[Trigger Warning: references and depiction of suicide.]
The Guiltiest Paint By Brock Wright
It took eleven days to paint the portrait for his dear Amelia’s funeral. Eleven days of almost sleepless nights, being awakened by nightmares, and obsessive hours of occupation. Little time to eat, continual drinking of the finest off-vintage wines the mahogany cabinets held neatly for so long. Yet, once finished, the critics of the highly acclaimed and esteemed Tobias Toussaint were in awe of his talent with a paintbrush–more so than they were with any of his portraits prior to this tantalizing feat, born out of tragedy. Out of respect for his personal life, the critics kept their opinions of the piece quiet, discussing its veristic elegance out of sight from Tobias. It was well known amongst the peers and advisors of the talented Tobias that he adored his young Amelia. She was far too young, just barely sixteen, and her death was understood by most to be a loss to humanity. Those days of painting in requiem, Tobias had many guests come offering him comfort in his now all but empty multi-million mansion, just overlooking the ghastly Lake Geneva the common folk believed was cursed. “My condolences, I can’t imagine what it is you’re going through.” “Darling, please take it; you look like you haven’t eaten in days.” “Tobias, I know you better than many. You’re driving yourself insane isolating from your friends. We’re here for you, and you know that.” “To lose a child to suicide is horrific, and not so long after your wife...” As the days passed, his portrait becoming complete, his guests turned into insulters. “Good god son, you look like a corpse!” “I can easily find someone in town who would gladly help clean the place for you.” Soon, others who cared only for the profits and portions of his art knocked upon the door, waiting just enough time for the recency of her death to pass and the emotions to begin to mellow–a perfect time for corporate exploitation. “Do know that you have earned a break from your work. We’ve got more than enough for you to live comfortably for some time, as well as give Amelia the burial she no doubt righteously deserves.” “It would be a shame if you allowed this horrific accident to affect your future as an artist. In fact, they say that deaths of loved ones spark unbound passions to the potential of being set free from the shackles of a family.” Tobias was not necessarily a welcoming man, but he made sure to allow each of his guests to say their piece, keeping them strategically within the confines of the foyer, the darkness of the surrounding rooms and halls a visible sign of no entry. His eyes glowing black, and his voice sounding dusty from disuse, Tobias would respond, “Thank you for stopping by, you know little how much it means to me,” abruptly closing the door behind consoler and vulture alike. The main hallway became his escape route back to his studio. 312
