Chapter Text
It was all so fucking boring.
He couldn’t fucking work like this, Edward looked at the canvas in front of him, Izzy’s words echoed in his mind,
“Edward, you have a reputation to uphold. I found you another gig, they want a new piece and you need to give them that. Just paint another fucking boat, give them what they already have and love, it pays.”
His fist broke through the fabric, paint coated his knuckles and he stood there alone in silence, just his breath, his frustration, “just give them what they already have”.
Where was the fucking life in that? Where was the meaning, the depth, a purpose, an expression of any sort of emotion, his expression of emotion, reduced to just some, show pony that people could just gawk at. Say some shit like “oh another lovely piece by Black Beard! Always a genius with his work!” what the fuck did they know, didn’t even get his alias right, they just ate little cheese cubes and laughed over champagne. Auctioned off for stupid prices just to be put up on a wall in some rich snob’s home never to be seen again, dare he think even ever looked at.
He rubbed his palms over his eyes, pressed into his temples, god he hated it all. Then an idea came to mind, a dark thought that crawled and writhed into the light. He looked at the smear of paint across his knuckles, he stared at the hole in the canvas. Yeah, he’d give them something fucking new.
He had thrown on a zip-up hoodie, slipped on worn sneakers and left his home. The night air was cool on his face, and he walked.
What if Blackbeard died? Renowned artist Blackbeard found, guts scattered across train tracks, his blood and viscera his final painting upon this hell of an Earth. He could do it, it could end, go down in history, go out while ahead.
He heard the rumble of a train approach, fast, electric, always running getting people to and fro. He stood close to the tracks, and closed his eyes, he felt the train rush past him, wind whipping across his face, he felt his hair feather-light brush on his cheek.
The train passed.
He exhaled, not this way.
Ed looked down at the tracks, just seconds ago he would have made his resting place, and that’s where he saw, the light caught on something, the wind rustling the fur of a rabbit recently crushed. Ribs somehow still intact, intestines spilling out, tangling upon each other. God he could see what was once the top of it’s skull, even an eye, poor fucker, he wouldn’t have even a moment to suffer.
An instant death.
A fate they could’ve shared.
How quickly it would have ended, just gone, it was horrifying, and yet beautiful. Ed knelt down and took a picture of the poor creature jammed within the rails and then stepped back. Another train ran through, passing by, Ed looked back at the remains of the rabbit, now officially unrecognizable.
He stood once again, and walked away.
He pulled out a fresh canvas, tossing aside the punched through scrap, pulled up the picture of the rabbit and began to sketch. He lost himself in the work, honing in on that longing and yet fear of an end, a release. Instead of the old steel of the rails he painted a softer grave, upturned soil grass still peeking about. Dirt, worms, fur, and flesh. All that is it at the end of it all.
Night turned to day and Ed stood back and admired his night’s work. Jostled from thought with a knock upon his front door, he opened it.
Izzy stood there scowling, “You didn’t answer any of my calls Edward. The show opens in a week, do you have anything finished, any updates on anything.” He looked past Ed and saw the ripped canvas, “Anything that’s displayable.”
Ed nodded, “Actually, yeah! Just finished something up. Come on Izzy check this one out.” he was truly proud of it, it was new. Blackbeard was known for brooding storms at sea, dark landscapes, miserable things, manifestations of sorrow.
He stood Izzy in front of his work, eagerly awaiting a response.
“It’s a dead rabbit.”
Of fucking course…
“It’s more than a dead rabbit, look at it Izzy, he’s dead but he’s growing again, something new, from one life into something else, something beautiful yet again.”
“You want to put guts on the walls.”
“It’s not, about the guts Izzy, it’s– fucking lost on you whatever. This is the piece, I want to put this out, Blackbeard is trying something new. Just, it’s what I have, they have other pieces, they have old pieces that didn’t sell from last time. This is the new piece, they wanted something new, this is it. This is what they’re getting.” Fucking hell talking art with Izzy these days was like pulling teeth, his own damn manager, the guy who had to promote him didn’t even get him.
“Suppose it is pretty.”
Ed had already walked to his kitchen reaching under the island and pouring himself a glass of rum and throwing it back like a shot. “Cool, glad you agree, I’ll call you when it’s dry and then we can get them to hang it up on their sterile fucking walls.”
“Ed, this is a good opportunity, they’re featuring only a few artists and they personally selected you to take up the main hall. They're highlighting your work, you have to take this seriously. You are the header on the fucking flyers.”
Ed put his elbows down on the counter, head in his hands, hair enveloping him from Izzy’s point of view.
“Fuck the flyers, fuck being highlighted, fuck the opportunities, fuck all the parties all the little snacks, just, fuck it all man. I just,” he shuddered out a breath, “it used to all mean something, used to be fun. I’m just a damn ghost in every room, no one even knows my face anymore, just my art, and even then they don’t even get it. I’m that fucking rabbit, or at least I wish I was, I want, god, I just need anything to change.”
Izzy looked at the painting again, Edward folded on himself a mass of tangled grey on his kitchen counter, he remembered how Ed used to light up a room, chatting and laughing loudly alongside strangers in small art shows in local bars, as he rose in fame the flame of his passion flickered, and began to burn out, and there he was now, a pile of melted wax.
“I’ll let them know you have a new piece. Get some rest Edward.” and with that Izzy left, shutting the door behind him.
Ed slid down from the counter, sprawled himself across the kitchen floor, looking up at the ceiling, he thought about the train tracks. He dragged his hands across his scalp, pulled his hair out from under him and shut his eyes and waited for sleep to take him far from this moment.