Peintre the Blind

Nasrin Meghdir

by Nasrin Meghdir

Story
1888 – 1891

The violins were humming, slightly mistuned. I curled my lips in displeasure. “Plié. Tendu. Dégagé”, a booming voice repeated. Stern, disciplined, just to my liking. The paint was drying quickly. I watched them, their joints cracking, muscles tense, their short skirts flowing through the air. Little monkeys that jumped through the room, pulling at their straps and scratching their heads. I rubbed my eyes when my sight kept getting blurry. Silently, I packed my brushes and, without another word, I left the studio and the shining mirrors behind.

“Monsieur!”, a little monkey, trying to save herself from being a woman of the night, charged through the door. “This one rolled out of your suitcase”, she held a brush in her hand. I looked at her face, hair was sticking to her forehead and her face was comically painted with too much blush. Again I didn’t utter a word and grabbed the brush, before leaving that poor soul on the pavement.

Track two. Train to London, ready for boarding.

I carefully stored the suitcase. Poor girls, no better than harlots, selling themselves to the rich backstage. Just like his étoile. Promising him love and a family, only to fling herself at the next filled wallet. I sighed again, rubbing my eyes. My vision started to blur again. More rapidly, more intense.

The thick wooden door opened and the shine of lit candles warmed the streets. “Pal! We are reheating the chicken!”, the tall man engulfed me. I patted his back a few times. “So much trouble for a home-cooked meal”, I grinned, greeting his mother. But I couldn’t enjoy my time. I couldn’t focus, my sight blurring and a sharp stinging sensation appearing behind my eyes. After hours, I excused myself and before I knew it, I stumbled through the dark streets of the East End of London. The moon was becoming indistinct from the stars and clouds. The only source of light and beauty suddenly turned black. Hands were reaching for me and disfigured voices were calling out to me. “Monsieur! Monsieur! A dime for your time!” Women of the night! Monkeys surrounding me, screaming and screeching. My head spinned. I grabbed my hair and pulled slightly before pushing away the hands that longed for me. I grabbed a brush, the long polished handle twinkling in my hand. “Away! Away! You creatures of the night!”

The screeching intensified. Wildly I swung the handle, I poked and stabbed until she fell to the floor and was painted with blood. Her hands weren’t reaching for me any more and her limbs sprawled in an endless dance. My breath pooled in thick clouds and the stinging faded. The brush, my delicate instrument, dripped in a crimson red and I wiped it clean, methodical, reverent.

It was cold, and it was silent. Save to reminisce in the torturing darkness, save for the hum of a mistuned melody between the taverns.

I am a painter, and I am Jack the Ripper.



© Nasrin Meghdir 2024-08-12

Genres
Suspense & Horror