Inspiration

“Miss, could I have another cup of coffee?”1

Daphne looked up and almost gasped when she met the bright green eyes of the man on the other side of the counter. The lines in his face deepened when he frowned and he brushed his long graying hair back nervously.2

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, dear,” he said, his voice gravelly. 3

“No, it’s fine,” she said, grabbing the green mug lying near his hand and starting to fill it from a coffeepot. “Black, right?”4

“You know me better than anyone,” he grinned, taking out his wallet and giving her a credit card. Her hand trembled slightly when she took it. She read the name on the card, Anton Olair, and her heart stopped beating for a second, then she ran it through the register, gave it back to the man and handed him the receipt. He took his coffee, thanked her, and walked over to a small table. He wore a flowing black shirt, faded black jeans and had a rumpled black bag hanging over his shoulder. Daphne watched him sit down and take a notebook out of his bag. He then got a cigarette, lit it, and started to draw. 5

She looked back down at the book she’d been reading behind the counter, a coffee table book with a plain black jacket and the words “Death Becomes Her” in silver text. Below the title was the name Anton Olair. Daphne had used a pink Post-It to mark “Conversation Piece,” a painting of an eviscerated woman lying on a coffee table. 6

She reached under the counter and pulled another book out of her backpack. The book also had Olair’s name on it, but the cover was a painting of skyscrapers viewed from the ground, looking like they were bending as they reached toward the clouds. It was titled “The Everyday.” She grabbed that book, mentioned to her manager that she was going on break and then walked to the bathroom. Looking into the full-length mirror, she made sure her denim miniskirt was straightened, put on some eyeliner, combed her long blonde hair and unbuttoned the top three buttons of her white shirt. From what she’d read about Olair online, he had basically dropped out of the public eye and she wasn’t sure how he’d react to being approached about his artwork, so figured showing some cleavage wouldn’t hurt. 7

She walked back out to his table. He was still drawing and his cigarette was almost gone. Her hands were slick with sweat and she tugged at her hair nervously before meekly asking,8

“Mr. Olair?”9

He looked up at her.10

“Yes? Oh, am I not allowed to smoke in here, darling?”11

“Oh, no, that’s fine… I was just wondering … I’m a big fan of yours and I … I’ve got…” she put the book onto the table.12

“Oh, that,” he cut her off, frowning at the book. Her heart sank but he kept talking. “You want it signed, then? I guess you’re not familiar with my older work then, are you?”13

“I love your older work, sir! I’ve got Death Becomes Her in my bag behind the counter, actually.”14

He looked surprised, and then smiled. “Well… I think I’ll actually want to talk to you, dear.”15

“Really?” she squeaked.16

“Of course!” he laughed and stubbed out his cigarette. “That antisocial bit, I put it on for people who want to remind me of my disastrous venture into the world of ‘legitimate art.’ Sit down, please. You’re on break?”17

She sat down across from him. “I’ve got an hour.”18

“Great. Tell me about yourself.”19

“Me?” she asked confused.20

“Yes, you. I know all about myself; I really like getting to know the people that I appeal to.”21

“Well, my name’s Daphne, I’m 20 and I go to the community college down the street. I’m majoring in Design. I paint a little but mainly do digital stuff. Your artwork was what really inspired me to study it.”22

“Well… I didn’t think my artwork could have inspired anyone to do anything other than becoming a serial killer or a coroner.”23

She laughed and then kept talking. “A friend of mine was in a metal band and about… two years ago now, I think, his band was trying to release a CD and he wanted to use your painting “Conversation Piece” as the cover… he showed it to me and I was fascinated, just by how vivid and detailed everything was.”24

“Well, that’s what you get from being a coroner with a wild imagination.” She laughed again and Olair started to talk. “I love ‘Conversation Piece.’ I wanted it to be the cover of Death Becomes Her but the US book distributor wouldn’t hear it. ‘You want to have a cult following for the rest of your life?’” he imitated, shrilly. “That’s what my agent asked me. She said ‘Go right the hell ahead, but you won’t have enough money to pay me, that’s for damn sure.’ I thought The Everyday paintings would’ve pleased her. She liked them enough and was raving about how that book would get me into the mainstream, how wide of an audience I’d reach. She compared it to Peter Jackson going from Dead Alive to The Lord of the Rings. I’ll admit, I was thinking the same thing, getting just as excited. Then the reviews came in and… Christ,” he shook his head. “The reviews were just bad. They called the paintings uninspired, flat, boring - fucking boring, that’s the one that killed me. And then the underground magazines that I’d gotten my exposure from at first, they were just merciless, calling me a sell-out and all. The ‘reputable’ publications that even bothered to do their homework and mentioned my older stuff, they just used words like tasteless and disgusting, saying it was just for shock-value and all. Well, my agent dropped me, the galleries I was supposed to be showing at wanted nothing more to do with me and I became basically dead to the art world.”25

“God,” Daphne breathed. “That’s awful. I’d read basically that, about how Everyday didn’t do that well and you kinda dropped out of the public eye and all. As much as I love your gory stuff, I like these paintings, too.”26

“Thanks but… I guess I can see where the reviewers were coming from. Those paintings… they aren’t me. I didn’t put any real feeling into them, you know? I did them because I knew they were things that ‘artistes’ praised but what I really wanted to do was a painting of a woman being stabbed to death at the point of orgasm, but I could never seem to find anyone to model for it.”27

Daphne’s eyes widened and she started to laugh hysterically.28

“Oh, I’m making you blush,” he cooed, grinning at her and making her blush even deeper. “God, you’re red as viscera.” That made her laugh even harder.29

