Work Text:
A disgusting muddle of blues and purples streaked the evening sky. Edgar stared up to the sunset with a scowl, the breathtaking scene only receiving negative feedback from the young artist. He carried a canvas under one arm, a briefcase of paintbrushes and oils under the other. The colors streaking the sky made it feel as though he were going to vomit, a repulsive acidic feeling creeping up his throat. He was going to be sick. The streaks of pink that littered the sky did almost nothing to fascinate him, the blanket of blue the sun pulled behind it wasn’t even worth batting an eye to. The burning ball of fire seemed to be mocking him from behind the filthy buildings of the lower class's district; also serving to make the murky water of the river give off a depressing sheen as well as highlighting every speck of dust that suffocated the townspeople. Clusters of white birds added to the scene above him, the sight all too photogenic to be real. It felt as though the ones who painted the sky were mocking him with all the colors they had access to, not to mention the buckets of inspiration they got. He wanted to spit in a pathetic attempt to show that he was better. Someone who stood out from this dismal place. But alas, he was merely a speck of red against a monochromatic color palette, a bitter taste resting on his tongue as he watched the other colors have fun with one another.
What happened to pull his attention away wasn't what one might expect. It wasn't his bitterness forcing him to look away, nor was it a motivation to start moving with his own day. It happened to be the crying of a child. When he turned to face it, he saw a dismally common sight for the slums of Vinlés. The child had no parents, only crying out to the emptiness of the city. It adorned rags that looked as though they were disregarded by even the lowest of society, trampled on time and time again. Or maybe the description fit the child more than what it wore. It wouldn’t be quiet, getting on Edgar's nerves with increasing speed. He gripped onto his case of brushes, biting his lip as his eyebrows knotted with one another. He had to force his eyes shut to collect himself before heading off to where he was heading originally. Picking up his brisk pace, he strode across the brick bridge, a short gust of air brushing off of the young man and onto the wailing child. This area of Vinlés was aggravating to him. The people who were constantly groveling at his feet due to the way he dressed, people showcasing fake glee to see him all to try to draw in some of the money they believed he had. It was all irritating. It wasn't that he was the type of loopy person who aspired to be a someone, no. He just wanted the world to leave him some peace and quiet for once. Away from people and the obnoxious fronts they put on to gain someone's attention.
"Please help me, my daughter can't live much longer," a skeleton of a woman would call to him. She would approach him, a baby clutched in one arm while her free bony hand would desperately reach for him. He kicked off the worn shoes he wore on his commune to his minimalist studio.
"You're noisy, you know that?" He would respond, setting up the canvas just in front of the window.
"H-huh? Sir please-!" She would lean in a bit closer, with Edgar leaning back in his chair to comfortably remember the look of bubbling irritation in her face. She was trying to stay composed though, the pitiful whine in her voice, the way she made her fingers tremble a little. The infant in her arms wasn't trying to pull strings to survive. It was crying for someone to care for it but without the deceitful facade.
"Why do you think that your wailing pig of a child deserves money it didn't earn?" He would spit back , a long sip of his tea allowing him to recall the exact look on the wailing infant's face.
She would snap. Disrespecting a woman is one thing, but ignoring her to degrade her child brought forth a different storm. Probably the woman hiding behind the exaggeratedly dirty shirt, or how her hair was quite obviously back brushed. She clung her sniveling baby to her chest, leaning forward as a wild look of fleeting desperation and a simmering rage built up within her. "Well, what makes you so entitled to decide the fate of my baby? We never wanted this! We never wanted to be looked down upon by filthy rich snobs like you!" She was using the child as a guilt tactic now. He supposed he would have to learn to play dirty as well. He looked at his reflection in his cup of warm black tea, not exactly proud of how undignified he carried himself in the act.
"I know if I was the baby in your arms, I wouldn't want a sickening hag such as yourself as a mother," With that he plucked the child out from her arms, earning a wail resounding off the walls of the alleyway. He held the child over her head, watching the flood of emotions come and leave her face in a matter of seconds. Fear perhaps? No, it wasn't as fragile as that. Maybe anger... Something like that. Resentment. That was it. Proud of himself for recalling just what she felt, Edgar stirred his tea contentedly.
