Red Masterpiece

It’s a lie when told that family is only bound by blood, but Aneesa and Dakota defied this law. They were fertile twins from different mothers and with different fathers, yet they still remained biological in one another’s eyes. Their friendship was like being an alcoholic; once they passed the disgustingly bitter, burning taste, they become addicted, and as soon as they were hooked on one another, they became senseless and invincible, only to have the buzz crash once they’ve had too much. But by the next day, the bottle was back in their hands, and everything happened again.

May sung like the steady hum on a hummingbird’s wings, breathing a sweet melody of nectar and life into the leaves and buds of withering flowers and trees. Dakota and Aneesa, who were friends since childhood, welcomed the month joyously. Finals were finally over at their universities, so they were anxious to experience the adventure ahead with one another. To celebrate, the two planned a night out. So when the time came, Dakota hopped into her car and drove all the way to Aneesa’s neighborhood, nostalgia striking as she pictured both of them running alongside the cars, or at least trying to. The familiar streets always seemed surreal and routine, yet they always managed to bring it to life when they hung out with one another.

Dakota drove passed a moving truck as she pulled into Aneesa’s driveway. She honked the horn obnoxiously. After a moment, Aneesa came darting out with energized waves before hoping right tin the passenger side. As the two cronies met exchanged hugs, they couldn’t help but notice the empty house behind them that stood alone on the street for years. Movers scurried, hurriedly emptying the truck and creating an assembly line of couches, utensils, and paintings—lots of paintings.

“I wonder who’s moving in,” said Aneesa. Dakota gave a shrug before pulling out the driveway and gong about their day.

Later that evening, as the girls were walking back up the street, they noticed the truck and the movers had gone. However, replacing them was an old man. His hands were promptly folded behind his back as he stood motionless in his driveway. His eyes wondered about, getting a feel for his surroundings: the tress, the sky, the houses. He closed his eyes and sucked in a slow breath. When opened, the first thing he saw was Dakota eying him curiously. Aneesa turned as well, trailing her friend's glance. When she saw the old man, she waved, and he nodded.

Finally inside Aneesa’s home, they shut the door tightly, locking it promptly. Aneesa and Dakota threw themselves on the couch and kicked off their shoes.

“It’s strange seeing someone actually moving into that house,” Aneesa said. “What do you think?”

Dakota shrugged. “I don’t. Just another house off the market. I’m just glad your parents gave you this place before they moved. I’m crashing here tonight, by the way.”

“Be my guest.”

In the morning, Dakota sauntered off the couch. Whenever she stayed over, Aneesa was always the first awake and could always be found making breakfast in the kitchen. In the past, Dakota would always wake a yawn and declare her hunger, but after so many stays, Aneesa caught on and had a hot meal ready upon her waking arrival.

Dakota scurried into the kitchen, her joints cracking. A plate was already set on the table for her. She dug in immediately, Aneesa joining her only a minute later. Pinching her sausage, Dakota look up and out the window, suddenly pausing her chewing. The old man was in his yard again looking at the sky, the trees, or at houses. Dakota looked down to pick up another sausage, then looked up. She caught a glimpse of him staring into her, but he eventually turned his attention elsewhere.

“Why do old people get up so early?” Dakota said, pointing to the window.

Aneesa turned and shrugged. “Maybe we should meet him.”

Dakota scoffed. “Are you crazy?! Because that man sure is!”

“How would you know?”

“Because old people are just crazy.”

Aneesa shrugged. “Well, who knows? Maybe he’s just lonely.”

Eventually, the conversation ran its course, and Dakota finally agreed to visit the old man with Aneesa after giving him a day or so to settle in to his new home.

That Sunday, the two girls walked over to the old man’s house with a “welcome” potted plant in Aneesa’s hands. Dakota knocked. The door promptly swung open, and an old man emerged, slightly hunched forward. He wore a tacky blue plaid collared shirt. He was a little thin on top with white and gray strands slicked back.

Aneesa handed the old man the pot of flowers, welcoming him to their neighborhood. She then introduced Dakota before announcing herself. The old man’s eyes suddenly flickered with light. A smile churned on his face as he nodded, reaching out and receiving his gift openly. His wrinkled hands brushed briskly against Aneesa’s, forcing hers back. They were icy, but the old man hadn’t seemed to notice her brash reaction. Before the girls knew it, the man exclaimed, “Richard Vincent!” He waved his hand wildly, chanting, “Come, come,” as he ushered them into his small abode. Aneesa smiled and entered graciously, Dakota only two steps behind.