“You can’t imagine,” she began to say, when she was done gasping for air, “how surprised I was when I read an article about you and it said you moved to this town. I’d already seen you here a few times, but then I bought The Everyday and saw your picture on the book jacket and just about had a heart attack. Then I saw your name on your credit card earlier…”30

“So I was the reason you were so shocked, I’ll be damned. I am here too much, aren’t I?”31

“Oh, I don’t mind!”32

“I’ll bet your manager doesn’t mind my money, either. Not that I have much of it or ever did. I just got a job teaching Art over at Langdon University but I’d really like to start selling my work again. I’m still trying the tame stuff… portraits, landscapes, mundane things. See?” He tapped the sketchpad with his pointer finger and Daphne looked at what he’d been drawing - a view of the street from the coffee shop. 33

“It’s very good,” she remarked.34

“Eh, it’s what might sell. I haven’t been doing anything too ‘graphic’ lately, nothing that involves feeling. I just don’t have the drive for that stuff anymore. I’m becoming very…” he paused, his gaze wandering and Daphne could see sadness in his face. “I’m becoming stagnant.”35

“I’m sure it’s not that,” she said. “A lot of things have changed for you, that effects anyone’s work. You’re a great artist regardless of your content.”36

“You’re entirely too sweet, you know that? Would you like to see some of the things I’ve been working on?”37

“I’d be honored to, Mr. Olair.”38

“Oh God, please call me Anton. Even my students call me Anton, and you’re a fan of the work that I actually like, so I hold you in a much higher regard.”39

She laughed and then asked, “Do you live nearby?”40

“Right down the street, actually, a two-minute walk. Would you like to come by after work?”41

She checked the clock on her cell phone. “I could actually go right now. I’ve got about 45 minutes left on my break and I doubt it’s going to get busy here anyway.”42

They left and walked down the street, stopping in front of an apartment building. Anton led her up a staircase and into his apartment. It was small and there wasn’t much furniture, but the counters and tabletops were covered with sketchpads and notebooks. 43

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” Daphne remarked.44

“The one by the window, I started it this morning. It’s not much yet. Dunno if that will change.”45

Daphne walked over to the easel set up by the window and saw a rough sketch of a woman asleep in a chair.46

“It’s actually the woman who lives directly across from me. I might draw a decapitated head at her feet and call the piece ‘A Long Day at Work’ or something. If I ever sell it, hopefully she’ll be flattered.” He was a few feet behind her and to her right, going towards the kitchenette.47

Daphne giggled.48

“Would you like anything to drink, Daphne?” 49

“No thanks.”50

She heard his footsteps as he came closer. He said “I’ve got to thank you for coming up here with me. I guess your mother never told you the fairy tale about Little Red Riding Hood going home with the Big Bad Wolf or anything. I left the door unlocked so you can escape if I try to attack you or anything.”51

She giggled again, but her eyes went back to the canvas and she was confused to see a large hunting knife resting on the ledge of the easel. He was right behind her and he put his hand on her hip. She was stunned for a second and her heart started racing. 52

“Most girls just get raped and cut up when they go home with strange men,” he said, his breath warm on her neck. “Senseless violence. But you’re here for a purpose.”53

Daphne slowly turned her head, looking him in the eye. “P-purpose?” The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Anton’s eyes no longer looked troubled. He gave her a matter-of-fact look. 54

“Yes. My intent and purpose. My intent to start drawing the things I was passionate about.”55

He kissed her hard and he wrapped his right arm tightly around her hips, too strong for her to fight but she caught sight of his other hand reaching past her, back to the easel and she remembered the hunting knife sitting on the ledge.56

She twisted suddenly, stumbling backwards and knocking the easel over. She heard him mutter “Shit” and felt him falling towards her, grabbing her, but pushing her until she hit the ground the then pinning her there. 57

“I’m going to make you a special one,” he breathed. “I’ll paint you and mix your blood in with the red paint.”58

She screamed, thrashing and writhing under him until she saw the knife, and Anton’s hand going towards it. She reached towards him and dug her fingernails deep into his arm, dragging ragged red scratches across the flesh.59

“You bitch!” he spat, pulling his arm away and raising it to hit her. Daphne felt the smooth handle of the knife and squeezed it, then swung her arm around and buried the blade deep in his stomach. He gasped and his mouth hung open, his eyes going downward to the juncture of his abdomen and the blade. Daphne moved her wrist and drove it upward, hard, making him groan and fall off of her. He made a loud thud on the floor, and Daphne swiftly ran the blade over his throat. The blood sprayed profusely and was hot when it met her skin. Reflexively, she drove the blade into his chest, then did it several more times. She laid it into random parts of his face and only when she saw blood pooling on the side of his nose did she stop. She let the knife fall to the floor, skittered backwards until she hit the wall and then climbed to her feet, but sunk back down to the floor, shaking. 60

She listened for footsteps or police sirens or any noise to tell her that someone had heard them, but there was nothing. Daphne climbed back to her feet and picked the knife up. She went over to the sink and washed all the blood off of the blade and her hands and face. She looked down and saw that her shirt was hopelessly stained. She went to Anton’s bedroom, got a white button-down shirt from his closet and put it on, folding her shirt up carefully and stuffing it into her pocket. In the closet, she found several photographs of murdered women. Some of them had been killed in very quick, simple ways and their bodies were relatively unharmed and others had been mutilated horribly. Many of them were fixed in poses that Daphne recognized from paintings in Anton’s book. She then realized that he’d never been a coroner. 61

She saw a digital camera sitting on top of his dresser and grabbed it. When she went back out to the main room, she took several shots of his body. She took close ups of the wounds, the blood pools, some of the unharmed parts of his body. She then took a picture of his body and got the fallen easel in the shot.