Miranda crumpled to the stage, surrounded by feathers, flowers, and her own blood. Thorn knew that he had cut her a bit too deep this time, but at the moment, he didn't care. He noticed that Inky was still there, eyes transfixed on the stage. However- she didn't look disgusted, merely interested. She wasn't staring at the prone figure of Miranda, or even the blood. Is she- staring at me? Thorn wondered, not sure what to think.
   The nightmarish soundtrack halted, and Elder stopped recording the scene. He and Cayson walked up to the center of the stage, and Thorn dropped his bloody knife, reluctantly helping Miranda up. She wiped a streak of her own blood off of her cheek, then the four of them bowed, turned around, and exited the stage, disappearing behind the thick red curtain. Cayson and Elder packed up their art supplies, telling Thorn and Miranda to meet them at the Gallery for the afterparty. "Good job out there," Cayson said approvingly, "I think that crowd was fairly disturbed." He nodded to them, then he and Mr. Elder left Tapestry, leaving Miranda with Thorn alone backstage.
   As soon as the other two men left, Miranda fixed him with a cold glare. "What the fuck, Thorn- I thought that we discussed this- you're not supposed to cut me that deep. Now I'll have to get stitches, and I did NOT sign up for this. You're psychotic!" Thorn hung his head in false guilt, hoping to appear apologetic. "Sorry, Miranda- I guess I just- didn't realize that I actually hurt you. I didn't mean to," he replied, though this was an absolute lie. I'm not sorry. I WANTED to hurt you, because I hate you. I wish I could have ended your pathetic life onstage, leaving you surrounded by your own blood- then you'd really be famous... He tried not to smile at this image; her cold, lifeless body staring out at the audience, red hair soaked in blood and her hateful brown eyes glazed over permanently.
   Miranda scoffed at him, looking indignant. "Well- I guess I'll see you at the afterparty, but I need to go and get cleaned up now. I'm not very happy with you, Thorn." He rolled his eyes, glad that she didn't see his sarcastic expression behind his black hair. Join the club, he thought. She left the backstage area, following Cayson and Elder to the Gallery, leaving him alone with his dark, depraved thoughts. Thorn noticed from behind the curtain that most of the audience had left- presumably to go to the Gallery's afterparty. Inky was already gone, her friends had taken her to the Gallery's social event- not realizing how socially awkward she was. Maybe I'll see you there, Inky. I wonder if you think I'm disgusting now, too... He sat at the empty bar, ordering himself a gin and tonic, normally he didn't drink this much- but it was after an event, and he'd only had the bourbon shot, the first drink before the show an hour earlier.
   Thorn wondered what to say to Inky, he knew that this was the night he would finally introduce himself- instead of following her like a desperate creep. He'd been watching from afar for a while now, following her with longing in his black eyes, and his camera- taking candid photos of her without her knowledge, hoping she didn't view it as a violation- not that she would ever find out. At first, it was about obsession and control- yet for some reason the sight of you doesn't spark resentment or apathy in me- your art is dark like mine, maybe we can even have a conversation, have drinks together sometime. Thorn did want Inky to talk to him, he wasn't sure how their conversation would go- but it was worth a shot.
   He finished his drink, feeling slightly uneasy- am I nervous to talk to her? Thorn laughed, of course he wasn't nervous. He had control of this situation, Inky didn't even know who he was yet, she didn't know anything about him. I could be anybody, you don't have to see that I'm a psychopath... He decided that he'd introduce himself normally, ask her about work, her art- maybe she'd even want to talk to him, and not be scared or run away. Thorn paid for the drink, noticing flecks of blood on the edges of his sleeve as he handed money to the bartender. Great- of course I'll still look like a psycho, he thought, wishing he'd brought a spare shirt in his car. He left Tapestry, the cool night air feeling calming against his face.
   Thorn walked slowly to the Gallery, hearing the sound of voices from the rooftop area of the Artist's Loft. There were far too many inebriated people milling about up there- and he didn't wish to converse with any of them besides Inky. The sky was dark overhead, the color of midnight velvet, the stars shining almost mockingly. Thorn walked into the Gallery, deciding to go into his office for a bit to collect his thoughts. The rest of the crowd was busy upstairs getting drunk, which Thorn did not want to be a part of. He knew that Miranda was upstairs somewhere; and he didn't want to see her either, or hear what she had to say about him, or their performance art piece. He knew that nothing good would come of his actions, though he was satisfied to have actually hurt her- after all, she deserved it.
   He unlocked the door to his office, stepping inside. I hope Inky will still be there by the time I decide to show my face, he thought absently. He unlocked his file cabinet, taking out the black box of photos he'd taken of Inky. Thorn stared at the photos again, Inky's face staring back in black and white. He sighed, replacing the photographs in the box, locking it back in the cabinet. He stared out his office window at Inky's unlit apartment- obviously she hadn't left the Gallery yet- and was still in the loft with her drunken companions. Thorn decided to wait until they dispersed, hoping to catch her while she was alone.
   Inky- will you talk to me tonight- if I decide to initiate conversation? Or will you be as awkward as I am, unsure what to say? Thorn wanted to ask her what she thought about his performance art piece; if she found it more disturbing or interesting. He'd seen the way her curious grey eyes stared at him on the stage, and he wondered what she thought about him. Yes, there was curiosity in her guarded expression- but there was something else there, too- was she possibly attracted to him as well? Thorn shook his head, the hopeful feeling fading away as quickly as it had come to mind. What am I going to say to her- hey, I'm the weirdo that's been stalking you, do you like my art? He laughed humorlessly, deciding to write in the black Moleskine journal to pass the time until he was able to introduce himself.