Page 74 - Contrast2014

I clear my head, shut my eyes, and head back out into
the studio. I carefully open the hatch of the trap door in
my garage, and I lead another piece-of-art-to-be out by the
rope around his neck. I hold a gun in my free hand.
Though I've never grown accustomed to the weight of
firearms, I understand their necessity in my line of work.
He's a hazel-eyed 24-year-old, a loop of brown hair
matted to his face. The ID I found on him says his name
is Irvine. He's oddly beautiful, even in his starved, near-
death state, a predicament I feel is only applicable to
those in my line of art. What sculptor hesitates to mold
his clay; what painter refuses to soil a canvas? However,
as always, the hesitation fades, I lay him down on the
table, and I tighten the straps around his wrists, neck,
and ankles.

In my few moments of clarity, I see I am a monster. I
am responsible for the death of eighteen other human
beings. Like all great artists it is the sacrifice I make for
my work, but. .. is it worth the sacrifice? Does anyone
understand? Will anyone ever understand like you did?

Did you ever really understand, or were you just
frightened of me?

Did you ever really love me?

I am 17 again. The boy, much larger than me, has
trapped me in a corner, begging me to kiss him. He was a
chronic masturbator, his skin cold and clammy. He
stands before me, taller, more imposing, and yet I can see
by the whiteness of his knuckles he is more scared than I
am. His fists are clenched, not to hit me, but to try and
grasp some invisible thread of control, to perpetuate this
act of being a Man, not a boy.

He leans in, pressing his large awkward body against

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