November 2008

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Available for order from Comet Press

DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us

Snow Rose
by David Richards

Watching. Waiting. For his muse.

In a row house on the widest canal in Amsterdam, Sebastian stared out from the circular attic window. From his vantage point, he looked down on the tourist canal busses as they chugged along the canal. Camera's flashed; video recorders rolled, and excited tourists admired the pristine beauty of the exclusive Keizersgracht or Princes' Canal.

Named after Keizer Maximillian of Austria, the canal was built in 1612. Along its banks featured the most elite properties in a city that thrived on diversity, lust, and secrets. In 1780, the future second president of America, John Adams, bought a home on the Princes' canal and established the first American embassy on foreign soil anywhere in the world. Desirable apartments now fought for space alongside fashionable cafes and expensive restaurants. Tables and chairs spilled over onto the grey sidewalk and were occupied by young and trendy couples that sipped exotic coffee's. Colourful pot plants decorated moored houseboats as if the owners were trying to bring colour to the brown water upon which they floated. The canal was constantly being dredged, exhuming the twisted metal corpses of thousands of bicycles that had met their fate in the waters below.

His room was an attic space he rented on the top of a narrow house that leaned a little to the left due to its soft foundations. Outside, the stepped gable on the roof was weathered and cracked from the decades - if not centuries - of sultry summers and frostbitten winters. A thin sheen of algae clung to the darkest bricks where moisture hid away from sunshine. Grubby brown wooden frames bordered large panes of glass in desperate need of a clean.

The attic room was small. Its pine floorboards were scuffed. Several wooden knots were visible, and a strange dark stain in the centre always reappeared no matter how many times he'd sanded it away. It was as though the stain was on the soul of the wood: never to be erased and never to be forgotten. He'd made only one addition to the room; four O-rings were bolted to the floor.

The walls slanted in slightly as they formed the ceiling. The ceiling itself was grey from age, spotted with mould in the damp corners and featured a single bare light bulb hanging from a dodgy wire. It now swayed in the summer breeze rushing in through the window.

He'd been coming to this little place in the city for two months now. It meant he still had four months left on the lease, but he was confident he'd complete the task before then.

It was the light that attracted him to this space. On a sunny day it filled the room to capacity, transforming the tiny space into a universe on its own. No shadows clung to the corners. It became a room that housed pure, unadulterated light.

And light was important to an artist.

Without the strength of light, colours looked twisted. He could paint blue eyes in the dark but when light shone upon them they would appear faded, lost and incomplete. Light showed the imperfections. Light chased away the shadows. It brought truth to the world. It cast away the ugliness of the human soul.

Sebastian inhaled the humid air.

Below him another tourist boat chugged past. With clear blue skies, the streets were already packed with tourists and locals. Trams rang bells to push the cyclists of the tracks and cyclists in turn rang their bells to push the pedestrians onto the sidewalk.

A modern day version of the hunter and the hunted, he thought.

But Sebastian looked out the window for another reason. It wasn't for the view or simply because he liked the cool breeze to run through his long, dark hair.

It was because of her. He'd been studying her for two months.

Across the canal, through a waving gap of tree branches, his attic window looked directly into two large windows of a smart row house. Its windows were framed by white gilding. Its front door featured ornate iron scrolls and was painted a heavy green. The concrete steps leading up to the front door were always clean. The curtains were parted and, with the aid of the morning sun, Sebastian peered inside.

It looked into a living room. He saw a large, white sofa home to several colourful throw cushions. A glass coffee table supported a vase filled with red tulips. A CD stand held her collection of music. If he leaned a little to the right, he could make out the corner of a wall cabinet. The wood looked dark, polished: possibly teak. The contents of this apartment gave Sebastian a keyhole view of the woman who lived inside.

He knew her routine. She lived alone. She left at seven-thirty each week day morning and returned home at five-thirty on the number 5 tram from Central Station. She climbed the stairs two at a time. It took her three minutes to rifle through her Dolce & Gabana handbag for her keys. She picked up the mail lying on the parquet floor before closing the door behind her. In the late afternoon, he'd seen a ginger cat curled up on the comfortable sofa.

