New Zealand Psycho - Part 2 [FINAL]

I decided to incorporate one of my own poems into this. Enjoy.

 

Third period art class, 2009:

       
        “Marina, you’re not using enough patterns in your work. It’s not speaking to me.”
        “I’m trying, Miss. I just need inspiration.”
        “Keep going. You’ve got potential; you just choose not to show it.”
My charcoal stick flew over the paper in front of me. I wasn’t in my zone; everyone else was smudging pools of black on cardboard too, and I wanted to do something different: something that no one had ever attempted or even thought of.
The fact that Mrs Riddell was leaning over my shoulder put even more pressure on me and my hand slipped in the process. I heard her tongue click and felt my cheeks growing hot.
       “I’ve seen some of your better work,” she commented, barely disguising the disappointment in her voice. “Believe me when I say you can do a lot better.”
Then she left my side to ooh-and-ahh over the more “creative” kids.


Later on at home, the same day:

After several ages of turning my artwork into something Miss Riddell finally approved of, I dashed home after school which was only a few blocks away. I couldn’t wait to show Mum. She was the one always saying I should indulge in my art more than I do. I had a good feeling this time.
Almost breathless, I confronted her as she was having a cigarette on the deck.
        “Mum! Do you like my new drawing?”
 She blew out a herd of sky-blue ribbons and leaned forward, narrowing her eyes to my outstretched work.
       “Err… it’s alright, honey. Not exactly my cup of tea but it’s nice.”
        My heart dropped. “What do you mean?”
       “Well, it’s all very well sketching flowers and people; but your art needs to have a message in it somewhere. It doesn’t, and it looks a bit rushed.”

___

My heart hammered against my ribcage. It threatened to burst from my breast and splatter itself against the hanging girl.
        “I’m f*****g trying!” I shouted to no one as my chisel wandered the plains of her skin and drove itself through her. With its penetration my rage heightened to a new degree, and I struggled to hold the deafening curses in and to keep my hand still. Twenty five years since I graduated from high school and the cold words of my mother and teacher were still haunting me. I angled my wrist so that the chisel’s sharp edge had a good position, before I moved it in and out downwards and began slicing through her. I was now outlining Auckland; New Zealand’s arrogant and busy steeple before dragging it down roughly. Her skin and blood darkened and darkened until I realized it was growing late. I stopped only to switch the light on and draw the curtains across the high window.
      Overtime her bleeding stopped with the slicing; this was a post-mortem job and without a heartbeat the blood would not flow. The blood coagulates into a thick jam-like texture and the skin bloats significantly with the pressure. That is why the task was rapidly growing difficult, but I must. Never rush. Art…

        I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I’ll show you all ‘message’ if I decide to display this one. Perhaps the motat near Central would make a good picture frame, or maybe she would look better nailed through the throat against a tree at Hayman Park in Manukau. That’s where all the perverted and drug-crazed men roamed; at least some of them might have a chance at admiring my creation if no one else did; them and the horrified-all-over-again police. I let out a small chuckle of glee and brought my fist to my chin as I admired her.
       The girl’s head was hung, chin against jutting collarbone. At first I was worried that the stab wounds would taint my original idea but as planned I sliced out a New Zealand emblem from the centre of her body. Most of the wounds were gone with the removal of flesh, but for the remaining gashes I cut the edges of the wounds and pulled them back to represent stars. Caramel and cherry subject matter; pity she didn’t smell remotely of those things. She was beginning to take on the stench of a rotting animal. I never took this long with the others; maybe it’s because I rushed them in the heat of the moment? That might explain why I was rather happy with this piece. I had been working on her for at least five hours.
       In a fat white bucket next to her yellowing ankle were slabs and heaps of peeled skin, blood and water mixed, and a dripping crimson cloth hanging off of the rim. Around the perimeter of her visible hip bones were large, glistening crimson scissor handles and her legs were skinned and raw red.
Upon admiring her, I was bathed once again in inspiration. Words, this time, running through my mind; I simply opened my mouth and they tumbled out like crumbs of plaster from an old ceiling. I sang to the dead and hanging girl:

“midday is floating by
         shifting thin odoured fog

of pungent marks on the air
         looking at the herd of vermin

still; permanently resting on snow white carpets
         freckled with spurted Merlot

ragged clitoris and genitalia
         pleasured by a fond scissor
   
how lowly yet pretty they are
         in their emerald hues of greed and mold

i can feel the midnight laughter
         hard and cold and

so hot
         tousles my lungs in laughter winds

blades painting the
         fate of my talented stroke

bending my will, to a snap
         there there, my little experiment,
                                    i am merely a body artist.”


I left her in the basement for the paint to dry, and to return to bliss slumber; and on the way each step of the staircase kissed my feet.

Author's Note

Yes yes... have to fix paragraphing. There's probably a lot I missed but like I said; rough draft.

Reviews

[Pól]

Female! you should try to get this published

[Alpris]

You think? Hmm..

[Pól]

Maybe... maybe not. That's certainly the impression, but maybe its a cunning plan, another twist of the knife

[Donnab1116]

disturbing!! wow! its amazingly real feeling. like you just read a killers diary. its sick, and twisted! i'm impressed.