Page 223 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

crescent moons. I dropped the finger bone to the floor and
continued into the next room.
The walls of the galley were like curving glass, the frozen
contour of a sea wave sweeping over and above the room,
framing the art of hell in cleanest relief. As I looked out
across the arcade of dead things, I realized my own works
had yet to outnumber those of my father’s. His life was spent
almost entirely upon his art, and the grey that swam through
his hair remarked on the length of his time upon the earth.
My eyes landed upon the centermost piece, showcased
like a diamond upon a bed of silver. It was my father himself,
just as I’d left him. The recollection fell upon me like a
ravenous beast, ripping through layers of forced forgetting,
sinking stained teeth into the flesh of my hidden, tender
memory.
My father was my first piece of art. The realization drew
me into a red memory.

***

When I entered the gallery, my father had already placed
the bag filled with the two smiling twins upon the floor.
He stood at his work area, a place covered in the stains of
countless works, many still in their incipiency. As he sorted
through a variety of his wicked “artist’s tools,” I noticed
something was wrong—the occupants of the bag weren’t
crying out. In fact, they might have been giggling. Out of
nowhere, the gleam of a knife pierced the big bag. I chose
to say nothing—they say curiosity is the muse of any good
artist.
The girls slipped silently from the bag, twin shadows
brandishing bladed smiles. Within seconds, the candlelight
was gone, replaced with dancing, glittering laughter. A
voice from somewhere behind me spoke, filling me with
unexpected glee. It whispered, “Hello again, Vincent. We

226 | Mark Anzalone