Brent Bosworth​

The Art of Love

I sit silently staring down at the blood dripping from the slashes in my arms. I embrace the pain as it reminds me that I’m alive, and still capable of feeling. I look at the canvas in front of me. It sits on an old wooden stretcher I borrowed in High School and conveniently forgot to give back. The painting on the canvas was an abstract tree meant to represent the tree of life. It had come alive with sweet melancholy when I started to smear the blood onto the tree, starting at the roots and making my way up the trunk. I eventually ran out and tore another gash into my arm to finish the branches. The way the blood mixed with the already dark construct made me smile. This was true art. There aren’t many left who will suffer for their art like this. This, after all, was a tree of life, and what better representation of life than blood?

​ The numbness in my body began and I knew that meant it was time to bandage myself up. I go to my cabinet in the corner of the studio where the medical supplies are kept, pull out a large amount of gauze and medical tape, and go to town on myself. I don’t worry about the stitching materials. I don’t think I went too deep this time. My last painting, a bastardized conception of the Virgin Mary was a whole other story. That one took a lot of blood, and a lot of stitches, which I had luckily watched a YouTube video on how to do.

​Now that I’m all bandaged, and feeling somewhat alive, still riding the high from the loss of blood I figure why stop there? I light a cigarette and open a beer, then send out the notorious, “You up?” text to a few girls on my phone. A few minutes pass, and it buzzes showing an icon of Sara’s face. Wouldn’t have been my top pick if I’m being honest, but it’s midnight and here we are. Her text reads, “Yeah, I can be there in ten.” with a smiley face. So I reply, sounds good, and crack another beer and wait.

​ Sara makes it to my house in what feels more like twenty, but I’m not going to complain. At least she showed up. Something about her is radiant tonight. She wore skin-tight black jeans and a low-cut v-neck showing off just enough. Her porcelain skin seemed to come alive when it was lit up by the pale moonlight. Her face was all angles and beautiful as she brushed her fair hair out of her eyes. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “Do you have another art project you want my opinion on or was this just a booty call?”

​“Can’t it be both?” I ask and we both laugh. I ask her to come in and offer her a drink. “We have beer or bourbon, take your pick.”

​“Do you have any Coke? I’d love a Jack and Coke.” So I mix her one before pulling her over to gaze into my newest masterpiece. She looked at it in awe and it filled me with gratitude, why was I ever hoping it would be one of the other girls? Sara truly sees my art and might be the only one who does. “Did you. . did you hurt yourself for this one too?” She asked in a soft voice. I just grin back at her and pull off my sweatshirt, revealing my heavily bandaged arms. At that moment, she looked so sad and I swear I saw tears forming in her eyes. 

​“Hey now, it’s okay. It’s all for the art Sara, don’t you see? Don’t you see how much better it makes it?” She doesn’t look convinced, but she forces a smile and says, “Of course. I think you’re brilliant, you know that.” I smile back at her. She was beautiful and full of flattery tonight. I grab her by the waist and pull her into the tightest hug I can muster with my arms in their lousy state. She leans in for a kiss and her lips have to be the softest I’ve ever felt. The kisses start coming faster in rapid succession as we both clumsily make our way back to the bed. 

She pushes me back onto the bed with little effort because of how woozy I am from the blood loss and alcohol. She starts taking off her shirt as I slide my jeans off and then I go for my shirt and by the time I get it over my head she’s standing at the edge of the bed completely naked. Her body curves in all the right places and I can’t remember a time when I was more aroused. She slides on top of me and it’s in within seconds, I swear I’ve never felt someone so wet. She rides me for what feels like hours, every second is pure bliss as skin slaps together. We fit together perfectly like slippery puzzle pieces that were meant for each other. 

We both come multiple times before she rolls off of me and we lay there in complete ecstasy. I light a cigarette and pass it to her and then light one for myself. She props herself up on one arm and leans into me, using her non-smoking hand to draw imaginary lines around my belly button. She starts to run her hands over the scars all over my belly and torso, and then she says. “I wish you wouldn’t do this to yourself. I know it’s for the art, and it makes it better, it does. I just still hate that you do it to yourself. I wish you would use someone else’s blood. Your body is scarred enough. Why not use the body of someone else you care about? Maybe even someone you love?” 