From that time onwards it was a mystery what she did as she vanished into the back of the apartment. He imagined her stripping off her work clothes and slipping into comfortable jeans and a loose top. Her breasts left to breath after being encapsulated in a bra the whole day. She'd put on some music, Bon Jovi or Aerosmith, and then cook dinner. Pasta. Chicken. Fish. Steak. Perhaps she was a vegetarian who viewed a salad a full meal.

The occasional visitor dropped by, none elderly, which suggested her parents were either dead or living far away. None of her male or female friends looked remotely like her, which hinted she was possibly an only child. And no lover's stayed overnight.

Time, as it often did when he watched her, passed by without a memory. When the sun bled out and city shadows grew longer, Sebastian watched as she turned on a lamp in the corner of the room.

By seven p.m. she was on the white sofa, her legs tucked neatly next to her, her feet bare if the weather permitted. The ginger cat curled up against her thigh. She sipped languidly from a wine glass. She liked red wine. Occasionally, she laughed at something on the television. Sometimes she twirled her dark hair with her finger. When she was tired, she stifled a yawn and her dangerous green eyes almost fluttered close. He often imagined himself next to her; inhaling her scent, brushing his fingertips against her cheeks coloured by the summer sun.

She switched off the light at ten, and moved to her bedroom in the darkness.

But Sebastian kept watch. He pictured her dark hair splayed against her pillow as her eyes fluttered behind soft eyelids to soft dreams. He pictured the cool sheets on her bed fondling her naked skin, keeping her warm yet cool during the summer night. Sometimes he'd stay awake until she left the next morning.

But tonight, he curled up in the darkest corner of the attic room and dreamt of her.

And in his dreams, he called her Rose.

* * *

Sebastian's artistic career began by mistake.

He'd sketched an old man at a cafe where he'd once worked during the summer when he was eighteen. The old man had been impressed when Sebastian, confused in the summer rush, handed the man the sketch instead of his bill.

"You draw this?" he asked. He spoke with a rough British accent.

Sebastian apologised.

"Don't apologise for talent," the man grumbled. He handed the drawing back with a business card. In gold embossed lettering it read DANIEL CROW - OWNER OF THE ARTISTS' GALLERY, LONDON.

"Call me," he said.

Sebastian did. As they say, the rest is history.

For twelve years, Sebastian was now thirty, he'd sent paintings over to London to be exhibited and sold. They sold for a moderate price.

Each day he'd churned out five, sometimes six, paintings a day. Inspiration and images floated in his head in a swirling mass of colours. Some days he couldn't sleep because his dreams were filled with light, and the light wouldn't dim until he'd transferred them onto canvas. To paint was to succumb to the desire of colours that seduced him from within until he exploded onto the canvas.

But last year something happened. He awoke one morning from a dreamless sleep. The colours were gone. Nothing. No images. No increased heart rate when an idea surged deep inside him. Not one iota of an idea had been borne into his mind since the day when it seemed all his inspiration had suddenly dried up. The inspiration well he'd dipped his paintbrush into was sealed, closed off, darkened by cobwebs and rusted colours. Nothing but the echoes of an inspirational past stirred.

Something needed to take its place.

And he found it in Rose.

The morning wasn't as sunny as yesterday. He'd awoken before sunrise and remained at the attic window while he smoked a Marlboro Light. She emerged at ten. He followed.

She purchased a pair of red shoes at a store in the fashionable P.C. Hooft Street. She met friends for lunch and enjoyed a tuna steak. She took a tram to the Bijenkorf - or Beehive - shopping mall where she spent meaningless hours meandering around its five floors. She sat for a mini makeover done by a beautician with eyes that didn't blink or a smile that didn't fade. After she'd left, he purchased the make-up she'd used even though the saleslady eyed him cautiously for buying used lipstick, nail polish and mascara.

