Upanshu
I
A smile was etched on his face as he sat there contemplating
and mumbling. His crimson face was tilted and his eyes were fixated at
something. The walls of the room used to be white, no creamy, not white, never
white. But now he’d painted them, with his favourite colour using his favourite
paint. He slowly stood up, staggering as he gained control of his motor nerves.
He turned around with an intention to leave, to work on his next painting. But
before leaving he wanted to have a last look. His first work as an artist. The
creamy canvas dyed with crimson splotches, splattered with globules of blood,
fresh red blood; still warm emanating from the body that was crucified over the
opposite wall. A gaping hole on its chest was the sun and the room was the
solar system with confident red strokes that painted the red planets. His eyes
fell on the naked man. The man was staring at him, smile mimicking his own
grin. He limped over to the door licking the blood on his fingers, savouring
the coppery flavour. The childish grin never leaving his face as closed the
door behind him.
II
The room was painted red, vibrant red that screamed
happiness. The artist in him scowled. This was supposed to be the masterpiece,
the closing act, but the lack of contrast was spoiling everything. The trademark
innocent smile was absent from his face. A pout was carved on his childlike
features. He sighed and dragged himself towards the door, limping. Grumbling in
annoyance, he never noticed the click and the door opening. “Who are you? And
what are you doing in my apartment?” He raised his eyes to find a burly
middle-aged woman staring at him in annoyance. She was clad in a white flowing
gown that looked absolutely incriminating on her smooth alabaster skin. There
was no contrast, or was there. A smile started dominating the frown on his
face. A smile that soon turned into a grin and then into full-blown laughter. His masterpiece was still on. He’d found the
contrast that was missing. This was the beauty of white. He would call this one
‘The Angel’. The woman’s intimidated queries never reached his ears as he
stealthily incapacitated her, this one would be clean and she’d never know what
hit her. In the end the room will be smiling.
III
These four years have been heavy on me. My son’s estrangement
after her death has hit me harder than I’d earlier thought. But these murders
that have plagued the city are becoming the subject of my nightmares and the
cause of my sleepless nights. Very few things can surprise a man at my
position, that being said these serial killings are shaking every foundation of
humanity I ever believed in. Everything is becoming out of focus, my life, my
son, our drifting apart, my work. All that remains in my head is the blood
covering the white walls, like the confident strokes of a painter. All these
murders point out one common thing, the obeisance paid to blood. The corpse was
positioned like an angel, all of them were. The whole scene was somehow an
amalgam of life and death. The corpses always invade my dreams with the same
infernal smile. Their beaming features soothe my haunted nightmares, until I
realise that they have a gaping hole on their chests.
IV
I’ve never liked the noisy downtown traffic. Come to think
of it, I usually take a walk to my crime scenes. ‘Besides, it’s only two blocks
away.’ I muse, as I help myself out of the car. Slamming the door, I speed
towards the building, from where I’d received the call. My overcoat rustles in
the cold winter breeze. It is that nightmarish case, the one that keeps me
awake after midnight. The works of the famous artist, as the media had dubbed him
now. The psychologists use some high-level-disorder jargon, punks on the street
consider him a role model. Many a times, I’ve passed by smiling angel graffiti.
He has become an urban legend, an inspiration to the aspiring serial
killers. But no matter how poetic or
artistic his works may seem, I know what the man is, an animal. His murders are
anything but art. The rooms painted with blood makes me puke every time I see
them. The naked corpses hanging are the source of my ugly nightmares. The
lament of the victim’s family, the eerily content smile engraved on their faces
weigh upon my soul. I, mechanically, enter the building and make my way to the
dreaded apartment. This crime scene seems different; it was reported, by a very
young voice, a very familiar voice. I turn the doorknob, anxious as the loud
click permeates the hallway. The room is dark, my hands, reflexively, grope the
wall for the light-switch. The tube-light flickers as it lights, flooding the
whole room with brightness. I find the owner of the voice, who informed me,
smiling in front of me.
V
I forget everything after seeing that joyous countenance.
The hideous red room, the corpse of the lady clad in pure white, her smooth
alabaster skin, her robust appearance, even breathing. Everything lies
forgotten. It is all trivial, nothing matters, not the lack of a gaping hole,
or the unnecessary gore that the killer is famous for. All that matters is the smiling
face of the child in front of me. I force myself to breathe as the child sucks
on his thumb. His hands are dipped in blood. My legs give away and my knees
buckle. “Hello Dad! How is my masterpiece?” his voice tears me from my reverie.
It seems excited, as if he is showing his school project to me. “Rem!” I gasp
as my legs no longer support my weight, and my consciousness fades. An image burns
in my subconscious, an image of a boy, sucking on his thumb, licking the blood
on his hands standing in front of a crucified woman, both of them peacefully
smiling. The contrast of red and white beautifies my failure as a father and as
a detective.