Suicide letter
It was on a Wednesday, eight o'clock in the morning
, at "The Artist's Hause", Gallery.
Good morning everyone. The director said as he walked in, then he looks at me and asked to see me in his office.
By the firm and dry tone of his voice, I knew it was over.
I walked into his office, and I felt chilling spikes shooting down my spine, as I heard him say.
"Mr. Nichols, We have carefully reviewed your performance, and although I must admit we, and the customers are impressed, with your work, your paintings do not sell. The Artist's Hause, Gallery is designed to help artists, to promote their work; we do not charge fees for the space in the gallery.
You understand our Gallery works by commission; you only had one sale the last 45 days. I am sorry, we are not able to offer you space any more. Please have your paintings removed by tomorrow morning".
As I walked out of the director's office, I thought to myself. This is it. Where did all my dreams go? Disappointed, desperate, and mad with the world, I packed my paintings, and I said good-bye to the artist's Hause gallery! The last of my dreams.
I walked the streets, feeling lost, lonely, and helpless. A failure! There is no one to turn to. Every day I am killing myself to live this defective life, and what do I have to show for?
They kick me out of the gallery. I'm late on my rent with no money, not even for a hotdog.
Everybody likes my work! But, Why? Why they don't buy? Why I can't sell my paintings? Superb, fantastic and amazing. It doesn't pay the bills, I screamed inside me.
An overwhelming wave of tension and stress tightened the muscles in my body, I felt dizzy, I leaned up against a light post, and behind my sunglasses, I cried. God help me, help me, please. I really need you.
Then I heard a voice from across the street. "Buy my art Buy my art"
I looked and I saw a young artist, displaying his artwork on the sidewalk.
Buy my art, not a very catchy line, but it will do, I said to myself. I walked a few blocks away, I unpacked my paintings, and with a painted smile on my face. "Buy my Art Buy. My. Art".
People were stopping by to admire my work, positive feedback, and conversations about my paintings continued all through the rest of the day. It was the first time I sold four paintings in three hours. Late afternoon, I packed the remaining paintings, and I went home.
The next day, and through the rest of the week, I was going to the same corner. What I was selling it was just enough to keep a roof over my head, and most of the time, hardly enough to eat.
It had to be some good time ahead, I kept saying to myself. Time passed, but the good time never came.
One cold and cloudy day, I was on my last dollar, I haven't had sold anything, for over a week. I felt jealousy seeing all the fancy cars, the well-dressed people, shopping and having a good time, and here I was, an artist, digging in trashcans eating someone else's half-eaten sandwich.
The thought of putting an end in this irony called life, screamed loudly in my head. I packed my paintings, and went to the nearby bridge, I don't know if I just wanted to be remembered, or I loved my paintings, and I just didn't want to destroy them.
I placed a note with my name, and the word free on them, and then I stood looking at the river below the bridge.
As I was getting ready to climb the railing and jump, I heard a car coming, I wasn't daubing myself, but I wasn't very comfortable being watched, so I stopped, and so do the car, in the twilight, I saw some teenagers. They got out of the car, with a few beers, they turned the radio on, smoked a joint, drank the beers, then one of them looked down to the river and said, "guys, it must be a couple hundred feet, to the bottom, get stoned, drunk, and bungee jump, that will be a hell of a trip".
It will be a trip to hell, I thought to myself, and then I heard the song Cross Road Blues, the DJ said.
"Robert Leroy Johnson (May 8, 1911 August 16, 1938) was an American blues singer and musician. His landmark recordings from 19361937 display a remarkable combination of singing, guitar skills, and songwriting talent that have influenced generations of musicians. Johnson's shadowy, poorly documented life and death at age 27 have given rise to much legend, including a Faustian myth.
According to legend, as a young man living on a plantation in rural Mississippi, Robert Johnson was branded with a burning desire to become a great blues musician. He was "instructed" to take his guitar to a crossroad near Dockery Plantation at midnight. There he was met by a large man (the
Devil) who took the guitar and
tuned it. The "Devil" played a few songs and then returned the guitar to Johnson, giving him mastery of the instrument. This was, in effect, a deal with the Devil mirroring the legend of Faust. In exchange for his soul, Robert Johnson was able to create the blues for which he became famous".
Suddenly, the idea to end it all, changed to try one more time. The next morning I went to the library, and I found a book on Robert Johnson, and the satanic bible.
The next two days, I've done nothing but reading. Amazingly, I could memorize very easily those sections that interest me.
The third day, I returned the books to the library, I packed my brushes and my canvas, and at midnight, I walked to a crossroad, outside of town.
It was a very cold night the full moon it was the brightest I've ever seeing, I wasn't really expected anything, but I had to try. I drew the pentagram on the ground, and I spoke the words.
Then I saw him, just the way it was written in the books. He was standing in front of me, with the full moon behind him; I could only see his silhouette, tall, thin, and dark. Astounded by his appearance, with my eyes wide open, I was standing speechless. For a moment I thought I was a hallucinating, and then he took my brushes, wrote on the canvas "so it is done", and disappeared.
I went home, and I started painting nonstop, within one week, I had enough paintings to fill an entire gallery. Then I went back to the same street corner. Before I even unpack all of my paintings, a man approached, introduced himself as "Artist promoter", and offered me space in his gallery.
From then on, my paintings were selling before I even finish them. Within six months, I owned my own gallery, within a year; I purchased a house, with swimming pool, and opened a second gallery.
Money, high-life, fame, they were all at my fingertips. Everything I've ever dreamed off there were finally mine.
Until the day I discovered, that I did not read the fine print, all my paintings were cursed.
Everything I've painted since that night, between midnight and three in the morning, comes to life.
I am responsible for the mysterious death wave, and for all the unexplained murders, I am the murderer.
For me, fame came with much higher price than I could afford, and there's only one way to stop it.
I have to kill what started it, and that is I.
By the time you read this note, I will be gone taking with me the curse, and leaving behind, sympathy for all the deaths I caused.
I know I am not going to heaven, but I pray to god, to forgive me.
Suicide letter
By: Dean Steven Nichols
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