“Have a seat,” said the man after leading them to the sitting area. The girls halted in the doorway, exchanging glances while eyeing the exceedingly mismatched room.

Dakota maneuvered past the unpacked boxes into the tragic room and took her seat on the plastic covered couch. As soon as she did, the old man plopped down in the yellow, flowery chair in front of her and began his banter, telling the story of how he came to be where he was and how he became who he was. He rambled for five minutes without letting Dakota get a single word in.

Meanwhile, Aneesa managed to drift away from the yammer. Her eyes couldn’t help but fixate on the plethora of paintings surrounding her. The art flooded the room with contrasting colors: dark blues, blacks, bright yellows, and red. Aneesa locked herself in a corner of the clustered room, twirling around in helpless circles.

When Aneesa’s attention drew back to the endless chat, Dakota eyed her regretfully. Though Dakota appeared placid and tranquil, Aneesa could sense her friend’s dilemma. She was stuck and couldn’t move from the conversation. Dakota placed her arm across the other, pretending to go into a stretch, before pulsing her hand. Aneesa immediately knew what that meant. “Help me.” It was a code they always used when they were little and stuck in horrible situations. The thought made the Aneesa smile.

“I always see you girls on my walks,” the old man suddenly jeered. “You two are always with each other, so you must be sisters.”

The girls laughed.

“No,” they said, “but everyone thinks that.”

The old man shook his head, drifting off into another time. The girls helplessly watched as he reminisced about the good old days. “Oh, youth,” he said. “Where have you gone? You sit before me doubled, yet you are not one with me.”

The girls quickly threw strange glances towards one another.

Richard continued. “There is a freshness to youth. At the same time, youth can be so ignorant. They stray away from what they don’t understand.”

Aneesa pursed her lips and nodded. “Yes,” she said dryly. Her eyes flew to the door before scurrying back to the old man. “That couldn’t have been truer.” She paused. “Well, we really should be going now.”

“Wait!”

Aneesa halted. The man turned to Dakota, who was watching her friend with raised brows. Richard, on the other hand, eyed Dakota with focused eyes. Out of the blue, he pulled the girl’s attention back to him, asking her if she wanted to model for his painting. It would be the largest he has ever done. Life sized.

Dakota’s jaw fell with great amusement, then clenched. “I don’t know,” she said idly. “I can’t stay still for very long. Aren’t you afraid of using a newbie?”

He shook his head. “Nonsense! My dear, I am a man with nothing, so I have nothing to lose.”

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin your painting.”

Aneesa turned to Dakota. Her friend was always adventurous, always open to new—and even dangerous—things. It was at that moment, an instant pulse leapt through Aneesa’s body. It was light, but she felt it: Dakota’s distress. Something didn’t feel right. She was... nervous, but her friend never even showed a drop of sweat unless a cute boy was around.

“The more something scares you,” the old man suddenly boomed. “The more you should do it.”

Dakota bit her lip, hesitating. Aneesa shook her head, insisting her decline.

“Come now,” he insisted. “All of my models are handsomely rewarded.”

They both bit their lips. In spite of having just met a stranger, Dakota finally agreed to be the old man’s portrait model. The girls had been defeated, but who could deny an old man his pleasures?

Richard nodded with his smile. “Red,” he suddenly said. The girls eyed him warily. “Red dress, red shoes,” he quickly added, clarifying.” The girls sighed and chuckled, releasing a bit of tension that had built up. “This is going to be my masterpiece.”

No matter how hard she tried, Dakota’s nerves wouldn’t let up. After coming back from her part-time job at the department store, Aneesa found her on the couch in boxers, biting her thumb.

“Why are you so nervous about this?” Aneesa said as she set down her bag.

“I don’t know! I’m just going to sit there, but something is just...” Dakota trailed off.

“Maybe it’s because you don’t know him.”

Dakota thought for a moment, turned to Aneesa, and nodded. “I think you might be right.”

Dakota quickly hoped off the couch and ran into the back room. After a minute or so, she rushed back out in sweats and my old orange T-shirt. She slipped her phone in her pocket and went for the door, saying she’d go to the old man’s house and would be back in a few.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Aneesa asked.