"I'm a drag artist," he said, to throw off her suspicion. "My name's Vivian Vixen, you might've heard of me."

The saleslady shook her head, but rolled her eyes. In a city like Amsterdam, it didn't matter what you were as long as you kept it to yourself.

She returned home just as the touch of darkness caressed the rooftops.

Sebastian returned to the attic, like a bat coming home to roost. The lounge lamp came on; she ruffled her cat's ear before disappearing into the back of the apartment where his eyes couldn't see her.

Emerging from her apartment when the transformation of day into darkness was complete, Sebastian followed her across the city to a popular club close to the luxury Amstel Hotel. Thanks to the nightclubs close proximity to the hotel, The Purple Avocado was the club in Amsterdam. Its dance floors had the pleasure of being scuffed by the feet of Bono, Madonna, Gwen Stefani, Pink, and Britney Spears.

Smoke, pulsing light, the grind of body against body made Sebastian uncomfortable. He tried to keep contact to the minimum but gyrating bodies, sweaty and reeking of alcohol, rubbed up against him as he moved through the dance floor. The throb of the music reverberated inside his chest causing his heart to miss vital beats. Through coloured smoke and strobe lighting, he watched her dance, kiss a strikingly handsome man, and down shooters with the two women she'd lunched with earlier.

At midnight, he made his move.

He followed her to the bar, squeezed in next to her. He wore a lime green LaCoste shirt. She looked at the familiar logo before she looked at him.

Standing so close to her, smelling her perfume was more than he could handle. His hand began to shake, and he felt the familiar sensation of vivid colours seducing him from within.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. An A-list Hollywood star entered the club followed by a throng of security guards and screaming fans. While she was distracted trying to see the famous man, Sebastian dropped a small pill into her cocktail glass.

He stayed close to her until the drug had its desired effect. It made her drowsy but still conscious, kept her strong but still willing. He swept her out of the club and brought her to the attic room.

While she slept, he laid Egyptian cotton sheets over her body. He kept her clothes on, but removed her shoes. It wasn't her body he was after: it was her face.

He erected a wooden easel and placed a canvas on it. It took him four hours to mix the paints he needed to paint her.

When grey sunlight dripped through the circular window, he was mildly disappointed that he would have to paint by artificial light. He clicked it on, and she moved from beneath the sheets.

One bare foot peeked out before being quickly withdrawn inside. She stretched, yawned, her black hair a fibrous curtain hiding her face.

"Wake up," he whispered. "It's time to wake up."

The sound of an unfamiliar voice opened her eyes to an unfamiliar surrounding. The room was bare except for a harsh light, which burnt the back of her eyeballs. She saw a fuzzy silhouette standing in front of her. He held something long and sharp ...

Her vision cleared in time for her to see he was holding a paintbrush. Her neck and muscles screamed in agony as she tried to sit up. A violent headache wreaked havoc on her senses. Dryness stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

She coughed to loosen it and said, "What happened?"

"I'm an artist," Sebastian said. "I'd like to paint you. You'll be the first thing I've painted in over a year." He couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice.

She tore back the sheets, staring at the man in front of her. Panic flooded through her. Her clothes were still intact. He didn't rape her, thank God. Where were her shoes?

He stood with his arms at his sides, a paintbrush in one hand and a pallet in the other. She recognised the green LaCoste shirt. Vague snippets came back to her. He was in the club. He stood next to her. Did they talk? She couldn't remember. Her memory was an infinite pit of darkness.

In the naked light, he looked pale. His black hair was parted slightly off-centre and it hung in a curve that framed his narrow face. He wore faded blue jeans. He was barefoot. An easel with a blank canvas stood behind him.

"What?" she said.

"I want to paint you, Rose."

What the hell happened last night? "Whose Rose?"

"You are," Sebastian smiled. She looked beautiful as she rubbed her eyes and smoothed out her dishevelled hair.

