The painter's knife sliced through the canvas with little resistance. Flecks of paint, gesso, and blue goldstone showered down from the easel like snow and glitter. Wrong! It was all wrong! Even this basic landscape seemed to mock him. Angrily, he continued his attack on the canvas, going so far as to rip the frame apart by hand. Tipping the easel over with a crash he turned his violence on his desk. Paint bottles, shattered. Brushes, pallets, rags, and water rained chaotically over the room as he swept everything off his desk. Even the heavy mortar and pestle cracked as it smashed into the tile flooring.
Why couldn't he get it right! He could see the steps clearly, laid out like a map in his head. See the way the gesso had to be built up on the canvas. He knew the right technique for mixing and layering the colors, he even knew the precise timing of when to add the goldstone he had practiced over and over. But it was still never the way it should be. No matter what he did.
"Useless!" He could hear his teacher's voice in his head, berating him for his flaws and lack of discipline. Then it was Hart's voice in his head calling his masterpiece words like fake, plagiarized, criminal!
Useless, stupid, failure, waste, disgrace, the words echoed over, and over as the pain that had been lingering for hours behind his eyes worsened. Slowly the world started to close in around him. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and his stomach felt like it was folding in on itself. When was the last time he had eaten something? He thought to himself, before shaking his head. That wasn't important.
What he needed were answers! It wasn't fair! Why was his life like this? Had he done something that caused him to be cursed in a past life? These were the last fleeting thoughts that crossed his mind before he slipped from consciousness into a sea of nothingness. Collapsing like a marionette into the wreckage of his studio.
He squinted, the sunlight slanting through his window was blinding, and his body ached from laying on the hard floor in a fetal position. How long had he been out? Blinking he moved his head slowly, the ringing in his ears still hadn't subsided. The sun's angle told him it was at least two in the afternoon but not yet four thirty, the worst light of the day. He didn't have to be at work till six, time enough to eat and shower, hopefully, the medicine would take effect before then. He had to keep it together. He'd come too far to unravel now.
Slowly he stood, dragging himself into the kitchen that smelled like old containers of delivered food. He pressed the button on the electric kettle waiting for the water to boil for his instant noodles. Opening the fridge, he popped the top on a can of cold coffee downing it with a handful of pills. The kettle clicked off and shakily he poured the boiling water over the cup of noodles. As he waited for them to steep, he stroked the face of a boy in the picture he kept tacked on his fridge with a magnet. The boy in the photo was nineteen, tall and thin, not shy but somehow absent like he could see a world others couldn't. His gaze haunting as he looked through the photographer. How long had it been since he had taken this picture?
With the noodles ready he returned to the studio to eat. He righted a stool and sat on it facing the wall that he had covered in photos of that same boy. They told their story from his first day of university, through graduation, first art exhibit, first commission, smiles and laughter, tears and screaming. It was all here till it abruptly ended three years ago.
When had the smile faded from his face? The light in his eyes wiped out. Why didn't he understand everything was done for him? They were meant to be together hadn't their magic proved that! Space and Time! What belonged together more than space and time! He leaned forward studying the faces in the photos wanting to crawl back into them, but his magic didn't work that way. Some were cut up, some had been drawn or painted on in a feeble attempt to fix them, to make him happy again. But that too was a failure. He could feel the rage building in his chest. They would still be together if Hart hadn't ruined it! The alarm on his phone sounded, bringing him out of his reverie. It was time to live his other life.
Throwing the empty container of noodles away he returned to the room he had trashed in frustration. Closing his eyes, he pictured it the way it should be, clean and organized the easel set up to catch the best of the afternoon sun. The picture in his brain echoed with the happy laughter of the one he lost. No, not lost, stolen from him by Hart! Slowly he raised both hands like he was preparing to conduct an orchestra. Keeping the image in his mind's eyes he moved his hands gathering the threads of time he pulled together what should be, what had been, back into place. Slowly he opened his eyes, everything was in place, but no matter how perfect it was the laughter was still missing.
After showering he carefully checked his hands, arms, and face for wounds in the mirror. He had to make sure nothing was out of place, nothing that might bring questions or suspicion. An hour later, he was dressed and ready. His brown uniform was spotless and pressed, every crease perfect. He had replaced a few buttons on his shirt whose thread had become loose in the last struggle in the alley. Finally, donning his officer's cap he walked out the door.
The train rattled over Bangkok; the passengers squished together like tinned fish. He hated going to work at rush hour. Wedged between two office ladies he flipped through his notebook, crossing the name Kisa Boonnak off his list. How many more would it take? Tonight, would be number three, maybe this will be the end. As soon as Hart was out of the way things could go back to the way they were! He would finally see that the best place, the safest place was right here at his side where he would be taken care of, all he had to do was listen. All of this mess could have been avoided if he would only listen! The man smirked to himself; his baby had always been so stubborn.
He hadn't thought Múd would be the next one he had to get rid of. He always felt Múd was too stupid to be a threat, but he couldn't leave him alive to keep talking to the police. There wasn't much that connected them, but it was best not to leave it to chance. Besides, hadn't Hart and Múd just had a public fight? Clearly, Hart would be the most likely suspect, and anything that got him out of the way and exposed him for the evil he was, could only be helpful.