by J. R. Rain
And now, as the blood dripped steadily from his dangling fingertips, the vision, which had been losing it sharpness with the congealing of his blood, came starkly back into focus.
Leo had a painting to do.
He touched the tip of his paintbrush to his palette, rolled it gently, applying the perfect measure of light desert auburn mixed with pure white, and turned to the half-finished painting before him. And for the next hour or so he transferred the burning image of his mind to the canvas, twice more knocking away the damnable coagulating scabs.
And when the painting was done, when the bucket was splattered with his blood, Leo nearly wept at the painting’s beauty.
* * *
Seven years ago, Leo Dershowitz discovered his artistic muse. It came, quite literally, with a bang.
Seven years ago, the now very famous artist Leo Dershowitz would be the first to admit that he had been just a very average artist. None of his work stood out. He had been twenty-eight years old and he was miserable. By this age he was supposed to have been a famous artist, right? In the least, he was supposed to have his own art gallery, or a line of greeting cards.
Due to his predisposition for laziness, Leo had decided early on in life that he would become a professional artist. This was back in junior high, back when he was already sick to death of hearing his damn alarm clock going off each morning. It was on such a morning, after having pressed the snooze button for the umpteenth time, that he decided that he was going to find an occupation in which he never had to wake up early again, an occupation in which he could sleep in as long as he wanted, an occupation in which he made his own hours.
Having just made the bus and looking down at the fairly simplistic-looking Latin-American painting on his Spanish textbook, Leo was struck with an idea.
He, too, would become a painter!
After all, he enjoyed creating and didn’t his second grade teacher, Mrs. Garth, once say that a finger painting of his had been fairly good? She had indeed. Most importantly, though, Leo was fairly certain painters could sleep in as late as they wanted.
He never looked back.
Leo threw himself into art, taking class after class, in high school and college, leaving behind an insubstantial trail of uninspired paintings. You see, Leo wasn’t very good at painting.
Leo eventually flunked out of college. His major, of course, had been art. Many of his classes were before noon, and that just wouldn’t do.
In the real world, he refused traditional jobs, especially jobs that called upon him getting up too early. Leo valued sleep above anything else, even above eating and having a roof over his head. At one point he lived under a freeway overpass, where he sometimes slept all day, lulled comatose by the steady drone of car engines.
Interestingly, Leo really did love painting. And the more he doggedly pursued it, the better he got at it. But getting better at painting, didn’t necessarily mean he was still any good at it. At least, not good enough to earn him any sort of steady income.
Which is why he often lived with older women who supported him. He called them sugar mommas, but not to their faces. To their faces, he called them whatever they wanted to hear. When the sugar mommas got sick of him freeloading off them, Leo would move back in with his parents. Leo didn’t care where he lived. As long as he had his precious, uninterrupted mornings—and a place to paint.
Through thick and thin, Leo Dershowitz never gave up. Give him that. He was going to make it as an artist, even if it killed him.
And, in the end, it did.
* * *
Seven years ago, Leo Dershowitz’s mundane, uninspired life would forever change with a shard of glass.
After a night of partying—and living alone for the first time in a long, long time (his last girlfriend had tossed him out after discovering him riffling through her purse)—he had been taking out the trash the next day.
The Hefty bag was full of glass bottles, some broken, from the small party he had thrown the night before. Leo often threw such parties with his local artist friends in Los Angeles, many of whom were not very good either. Leo hated good artists. He was deathly envious of them, mostly because he could not understand them.
So Leo’s parties were generally small affairs, filled with other artists like himself; that is, the uninspired, the hacks, and the unimpressive. Leo liked it that way. He was fairly certain that he was at least as good or better than most of his unimaginative friends, and that always made Leo feel good. Of course, if any of his artist friends did become too good, or too successful, Leo would drop him or her immediately—and have nothing more to do with them.
Now, heading to the dumpster that late afternoon, the half-asleep Leo swung the plastic trash bag about rather recklessly, a bag full of bottles and, most importantly, broken bottles.
Leo couldn’t help but to notice when the bag stopped swinging. He especially couldn’t help but notice the blinding pain in his left leg.
He looked down. Amazingly, the bag appeared stuck to his leg. But that wasn’t right. No, a broken piece of glass, poking through the bag, was, in fact, embedded in his left leg.
Leo yelped—and pulled the bag away. As he did so, a crimson arch of blood spurted from the very deep wound in his shin. Leo felt lightheaded. He was certain he was going to faint.
But he didn’t faint. And that’s when it happened.
For the first time in Leo’s life, inspiration struck. And boy did it strike...
The Bleeder
is available at:
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Audio Book * Paperback
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About the Authors:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie. Please visit him at: www.jrrain.com.
Elizabeth Basque lives in southern California, where she’s hard at work on her next novel. Please find her on Facebook here:
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