"My name is not -"

"I don't care! To me you are Rose." He raised his voice to make her understand her name was irrelevant.

She shrank back, pulling the sheets on top as if for protection. "Someone pinch me, I must be bloody dreaming." She rubbed her eyes, and was slightly disappointed when she still found the man standing in front of her.

"I want to paint you, no," he paused to think. "I want to preserve you ... on canvas." Sebastian caught the light of fear in her dark eyes. Had she any reason to be afraid?

He wasn't quite sure, yet.

When she spoke her voice was timid. "May I have something to drink?"

He pointed to a pitcher of orange juice next to her. Still using the sheet to cover herself, she poured juice into a tumbler. She drank it in one mouthful, wiped her lips with the sheet and propped herself up against the wall.

While he waited for the drug to take effect, Sebastian knew she was contemplating her escape. Right now, she was plotting how to seduce him, confuse him, or plain kill him. He knew she was prepared to do anything to get out. The way her eyes flickered nervously from side to side, searching, looking but not seeing, was evidence of her fear.

Fifteen minutes later, she slumped sideways without as much as a mutter or whimper. Her head leaned a little to the left, followed her body, and her heavy eyelids were forced close by the drug working its way through her system.

Sebastian got to work.

He removed the cotton sheet and stretched out her limp body on the floor. He used the cushion to support her head. Taking a comb from his back pocket, he spent half an hour combing her black hair against the white of the pillow. He took her left arm and placed it between her breasts, each finger spaced evenly. Her right arm he placed on her abdomen and watched it rise and fall with each deep breath she took. He crossed her legs at the ankles. This was he imagined she would sleep at night. All tucked in with a hint of sensuality leaking into the night air.

It wasn't a huge leap from being an artist working with oil and canvas to an artist working with live flesh and make-up. He touched up her eye shadow and darkened her eyelashes with Maybelline mascara. Using the same brand in nail polish, Sebastian coloured her toenails - it was the one thing she never did - and filled in the cracks on her fingernails. Finally, he sprayed a little perfume on the curves of her neck.

But the lips he left blank.

She whimpered as he moved around her. The cotton sheet had to be entwined around her body to look as though it had succumbed to her seduction. At first he shook it out and allowed it to drift down on her at random. He did this five times before the folds of the sheet coveted her slender body. He made a few tiny adjustments and then stared down at Rose.

Sleep transformed the beautiful into goddesses.

Now the real work began.

When Sebastian painted it was as though he occupied a different space in time. He became the colours at the end of his brush. He felt each stroke rumble through his limbs as if he were standing in the midst of an earthquake. His vision altered: light splintered into beams of different colours. Some arched, some narrowed and some caused deep shadows. But he saw each individual stream of light strike his subject to reveal a purer image in his mind.

While he painted, the sun traversed the sky. A few spots of summer rain smattered the attic window. The wind turned a little cooler. Someone had a heart attack on the street. Church bells announced a wedding, or funeral. Babies were born. Someone lost their virginity. More tourists came and left in planes that roared in the distance.

Hours passed before Sebastian eventually put down the paintbrush. A cramp seized his right arm. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Hunger pulled at his stomach. He ignored all physical discomforts to focus on the portrait. His heartbeat increased and he gulped down mouthfuls of fresh air. He felt dizzy. It was the ecstasy of finally capturing Rose on canvas, almost. The dramatic colours behind his eyes flickered, dimmed, and then darkened.

She shifted in her sleep while Sebastian handcuffed each arm and leg to the O-rings.

It was dark outside when she opened her eyes. She blinked away the tiredness and focused on the bright light in the centre of the ceiling. "No!" she said, angry at being tricked again. "Not again."

But this time she couldn't sit up. Terror surged through as she tried to move her legs but found them immobile. Her arms raised a few inches off the ground. Twisting her head to see, she felt cold metal bite into her wrists as she fought the restraints. Handcuffs kept her arms and legs shackled.