Edgar would simply watch her as she would struggle to make it to her feet, her already weak voice cracking from the unbridled resentment towards him. He swiftly kept the baby away from her, earning screams from both of the parties he was antagonizing.
It was agonizing.
Painful.
But yet…
He was smiling.
Ah, he finally got it.
She was going to be the subject of his next painting.
Anger. Vexation. Pure resentment. They were all such fiery, raw emotions. They sent a chill down the apathetic painter's spine.
He took another drink of his tea, wondering how it felt. If he was spat on, looked down upon. Someone didn't only think he was so superior as to not help you, but he also wanted nothing more than to see you writhe and cry, but that's all you could manage to do at the moment. He snickered. It wouldn't be him, because he wouldn't let it happen. He wouldn't be willing to sacrifice his pride for his well being, it was a weapon he wore on his hip that he couldn't bear to lose.
Now that he was getting giddy to do so, he was ready to paint. He looked at the blank canvas standing proudly on fine wooden legs, awaiting for whatever colors and oils he decided to use this time. He dug through his briefcase to find the brushes he would need, splaying them neatly along the end table that serviced him at his right. Now time for his paint. He had a worn easel he could always rely on... The grooves Edgar carved into it made it all the more comfortable for him to use, holding all of the paint he ever sampled with perfectly. Stains from previous paintings coated its surface, the different hues and shades of red making their presence known against the soft material it was made from. The red he envisioned this woman as was filthy, a color one would rather go out of their way to avoid. He thought about her a bit, comparing what he thought of her to the colors he was accustomed to using. He didn't want to taint his own palette, but he had to be willing to make some sacrifices for the sake of his art. He got the paint ready by making all the colors he wanted with his precious easel. He diluted the reds with water and other sorts of dyes to make peachy pinks and nauseating magentas. This woman invoked better colors than what he initially thought. The reds seemed to boil as red as her blood, seeming to be all the more fitting for her.
He picked up a rather large brush, mixing the oils and the paint to make his first stroke along the canvas. He began to paint, his fingers calloused from the trade. He would occasionally switch to a pencil with brittle lead, not wanting the dark pigment to outdo the scarlets that made up the painting. It took him hours, the night passing by just beyond the blank canvas. As he was making the final movements with his brushes, the day was beginning to rise past his apartment window. He took a step back to soak in the reds, peaches, and array of hues lining the canvas to show the woman's rage. He obviously couldn't forget the one she held so dear, the pure, innocent baby clutched to her chest.
Any onlooker might have been nauseous looking at the piece, but it was simply what Edgar did. Violent strokes of a bold maroon slashed the page, the woman's mouth gaping into a snarl. Her teeth were bared, her eyes feral. Her hair seemed to wisp out behind her like vile snakes, agony written in the ways her eyebrows upturned to such a drastic degree. If there wasn't an actual subject being used, one might have thought Edgar had decided to paint a banshee. However, compared to the rather horrifically painted mother, the baby seemed pure and unknowing. It was still wailing, but it only looked innocent. A lamb pleading to be freed from the wolf poking and prodding at its next meal. Its features were painted with gentle peaches and other soft tones, a prominent softness coming off of the baby. It was glorified to an exaggerated extent, holy in Edgar's eyes maybe. He grinned as he looked onto it, standing back to take it all in.
to say, Edgar was proud, red tainting the tip of his brush in one hand, his arm dripping his paint on the other. Tucking his easel back beneath his sleeve, he deemed his project finished. He turned to the woman, her lifeless body looking on with the resentment she wore towards him at the beginning of their meeting. Edgar turned to her, an almost childish smile gracing his usually scowling features. His face was ghastly pale now, all of the color that would have been on his cheeks marking the canvas. Bright blue eyes contrast the red he loved to wear oh so much, pinched at the corners to show his excitement.
"Do you like it ma'am?" He asked, the woman and her limp infant staring on with apathetic gazes.
Oh, how he wished for someone to give him praise.