Hating Vincent

"The worst horror in life, said Dylan Thomas,
is the sense of being hopelessly trapped."

"Why does friendship have to be such a big ordeal?? 'Oh-oh-oh, I think I'm going to die, my life is over, the world will end if you're my friend.' They really act like they are going to die! What is it with them? What is it with me? Other people have friends no problem. They talk and chat and eat and none of them think their eternal soul is in danger. What kind of power do they think I have?

"This curse is driving me mad! I'm tortured every night as they seek me out for destruction in my dreams. I need a woman with nice soft legs to save me but they are extra angry. 'How dare you have feelings for me!' They scream bloody murder, leaving me to women for whom I have no feelings. And that's the same as nothing at all. It will be like this till the end of my days, won't it? Please let me die. There is no merciful God."

The next day Vincent passed a farm not far from the asylum where he'd stayed during his last bout of depression and despair. He walked in two worlds, wondering which one would win. He let love in while painting, the canvass never rejecting him. But that only exacerbated his loneliness the rest of the time. Seeing the asylum triggered memories he could not shake, that he was out - but not out of trouble as his freedom would imply. But while inside he knew he must get out. What cruel master could wrought such a miserable beast as him?

"I don't know what more I can do," he said out loud.

Two teenagers from the farm spotted him. "There he is, that fucking freak."

"I can't believe they let him out. I hate that bastard."

"I hate every bone in his body!"

As farm boys they were naturally frightened of an outside world they did not comprehend. Isolated on the farm, they made up the world as a fantasy in their heads, a place that would laugh at simple rural boys by sophisticated city girls. Unable to face their fears they needed a way to destroy the world or risk having their love taken away. If only they had known these were also the last thoughts of Judas.

The boys' father had been a recipient of one of Vincent's paintings as a partial reward for work done at the asylum. Everyone in the family despised it equally, as if it were an object from a foreign planet. Just having it in their house made them feel like outcasts, witches to be burned. No telling what the neighbors would say if they saw it and like all conservatives they dare not hold an unpopular opinion. For the farmers, opinions were decided for them, not by them.

So the boys and the father took turns using the painting for target practice, laughing wildly the more marred and torn it became. To have a tangible foe for their fears was incredibly satisfying. They paraded the obliterated painting among their friends and with every remark of approval their belief they'd done the right thing grew stronger. This freak painter was their enemy, trying to break the fabric of their existence. To them, an open mind is the devil's workshop.

But they knew. Deep inside they knew they destroyed something of worth. Like a demagogue President making false remarks for approval, the farmers knew all the applause and backslapping in the world wouldn't change their sin. They knew that what is buried today will be brought to light tomorrow. In fact, as though the universe were taking revenge, their crops failed for several years and the following generations lived mired in poverty. No one dare speak of the fortune thrown away.

"Oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go..."

To the boys, Vincent represented the outside world they feared to face. They were trapped in demonizing it, excusing them from never leaving the farm. If only they'd known Vincent was outcast wherever he went. But this walking freak was too much to bear, a mind they could not control. Who knows what sort of insights a being like that might have?? The boys knew the truth of themselves and that was a truth they never wanted to get out. A truth to their teenage minds that was life and death.

The same gun that shot Vincent's painting now shot him. The pair ran away after seeing the bullet really could wound the beast. Vincent returned home saying he'd done it himself. He was ready to leave, it had been building for quite some time. He couldn't go on having nothing to live for, bringing grief to those who loved him with his strange ways. In his paintings - in that private place - he knew joy. Why couldn't he give it in "real" life? The mystery proved fatal. He feared they'd see failure in his tears; to keep them hidden at any cost.

"This is it at last, in my final moments...peace and happiness...no more being something I'm not...the relief...and the sorrow...why could no one understand I need love?"