Dakota shook her head. “I’ll manage.”

Shutting the door, Dakota made her way across the street and knocked on the door. Almost immediately, it swung open to a casual smile. Aneesa watched from the window across the street. Dakota turned and waved to her before disappearing into the Mr. Vincent’s home.

An hour later, Aneesa’s door opened, and in stepped Dakota. Aneesa turned down the TV before saying, “So, you’d only be back in a few?”

“I got sidetracked.”

“What did you do over there?”

Dakota hoped over the couch and put her legs across Aneesa. She told how she ended up helping the old man plant the flowers they had given him in his back yard and how he showed her the stacks of paintings he made.

“Red is definitely Vincent’s favorite color,” Dakota said. “Did you know he almost had his own gallery?”

Aneesa smiled. “Sounds like you enjoyed yourself over there.”

“Yeah, and he said I could start modeling tomorrow.”

“Does this mean you’re not nervouse anymore.”

She thought for a second, a slight frown plastering her face before transforming into a small grin. “A little.”

The week flew by in a flash. Aneesa woke to a message on her phone, one she got every day of the week. It was from Dakota, telling her that she’d be at Mr. Vincent’s house modeling for his portrait. She hoped it’d turn out well. But for the rest of the day, Aneesa hadn’t heard back from Dakota, probably because she always had to rush to work after the modeling was done. Normally, if something was going bad, Dakota would have called and given Aneesa an earful of her tragic day. However, Aneesa hadn’t heard anything bad about the old man’s sessions, so they must have been good. Still, the thought alone ceased to mellow the girl’s worry.

Later that evening, Aneesa decided to check up on her friend. She went to the old painter’s house, knocked on his door, and waited. It took a fairly long time for the door to swing open, but there was Richard, standing in the doorway with a dripping brush in his hand. Red paint caked its bristles.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” the old man said. “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Aneesa waved off his apology. She leaned in, quickly asking if her friend was still there modeling. The old man shook his head, informing Aneesa that her friend was not there. Instead, Dakota had recently left.

“She just passed,” he said. His head slightly tipped forward. “I told her to come back in two days. You should too. The painting should be done by then.”

“Can I see it?” asked Aneesa.

For a moment, the old man merely stared at her shadily before nodding, motion for her to enter his home. He led her to a small studio room passed the sitting area and walked her to a wall, pointing her to his work. Aneesa’s jaw instantly fell. Her eyes ran across the wall like hungry mice.

The painting was breath-taking. It wasn’t completely finished, but much had been completed in the span of no more than a week. Aneesa first saw the picture as a whole. The painting of her friend was mostly drowned in red. The girl in the frame was looking over her shoulder and reaching out with a pleading expression, implied with broad brush strokes. So amazing.

Wow! Aneesa thought. Her modeling was not too bad. That, or the old man’s skills were so phenomenal that he could cover fault.

Aneesa stepped in a little closer, breaking the painting up into parts. Dakota’s luscious, red lips were slightly parted. Her suggestive eyes pled, nostalgic in her pose. One leg was crossed over the other under her silky, red dress. Ah, the raging red was radiantly rapturous. It was everywhere, plastering the entire canvas and flowing through effortlessly. The painting was yet completed, but it took Aneesa’s breath away. Truly phenomenal! However, in all her admiration, she couldn’t help but feel strangely connected to picture. And it was odd; Dakota’s face was painted yellow. A tacky choice for Aneesa’s taste, but it neglected to take from the wonderful art.

“It’s truly amazing,” Aneesa said aloud. She jokingly followed up with, “You must be very famous.”

The old man’s eyes immediately darkened. “Not at all,” he spat. “Unless you count the fame of criticism.” Richard waved the brush rapidly, hissing, “Never let critics critique you or critiques criticize you.”

Aneesa merely blinked at the puzzling statement. “Were you critiqued and criticized?”

“My paintings were never accepted; they were considered too diabolic and malevolent. Too imperfect and shabby. Crazy, huh?”

Aneesa shrugged, considering the odd mixture of colors within the piece. “We are not perfect, so doesn’t that make us perfect?” she said.

The old man turned, peering at the girl through the corner of his eyes. “You’re pretty wise for a young woman.” He turned back to the picture. His head tilted from side to side, examining his work. It was quick and disappeared instantly, but Aneesa could have sworn she saw the man’s nose wrinkle with unnatural disgust.

