Blood Runs Thicker Than Water

CW: Physical violence, gore, abuse, homophobia, mental health

I remember the day I fell in love with art. My mum had taken me to a museum and the paintings filled me with fascination and wonder. Each piece I walked past felt alive, the story uncoiling with each brush stroke. My wonderment lay more so with the artists, the journey it had taken them on and the layers to its backstory.

I felt myself being drawn into the creative world. Ideas would circle continuously in my mind, begging to be put onto paper. I could imagine making ground breaking pieces, works of mine hung up on walls and people from all over the world travelling to see it in the flesh. Maybe they'd associate the story behind them to their own life, feeling seen.

After we left the museum I nagged and badgered my mum for paint until we ended up stopping at a supermarket. She went around getting our weekly shopping and told me to find a paint set. As I perused the art section excitement bubbled in my chest and I picked out the most mature looking set I could find.

When we got home I rushed to set my paper down and select a tube, the outside colour a rich scarlet. I was rapidly disappointed to realise the packaging had deceived me and the paint that actually dolloped onto my page was unpigmented and runny. I persevered nonetheless, swishing it around with my plastic paintbrush.

I carried on working at it for days, then weeks, trying to find a meaning to it all, studying the patterns and imperfections. I told myself good artwork takes time, Leonardo Da Vinci took 16 years on the Mona Lisa and Rome wasn’t built in a day after all.

So I took a break, going to get a drink and scroll on my phone when I was interrupted by faint cackling.

“Look at that.” I heard distant mocking and muffled voices coming from the landing upstairs.

“Looks like my menstrual cycle on day three.” My mum spoke up and I immediately knew what she was talking about. “Well, the one I used to have.” She followed up, giggling. I stormed back upstairs.

My assumption was correct, but it still stung, “I’ve been working hard on that.” I huffed, my throat becoming thick.

My mum and sister exchanged embarrassed glances, holding my painting by the corners and letting the damp, overworked areas sag.

“Sorry love, we thought you were in the garden. It’s fine,” My mum gestured to the paper, “not everyone can be a Van Gogh.”

I snatched it out of her hands and dashed into my room, slamming the door behind me.

I let it sit on my desk for a while, the ambitious ideas I had slowly settling down and dissipating until I rarely thought about art at all. Opportunities passed me by, and the easel and canvases I had bought for ‘when I got good at art’ grew dusty.

Until one day. One day I found the perfect shade of crimson, deep and real. And suddenly the restraints and pressure I’d placed on myself were lifted and I was full of certainty.

I smeared the vivid pigment on the blank canvas with fervour, not letting anything hold me back, not this time. Sweat poured down my forehead and I felt myself starting to connect with the woman appearing before me.

Her features were magnetic and full of life, eyes seductive and siren-like as she glanced backwards flirtatiously. I gathered more of the thick, sticky substance in my hands and slathered it dramatically, creating curly hair cascading down her back and submerging into a sea of red. The woman was bare and you could see part of her chest and the slope of her lower back, but my mum or sister's opinions couldn't stop me anymore.

No one could ruin this, it was just me and my art and nothing else mattered. I felt free, spreading my wings and taking off, the path clearer than ever before.

I worked long into the night, watching the sun rise patiently from my window and the sky painted in shades of pink and violet. It was especially beautiful today.

I added some stars in the deep sky of my canvas, then some dainty nails to extend the woman's already slender fingertips. I caught myself getting lost in her beauty. She seemed to read me with her gaze and I imagined it roaming over my body.

Her form was thin but perfectly sloped and mischief crossed her face, seeming to demand my attention. I was overcome with a sense of satisfaction, I’d created something hypnotic that made you ponder who she was and what her story may be.

“What do you think guys?” I turned around, “isn’t it wonderful?” I smiled widely and clasped my hands together.

I imagined how they’d react when they saw she was naked. My mum had stopped me seeing my girlfriend last year as soon as she found out we were together, and that I was gay. She had no trouble sending me straight off to conversion therapy.

They didn’t meet me with a reply, though. My mum and sister’s heads lolled to one side as if they were concentrating. The clothes they had on since yesterday were crusted in parts and still damp in others.

I wiped my hands on my paper towel and grabbed my phone, going to sit in between them. I took a picture of the canvas from afar before looking at the glistening knife on my desk.

The handle was wooden and weighty and I think my dad used to use it for steak. Steak was his favourite. He had it so rare to the point you could still see it bleed as he cut into it.

“YOU KILLED THEM!” I heard a cry and turned around.

My knees buckled as something heavy collided with my forehead, causing me to fall on my back with a thud. Bile rose in my throat and I spluttered, beginning to choke. My vision was spotty and my little sister’s face doubled above me as I swam in and out of consciousness.

“Please don’t sis-“

THUMP