A Pianist In The Afternoon (VI)

Morning that day was a little misty and cold. Well, it was much like any other mornings in that city. The painting or sketching man stretched his arms as the rays of the sun peaks through his lonely bedroom. Always, he would walk to his kitchen, sit down at the table, and stare into the air. No breakfast again for today. He sighed in this thoughts. Oh well, time for bathroom. Then he walks into his crampy little bathroom to start his "morning rituals".

His name was Mario. It's not fairly an Italian name, but it will hopefully get him somewhere. Mario lived alone for about four years in The Bend. It's not such a bad place once in a while. Everyday people like Mario walks the street of this part of Milan's wide cities. No one knows for sure where Mario is originally from, it was just known that his father was once a Nazi in Poland, while nothing is said of his mother.

It is around eight in the morning and Mario now strolls down the brick roads of The Bend. Again he passes through the coffee shops and stops at his usual spot. He always carries with him his "artist box"; well, it's mostly a box filled with drafts and sketches and a few artworks that would hopefully sell. As he was trying to find a suitable place for him to sit down and unfold his sketches, he noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. He picked it up and straightened it with his hand. It was the front page of from the daily newspaper. The headline announced of a man who was murdered on the train the night before. It seemed strange that this article would interest Mario, but nevertheless, it slightly intrigued him.

All of a sudden, he remembered a strange afternoon when he was there in that same spot. He was also sketching but he seemed to have been there because he was "taking orders" from someone. The memory suddenly confused him. But how could that be? Maybe I was just dreaming... A nightmare perhaps from all of my days living in The Bend... He tried to comfort himself. I am a painter, a sketcher, and an artist; not a murderer, or a pianist... He thought to himself then he brushed off the confusing memory from his mind; never once wondering why he would think that he was a murderer or a pianist.

Mario sat down by the fountain and began to sketch on his empty canvass. He would be there for the rest of the morning and just a little after three, he hopes. He had several willing customers that day and soon, the sun would be setting. Ah, time to finish and pack up my work. He said to himself as he was putting on his finishing touches to his sketch. It took him about a whole day to finish this piece; like most of the pieces that he draws while he's at the same time selling his finished artworks.

Packed up and starting on the way back to his place, he remembered again the newspaper article on the murdered man. I wonder what happened to him... He pondered. He read again the article in his mind; it told of the death of an ordinary man, strolling and heading for his way home at such an odd hour. The article described it as a "mystery crime" for there was never a clue found on the body on how the man got a wound on his lower stomach. The man had just boarded the last train and sat on a window seat. It was later revealed that the person sitting behind him noticed that he hadn't moved at all after falling asleep; the person sitting beside him bent over to check on the sleeping man. That was when he noticed that his seat was already soaked in blood and that that man was probably asleep for eternity.

Strange how these things would happen in this peaceful part of the city. Mario thought. He was the only one who would think that it was peaceful in The Lilith's Bend. As before mentioned, it was a place that was full of darkness even when it was lighted by lamps.

Finally reaching his apartment, he laid down his "artist box" and took out the piece that he was sketching that day to observe it. It would have been the perfect piece of artwork and he would have hung it up his wall. The problem was that what he drew was something so familiar yet so sickening to him. He hadn't noticed it when he was sketching it, but it had come to a finish when he let his subconscious take over it. He stood there, looking ghastly at the picture before him; a picture that was a sketch of a bloody subway scene in total chaos and found near an exit, is a lone corpse slumped in one of the seats.

Mario couldn't believe what he saw. He couldn't believe what he drew. All thoughts are now swimming in his confused and delicate mind. Suddenly, he was breathing hard. Instinctively, he stepped back and stumbled into the bathroom to grab his medicine from the cabinet. He opened the bottle and took four pills at the same time. Don't panic, don't panic! He calmed himself down and washed his face with the ice cold water from the tap. Wiping his face with his hand then wiping the mirror, he stared into the eyes of the person staring back at his. The person staring back at Mario had a sinister grin and an expression of satisfaction on his face. Something unexplainable has happened. He said.


Part 6 of the Pianist; a long part... I have bright ideas for this one, but it might take a long time again for me to post the next part. :)

Credits:
-Thanks to The Wicked (Glenn) for suggesting that I give Mario a name.