“Red,” he said. “All I see is red.”

It was strange. As soon as she left Vincent’s house, she texted Dakota, but she didn’t get another message until late in the night saying she was tired and went home. Aneesa looked out the window then and noticed her car was gone. It wasn’t strange for Dakota to leave her stuff behind, but it was strange that she would drive off without saying goodbye. For two days, Aneesa had not been unable to see Dakota or even her car parked outside whenever she went to a modeling session, and that fact made her grow wary. They would normally chat with each other every day, even if it was something small as brushing each other’s teeth or what they had for breakfast. But Dakota’s resent messages were short and bland. Aneesa even called into her work to check up on her, but the desk worker said Dakota hadn’t been there for over a week. Worried, Aneesa went back to Richard’s house at the appointed time. As soon as he opened the door, he was greeted with a somber demeanor.

“Why do you look so blue?” he asked.

Aneesa looked up, noticing cluttered furniture and extra boxes inside before proceeding to tell him that she hadn’t seen or heard from Dakota since they came to visit him. It frightened her senseless. However, Richard quickly reassured her that her friend had been with him modeling, but since his painting was literally swipes from completion, he no longer needed her, so he sent her away. Aneesa pursed her lips at the news, the empty feeling inside her still remained. The old man noticed the lack of change in Aneesa’s complexion and invited her inside to have another look at his painting. She hesitated, want to instead go and catch up with Dakota.

“It will only take a minute,” he said.

With great hesitation, she followed him inside.

Scrutinizing the picture in the studio, Aneesa noticed a subtle difference from her last viewing. Dakota’s eyes seemed more lugubrious. The white in them held a pinkish-red, as if she had been crying. Aneesa couldn’t help but find herself praising the detail. Dakota’s expression was captured greatly. It gave the painting an intensely morose and ominous feel.

The old man examined his own painting. Patience was [truly] bitter, but it sure did bare its sweet fruits. Still, a frown plastered his face as if something were not right. His eyes blazed with a seeming hatred, but he kept his sangfroid.

“What is art?” he suddenly asked to no one in particular. Aneesa turned to him, preparing herself for another one of his screeds. “I remember art as destruction. I remember art as inhuman. I remember art as loss.”

Aneesa stared with bewilderment. Before she knew, the old painter swooped up his brush and was at it again, painting away until his brush ran dry. His strokes were completely blind and rapid yet incisive. His strokes were hard and forced yet focused. After a few clamps here and there, the paintbrush could barely put paint on a canvas.

Shaking his head with each stroke, he muttered to himself, “I hate colors.”

Aneesa jerked at the statement. A painter who hates colors? It was hard to believe. Painters—artists—lived for colors. They embraced them and nurtured them with love, mushing them together in order to create works of art. Colors defined painters.

Aneesa stepped back from the flustered man. He was spitting out senseless babbles under his breath, and the yammering brought only uneasiness.

“Red,” Richard muttered. “All I see is red. It stands out. It’s everywhere.” He took the brush from the canvas and stepped back to scrutinize his work, chanting at the still picture. “All red. All red. It’s missing something.” He turned to Aneesa. “Could you lend me a hand?”

The old man suddenly showed Aneesa an empty can of paint. A pasty and powdery substance rimmed the aluminum. “What is that?” she asked.

“It’s homemade paint.”

“Homemade?”

“Yes. I think homemade paint works better. Classic painters did it all the time and yet their paintings are still here with us. But it seems I’m out. Could you go to the back and get some from the hole in my hollow tree?”

Aneesa nodded without hesitation. She just wanted to get away from the crazy man. Why was she even standing in his tacky home?

After finding her way through the small house and to tiny his back yard, Aneesa spotted a lonely tree standing dead center in the grass. Its leaves were brown and cracked in the middle of May. An odd combination. Shrugging off the sight, Aneesa went up to the tree and stuck her hand in its mouth, pausing for a second wandering why paint would be stored in a tree. When her hand emerged, out came blue paint. She reached in again, grabbing a yellow jar this time. But as she looked towards the back of the hollow tree to make sure no other paints were to be found, with outstretched hands, she clasped the mysterious object. It was another jar of paint. Red paint, but it was unusual; it was thick with had chunks of black inside, unlike his other cold and pasty paints. Aneesa shrugged it off, thinking of the black inside as undissolved paste.