"Good evening," Sebastian said. He sat next to her, his arm around the canvas as if it were a lover.

"Let me go!" she screamed. "Please, just let me go." Her eyes fell on the painting. A violent mixture of repulsiveness and nausea swept through her. To see her so helpless, so at ease while a maniac took advantage of her angered her even more. She fought the restraints but they held fast.

Sebastian said, "I hope you like it. I cannot tell you how good it is to see the colours again. It's all thanks to you."

"Yeah, well, screw your thanks." Sweat glistened on her forehead. It trickled into her eyes and stung, but she couldn't take her eyes off the painting. It looked remarkable for a portrait painted while she was kidnapped and drugged. But she noticed a flaw and she took advantage of it.

"Actually," she said, "it does look like me but you forgot to colour in the lips. Didn't your grade school teacher teach you that?" She laughed nervously. Making him angry wasn't a good idea but the guy was obviously crazy. But she didn't like the way he smiled.

"She taught me more than that," he said. "I left the lips blank on purpose."

"Why?" She screwed up her face to show her disgust.

"Because there is no colour in the world that could do them justice."

"You're crazy," she laughed.

"Crazy, perhaps. Genius, definitely." Sebastian stood up, and placed the painting back on the easel.

That's when she saw it: the blade of a knife sticking out of his back pocket.

"You've no doubt noticed the knife," Sebastian said, his back still facing her. If it weren't for the buzz of the city outside, he'd swear that he could hear her heart beating. It pushed the blood faster through her veins, warming up her muscles in preparation for a fight.

Rage swept through her. She kicked and pulled at the restraints. She screamed till she tasted blood in the back of her throat. Five minutes later, exhausted and sweating, she stopped and started with the crying.

Sebastian waited patiently for her tantrum to pass. It happened. People go through different emotions when they realise the futility of their situation. It was like screaming through a plane crash; no matter how hard or how loud you yelled the outcome was always the same.

While she screamed, Sebastian removed a pestle and mortar from a black gym bag in the corner of the room. He also took out the head of a red rose and a small tub of Johnson & Johnson talcum powder.

He placed the objects at her feet, along with the knife, and waited.

"Finished?" he said.

She lifted her head and spat. The glob landed at his feet.

"I take that as a yes."

She was crying now. Of all the things he'd wondered about her while he'd been watching her, he never once thought about her tears. Somehow it never occurred to him that she could actually cry. Tears were for the weak, the shallow and the vulnerable. The tears detracted from her beauty. Black mascara left vicious tracks down her cheeks. The salty water diffused the green in her eyes.

"What ... are you going to do?" she asked through heavy sobbing. "Please don't kill me. I'll do anything."

Sebastian sat at her feet. One by one, he removed the petals of the rose and dropped them into the stone mortar. This was love: fleeting, waiting to be picked off by the hand of life. He tossed the bare rose head across the floor. Next, he twisted off the lid of the talcum powder and sprinkled about an ounce over the rose petals. He crushed the ingredients together with the pestle. When the two ingredients formed a powdery paste, he placed the mortar on the floor and took up the knife. It glinted in the artificial light.

"You see," said Sebastian, "my problem was that I had no inspiration. I painted for over a decade until one morning I woke up, and nothing. I stood for a week in front of a blank canvas trying to evoke something - anything. All I got was a headache and depression. Then I saw you at the flower market two months ago. It was like a veil had been lifted from my eyes. I was suddenly full of images once again. You were that trigger, Rose. You were the hands that lifted the darkness from my eyes and gave life to these idle hands.

"So I followed you for two months. I know almost everything about you, Rose. I even rented out this attic space so I could look across the canal and into your apartment. I didn't want to be away from you in case the veil of darkness covered my eyes once again. Then the idea struck me. If I could get you here and paint your portrait then you'd always be with me. You'd take pride and place in my home and be the food that feeds my inspiration."

Sebastian crawled to her right arm. She struggled and wept, wept and struggled. He sat down on her arm, pinning it to the wooden floor. Her fingers grasped at nothing.

