Painting Marigolds: Tale from a Sanitarium

“That was the first time I witnessed a murder.”

I just finished recounting the story of my first childhood “trauma,” a tale of death by chocolate at the hands of my grandmother, twirling a marigold between my fingers as I spoke. I let the words simmer in the air between myself and Dr. Finch, watching his face intently for any inclination that what I had just admitted was of any significance to him.

“The next time, I would be the murderer.”

His eyes snapped up from his notepad, looking for any trace of a lie hidden within my expression. When he found none, satisfied that I was telling the truth, his eyes glowed with newfound interest. I could almost see his irises shape themselves into dollar signs like a character in my favorite Saturday morning cartoon.

I was not a murder case. At least, not that they knew when I was admitted a little over year ago. I was supposed to be here to work on my anger and suicidal tendencies, not murder. By the look in his eyes, any passerby would have though Dr. Finch just struck gold.

It was no secret that Dr. Finch was struggling for a story for his new book. I could see the blank document reflected in the window behind him like a vast expanse of frozen tundra, devoid of life and words. He had an entire shelf dedicated to his first and only psychological thriller, “The Color of Blood,” a New York Times Bestseller that got him a movie deal and made him a household name. Though, as his royalty checks were delivered with less and less zeros, he began to wonder if it was a fluke, and I could tell by his sleepless eyes that the deadline for his new smash hit was approaching faster than a bullet train. I had the inkling he only took this job to find his next story. He couldn’t come up with any of his own, so he stole the words of others.

But I’m not like the others in here, I’m not crazy, and I had a plan to get out once and for all. Dr. Finch seemed bored and disinterested, especially when I talked about my paintings, and counted the seconds until our sessions concluded. I was never going to be released at that rate, so I decided to take it upon myself to speed things up. Doctors like Finch were like priests: they only wanted your confession; so, I would give it to him, piece by tempting piece, the way my grandmother fed my grandfather the poisoned cake all those years ago, each tainted bite so deliciously irresistible. After he was fed the final morsel, Dr. Finch would be satiated with his next money-maker and personally sign my release, officially labeling me sane enough for society’s standards. It was a win-win.

I could practically hear the gears turning as he cranked out slogans in his mind: Generational murder spree? Hereditary killers: was it in the genes?

He nearly begged me to tell him about the second murder, but I wouldn’t budge. I had already given him more than enough information for the day, so I made the excuse that I was tired of talking and wanted to finish my painting.

Like any good doctor, he knew not to press any further if he wanted his patients to feel comfortable revealing their deepest, darkest secrets. He understood that coming clean was something that had to be accomplished in a patient’s own time; otherwise, he or she may never speak their truths again, and that is something he wouldn’t risk with me after today’s session.

A couple hours later, I was back to staring at my painting, tapping the wooden end of my paintbrush against my chin as I pondered what was missing. My gaze switched between the canvas on the easel and the marigolds on the barred windowsill, as though I was keenly listening to a conversation between the two. If only they could talk and tell me what my almost-masterpiece was lacking. Except for the petals beginning to wilt and the difference in vases, it was almost an exact replica of the marigolds plucked from my daily walks in the garden. I asked for a glass vase for my artistic endeavor, but they wouldn’t make an exception and handed me a paper cup from the cafeteria instead. Like any budding artist, I had to make do with the resources at my disposal and let my imagination soar from there.

It was too perfect, I frowned. It might as well be a photograph—it lacked movement, it lacked life.

Tearing my eyes away, I searched the room for inspiration, hoping the answer would magically appear on either a wall or the ceiling. When it didn’t, I searched the other surfaces—bed, pillow, nightstand, door, floor—and that’s when I spotted my muse, glistening in the glare of the overhead fluorescent light. A brilliant grin flashed across my face as the solution dawned on me.

The metal stool slid back as I stood, scraping across the linoleum in a spine-tingling screech. I kicked aside the toppled food tray and dinner rolls that lay in my footpath as I made my way toward the guard meant to watch me while I painted, as was protocol with a suicide case who had objects in the room outside those of dormitory regulations. I bent down and dipped the brush into the pool of blood beneath his neck, trickling from a small hole that perfectly fit a pointed paintbrush handle.

I didn’t want to kill him, but he didn’t give me a choice. He wouldn’t let me finish painting until I ate, and I was in the middle of a stroke of genius—you can’t stop genius! So, I stopped him. It’s not murder if it’s for a good reason, I learned from my grandmother. Plus, he called me crazy. I’m not crazy.

Dr. Finch will forgive me. He always does. If anything, he will be glad that he has more content for his novel. Perhaps my painting will even make the cover. I’ll keep giving him what he wants to hear, little by little, and I’ll be out of here soon enough.

I smiled.

The crimson hue of the new pigment complimented the sunset-yellow petals perfectly—this was the life it needed!

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