Aneesa placed the jar in her arms along with the other paints and headed back into the house. But as she reached the door, she suddenly noticed the familiar flower planted in the ground, the flower she and Dakota had given Vincent. The empty feeling crept up inside her again. As she stepped back into the small abode, Aneesa shifted the paint into one arm and pulled out her phone. She entered Dakota’s number and waited. After one ring, she heard music playing in the house. A rough song of screeching violins that only Dakota would set as her ringtone. Slowly, Aneesa walked down the hall, the song growing louder until she found herself in front of a door. When she opened it, she froze.

There on the nightstand was Dakota’s ringing phone along with her clattering car keys.

She took the phone from her ear and walked up to the table. She saw the name Aneesa, on the screen before it shut off. Confused, she picked up the phone and the keys, eyeing them warily. At that moment, something welled up in her. A rushed feeling nearly replacing the emptiness. Aneesa rushed out of the room and called for the old man, but no response followed. She called again and again, but nothing was said. Aneesa tensed. With paint grasped tightly in her arms, she slowly crept through the living room and back into the small studio.

Aneesa jumped. The paints dropped and scattered, mixing their colors into a revolting brown. The girl threw her hands to her mouth, backing away from the scene. There lying on the floor was the old man sprung out on top of his fallen painting. His wrist and his finger were cut, but no weapon was to be found. The room was a sea of paint and blood, thick with red and wavy with rapid streams. Aneesa stood, horrified as she watched the two reds blend in perfect synch.

Attending a stranger’s funeral was belittling, Aneesa thought. She was as comfortable as a bed of nails. There she was, standing in between the subsequent lack caring relatives she did not know, morning over the loss of a stranger, and grieving the disappearance of her friend. After speaking with some of his family—family who did not even seem to know of his Richard Vincent’s existence—she found out the old man was depressed and color blind.

A color-blind painter, she thought. A painter who hated colors because all his Tritanopia—all his lack of the colorful world of blues and yellow—would allow him to see was red.

Later that day, Aneesa was settling down in her home, shifting through the messages in Dakota’s phone, looking at the texts that had been sent from her. A knocked sounded at her door, taking Aneesa away. She answered the door grudgingly yet hopeful for Dakota, but no one was there. All that stood was a large item draped in a blanket, which stood at her feet. A note was taped to it. It was a note from Richard:

To Aneesa,

I insist you take this painting. If not, the desperate will take it and sell it for millions, and I don’t think your friend would be happy about that.

Aneesa slightly chuckled at the note, but she didn’t want the painting. It was his masterpiece. It should go to his family or placed in a gallery. If it should go to anyone, it should go to Dakota...

Aneesa took the painting in both her hands and trudged it into her home. The painting was so large she had to clear off a spot over her banquet table just to place it on her wall. As she stared at the enriched picture, she couldn’t help but think of the old man and Dakota. Even with him gone, the old man was breathing, breathing in her haunting memory. That was no normal death, but Aneesa couldn’t fathom his quick demise or his sudden decision for suicide.

While ogling the wonderful masterpiece, a frown suddenly substituted her lightly, awed grin. A clear streak glistened down Dakota’s cheek. And for an instant, Aneesa could have sworn it moved, dropping from her chin. Aneesa screwed her eyes. She leaned in, realizing Dakota’s hand reaching out towards her as though she were positioning her arm for a stretch. Not only that, the painting was looking at her, gawking. Aneesa stepped closer. She stared, analyzing the thick harsh strokes. A strange odor chained her nostrils, watering her eyes. And she took another step closer, realizing the painting wasn’t a normal piece of art, but a painting with no paint. Instead, as she slid her finger on it, Aneesa could tell it was painted in something thick and warm. In that instant, she remembered the fallen jars and Mr. Vincent’s blood. How the colors slowly blended.

As she traced her fingers down the length of Dakota’s arm, she stopped. Her eyes shot right through her skull, shaking her head at the boggling artist’s knife gripped tightly by her side. Red dripped from the tip of its razor.

Almost immediately, Aneesa jerked back. It hit her like a car collation, bending, crashing, and scrunching her thoughts into a jumbled wreck. Her timorous hand slapped across her mouth, trembling as the other mimicked the horrific image. Her beautifully atrocious friend was found, her red mouth quivering agape, and her palm stretched out like Aneesa had seen a million times before.

Help me.