Few steps lie between genius and insane

A man laying on his knees. Even though his eyes are covered by his longish, black and dirty hair, you can tell that he is staring at the ground. His face is somewhat blurred and shadowed, so you can’t really distinguish any specific details - but one can assume that he is young. He is wearing a tank top, which surely was of a sparkling white a long time ago; now it’s just grey, with stains and spots off all shapes and sizes all over it. He’s all skin and bones, a bit fatter than a skeleton - his shoulders pointy, his arms thin, looking like they could snap easier than a toothpick, but as your eyes move lower, looking for his forearms, you’re in for a shocker: both of them have been chopped off. It doesn’t take long for you to find the remaining pieces, rotting on the floor, next to his knees.

Somehow, this picture isn’t gory at all. It’s nothing more than a black and white, canvas painting, carefully placed on a working bench. A barefooted man, wearing a blue robe, leans over it, and after a few moments of mumbling, he picks up one of the many brushes spread all over the bench, and starts working in silence.

The apartment’s big living room gets brighter and brighter, as minutes and, eventually, hours pass, but he shows no signs of tiring or slowing down. The old, pendulum clock placed against the wall on his left sounds one time, and, little while after that, he puts the brush down, stepping away. The sun shining reveals a clean, white canvas.

He slips on the wet floor of the small bedroom, before taking off the robe, with awkward movements, revealing a blood stained, white tank top. Both of his wrists are bandaged, and in the same awkward fashion, he gets under the blanket, closing his eyes and falling asleep.

A sound of a door closing, and after a few seconds, a woman comes in the room, holding a mop and a bucket, filled with a red liquid. She mops around carefully, then she exists the room, leaving the floor stained with blood. The man starts moving under the blanket, speaking fast in an unrecognizable language. His friend joins him again, sitting next to him and caressing his cheek. She seems to have strong feelings for him.

He opens his eyes and gets up, as they start talking in that same language. She is taking off his bandages, revealing two nasty, vertical cuts on his wrists, which start bleeding as soon as she finishes tapping them with a wet towel. She sounds extremely upset, as she mutters something to herself, trying to hold back tears. The man falls on his back, as she stands up, gathering the bandages and the towels and leaving the room in a hurry. She comes back, stopping in the doorway, looking shocked, and then disappears again.

The living room pendulum clock announces nine o’clock in the morning, managing to cover the sound of the apartment door being opened. In the bedroom, a man lies careless in bed, while blood pours from his slit wrists, dripping down his hands and onto the floor. For some reason, he seems in awe of something. Like he had just discovered something terrible. Panting like he had been underwater for ten seconds too long, he closes his eyes.

The man opens his eyes, looking very peaceful, but at the same time, like he is waiting for something. In a few moments, he gets up, moaning, then picks up a razor blade from the night stand. Without hesitation, he makes two, big vertical cuts on both of his wrists, making the blood stop from pouring. He puts the razorblade back, and then picks up the phone next to it.

With a calm, confident voice, he explains something to the person on the other end of the line. Her doubts and her worries are annoying him; she is just too narrow-minded to understand just how grandiose his plan is.

 “.Hell paint to going I’m”

He dials the number and then hangs up.

Jacob has been an artist for as long as he can remember. When other kids were busy playing ridiculous games in their backyards, he was taking his first steps towards greatness, painting his masterpieces on the bathroom window, using his mother’s lipstick. He used to sacrifice his free time, shoveling the neighbors’ snow or racking their leaves, only to get a few bucks so he could go on field trips with his class. He thrived on visiting new places - his excellent memory allowed him to draw every single one of them in detail, so the walls of his room were always filled with paintings. Photographic memory - that’s what they called it.

He would always be looking for new, exotic, unreachable places.