I think about this for a moment. Do I “love” anyone? That I’m not sure of but I guess if I did, Sara would be the one. I, at the very least, love her at this moment. “What exactly are you suggesting Sara?” I ask, already knowing the answer. 

“You could use me, I’d let you. I trust you to patch me up, and you’re still beautiful with your scars so maybe I will be too.” She says, almost excitedly. 

“Sara, there is nothing in this world that would ever make you less beautiful,” I say with a smile. I brush her hair back and tuck it behind her ear. “Are you sure? You want to be a part of my art?” She nods, and that’s that. “Then there’s no time to waste. I already have my next idea. Let’s get started.’

The concept for my next piece is simple. I will simply paint the Earth and then smear Sara’s blood from top to bottom on the canvas to symbolize the cruel reality we live in. This planet is dying, and we’re doing it. All of us, me, you, Sara, it doesn’t matter, we’re all guilty. Sara sits behind me and watches the gentle brush strokes shape the most authentic representation of the Earth that I can muster. It’s not my best work, for the hour is late and I’ve grown quite drunk, but I’m riding the high now and if I let go for even a second, I may crash. 

I start coloring in my world with blues and greens with a little dash of white here and there for a foggy effect. Look at that, I’ve painted the Earth and it’s only three-thirty in the morning. Now the fun begins. I walk over to Sara with my razor outstretched. She grimaces away at first but composes herself quickly. She’s still naked and I take a moment to see her whole for the last time, without any blemishes. She is so beautiful, but there’s work to be done. 

I make sure not to go too deep with the first cut. It’s on her upper forearm and I just want her to get a feel for it. She winces only slightly and then stares down, mesmerized at the site of her blood. I remember my first time and in that moment I envy her for how free she must be feeling. I grab her arm and squeeze as I run my brush under the flowing crimson. She cries out because my grip is too tight. “I’m sorry,” she says immediately. 

“It’s okay, are you sure you want this? I’m going to need a lot more than just that little bit of blood.” Most of what I had squeezed out of her was already drying and was useless to me now. She doesn’t speak, she just nods her head. So I tear a few fresh wounds open on her arms and go back to work. The blood sets up nicely on the not-yet-dry paint, giving it the exact effect I want. Sara whimpers behind me, admiringly as I, the virtuoso smears fresh blood on as much of the canvas as I can. “Other arm,” I say without even looking back at her as I hold out my hand for hers. She gives me her arm and I tear three new gashes into it, maybe going a little deep with one, but she’ll be fine. I’m a professional, after all. 

Sara’s arms look worse than I initially realized so I pause from my work and begin to bandage her up. The one I went a little too deep on won’t stop bleeding so I know I’m going to have to stitch it. I make my way over to the medical cabinet, pull out my supplies, and go to work on a not-so-great suture that looks even worse than the ones I did on myself. “There you are, good as new,” I said.

“Baby, I don’t feel so good, I think I need to lay down.” It is getting late and I also want to lay down so I get it. We can finish the blood-soaked Earth another time. 

“That’s okay, let’s get you to bed. We can finish it later. You did great for your first time.” I guide her over to the bed, lay her down, and tuck her in gently. She drifts off to sleep almost instantly. That really must’ve taken a lot out of her. I admire her one last time and throw my arm over, bury my face in the pillow, and begin to drift off myself. 

I dream that I’m standing on a stage in front of a large audience. There are hundreds of people seated in front of me in rows. Next to me stand my blood-soaked earth, still propped up on my hand-me-down stretcher. There’s what appears to be a panel of three judges looking over it. I hear their murmurs, saying words like exquisite. A normal man would blush under these circumstances, but I know what I am. I am modern expressionism embodied and the words from the judges are well-earned. They all hold up little cards with the number ten on them and the crowd begins to cheer. I deserve this.