"Then I thought that the painting needed something to make it more real. It needed something more physical to ensure that my colours never fade."

Without warning, Sebastian placed the tip of the blade at the base of her wrist. He pressed down hard, and dragged the knife down until he reached her elbow. Cut skin folded back like the opening of a rose to expose flesh, bone, veins and muscle. Warm blood streamed out in rivulets to pool on the pine floor.

She screamed, loud and long. Pain sent white bolts of lightning shooting through her shaking body. Balancing on the border of consciousness, she stopped screaming. She begged softly for her life.

Sebastian got up, retrieved the mortar and quickly allowed a steady stream of blood to mingle with the talcum powder and petals. He didn't figure on the smell. It made him slightly nauseous.

He spoke above her whimpering. "It makes sense to have your blood included on the painting." He picked up the pestle and mixed the viscous mixture until it became a firm paste. "No other colour like this exists. I've created it just for you."

Too dark, he thought. He added more talcum powder and stirred until it lightened to a red that looked less like blood and more like passion.

"Don't pass out just yet," he said. "The colour is ready." He picked up his paintbrush, dipped it into the new colour and carefully filled in her lips. Fragments of petals gave them a realistic texture. It transformed her into a sleeping angel with a hint of temptation.

For no reason, other than to feel the warmth, he leaned in and kissed the painting. His lips parted slightly to free his tongue to taste the sweetness and bitterness of the colour he'd created. He closed his eyes and absorbed it, refilling the once dry well of his inspiration. He broke the spell when dizziness weakened his legs and quickened his heart: the return of a familiar feeling.

When Sebastian turned around, her body was still. Her face was pale, her eyes shuddered, and her chest remained still.

"No!" Sebastian screamed. He ran to her and scooped her head into his palms. "Don't leave me. Look," he said, lifting her head, "this is the colour I've created for you." He pointed to his scarlet lips. Her eyes saw nothing.

"You were supposed to see it finished," he said. "Why did you die so easily? You didn't even get to hear the name of the colour." Was he crying?

Sebastian didn't know how long he remained with her head on his lap. Perhaps it was a day, perhaps an hour. But by the time he moved, the darkness outside was mature enough to give to birth to a full moon and become a grandparent to millions of stars. The buzz of the city had all but vanished. The new colour upon his lips had dried and cracked.

Sebastian got up and retrieved his paintbrush from the floor. Returning to her silent body, he used the end of the brush to scrape back a thin layer of film that had formed on the pool of blood. He lingered for a brief second, staring at her pale features and blue tinged lips. However, his guilt was appeased when he thought that her painting would never fade like she did.

He dipped the brush into the black liquid.

As a tribute to her, Sebastian felt he owed it to her to finish the painting. Using the weight of his depression to steady his hand, he slowly wrote the name in the left-hand corner.

The two four-letter words matched in height and precision.

He underlined them for emphasis.

An end to everything, he thought. But not to the colours ...

"Good night, sleep tight," he whispered to the sleeping angel on the canvas. "Sleep tight, Snow Rose."

ONE MONTH LATER

Sebastian held up a glass of red wine in silent tribute to Snow Rose that hung in his living room. A week after painting her, he spotted a small article in a daily newspaper regarding the discovery of her body. It detailed her real name, age, and some background information and appealed for witnesses. They featured a short interview from the real estate agent that had rented out the attic room to Sebastian Pierce. The police were convinced that it was a false identity.

And they were right.

Cole painted up to six canvases a day.

The fluidic colours had replenished his artistic well.

His paintings continued to fetch a moderate price.

He declined all personal interviews or showings.

Exactly thirty days after he'd painted Snow Rose, his lips remained the colour he'd created.

No matter how hard he scrubbed, the colour darkened as if mocking him.

He was afraid at first, then accepted it.

The stain wasn't on his lips but on his soul: never to be erased and never to be forgotten.