I look down and see Sara sitting in the front row. I go to the edge of the stage and beckon her to join me. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I say to the crowd. “Could we have a round of applause for my partner, for it was she who truly inspired this work?” The crowd eats it up and then all of a sudden I hear an alarm going off in the distance. My alarm clock succeeds at waking me up even though I swear I shut it off the night before. I have a splitting headache. It’s only eight in the morning. What was that like four hours of sleep? Oh well. I look over at Sara and notice something is wrong with the way she is breathing, or rather the way she seems to almost not be breathing. 

“Hey, wake up,” I say, shaking her gently. Nothing. She doesn’t respond. I shake her harder and roll her onto her back. Her face stares up at me but there’s nothing left to it. All the vibrance is gone. Her eyes are open slightly and her mouth is ajar, but no air is going in or out. I feel a tear fall from my eye and it lands on her face as I begin to break down. I look at her arm and see that the stitching I had done the night prior had been ripped out and underneath her was a large pool of blood. My silent sobs grow heavier as I feel my chest heaving in and out. I turn with just enough time to avoid doing it on the bed and throw up all over my floor. 

I allow myself what feels like an hour to remain in this state before I get up and start pacing back and forth. “Okay, you gotta fucking think. Not only are you a murderer, but there are clear signs of mental health issues wrapped up in this too. So do you go to the cops? Confess? Spend the rest of your useless life in the psych ward of some prison? Fuck no, okay? We’re not doing that. It’s not what I want and it’s not what Sara would want either.” A thought crosses my mind to get rid of the body and ditch the cell phone. The cellphone would be the easiest to get rid of, my band plays a show tonight at The Rockit, I’ll just drop it there in the crowd somewhere, but the body was an issue.

I look around the room and my eyes fall on the pile of camping stuff in the corner from back when my folks and I still did things together. I know the sleeping bags are wrapped up in a couple of Hefty’s so I’ll use those first and foremost. I go dump the sleeping bags and I’m back to the bed in seconds. Her body was small so maybe I could just fold her into one? I start at the feet as if the trash bags themselves were sleeping bags and when I can’t go up any farther I push her head down and forward until it lets out a loud crunch. I recoil and it takes everything I have to not throw up again. It did work though. I was able to fold her up and get the first bag tied. The second bag fit over much easier and then part of it was done. 

Luckily my house is surrounded by a few miles of forest on each side. I just have to pick a place that’s not often explored and I know just the spot. After checking that both my parents had already left for the day. I picked up the garbage bag and went outside to my car. I popped the trunk and placed Sara gently inside. I run to the tool shed and find the biggest of the shovels we have to choose from and return to the car with it laying it on top of Sara. My head is going a million miles a minute in all different directions, most of which end with me in prison but I can’t think about that now. We’re not going far and I just have to take things one step at a time. 

It’s only about five minutes of driving before I park and go to the trunk to retrieve Sara and the shovel. It’s a bit of a walk to the secluded lake, and the overgrown wildlife doesn’t help matters. Still, after an additional five minutes, we come to a large open area with a big rock at the end of it that looks out over a lake. When it isn’t muddy and horrible like it is today, this is my favorite spot because of how beautiful it is. I’d spend hours here when I was young with my sketchbook and colored pencils trying to catch a trace of the magic on paper. In later years, I’d try to paint it. This was also the first place I ever self-harmed, the place I came to cry, and the first place I ever brought Sara to. 

I find the cleanest-looking bit of soil that I can and begin to dig. I dig for hours. She has to be deep. No one can ever know where Sara went and if she’s deep, no one will ever find her. I’m satisfied when I hit what feels like eight feet. It’s a struggle to get out of the hole and an even bigger struggle to say goodbye to Sara before tossing her into the hole. I fill the hole much quicker than it took to dig, and I smear a lot of the mud surrounding the area overtop so it doesn’t look much different from the rest of the ground. 

I toss the shovel in the back of the trunk and light a cigarette. I begin to cry again, as I had in this spot so many times before. This was my spot and now it would always be our spot. “I love you, Sara,” I say before flicking my cigarette into the lake. I’ve never said those words to anyone other than my parents, and never thought I’d love anything other than the art, but it was true. If I could go back I wouldn’t have cut her so deep, but there aren’t many left who will suffer for their art like this.