The story is fiction, yet the artwork is real.

The story does contain some graphic imagery, art terms etc.

'The Anguished Man' is an eerie portrait with an unknown history dating back to presumably, Northern England. It's one of the worlds most haunted painting.

This distorted image depicting a figure howling in excruciating pain's medium is blood. This medium has a conceptual meaning and could represent the artist's identification with life and death.

This nightmarish subject matter has inspired this book 'The Painters Death Wish' after the discovery of the artwork, it is sad to announce, that after completing the artwork, the artist committed suicide.

An example of a blood painting would be this landscape painting done by Merryn Singer, rendering death camps during Apartheid.

All Rights Reserved

© 2019 Bronwyn Lawrence

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Accolades:

The Imperial Awards 2020

The Northern Scribe Award for Genre Champion of the Paranormal Genre:

Certificate:

Review:

THE PAINTERS DEATH WISH/PARANORMAL_PRINCESS

I have read stories with psychological dilemmas however, B.C. Lawrence's Painter's Death Wish shoved my curiosity. The story was written in an emotionally gruesome way. The story revolves of a boy who is in deep aesthetic madness caused by his confusions of real art. "Is blood not thicker than the paint?" Literally, the painting's medium is the painter's blood and flesh. The author's ideology on psychologically troubled individuals is an eye opener for everyone that the horrors they face are not just a typical fears but tormenting nightmares. Every book is not worth comparing to any other stories because it has its own uniqueness and standout at its genre. And this one, the author just nailed it.

The Rainbow Awards:

Third place for Mystery/Thriller:

Review:

The Crown Awards

First place for Paranormal:

Gen Z Awards

First place for Horror

Thank you so much for the support ;D, Happy reading.

Picture this:

In the Mental hospital in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.

Van Gogh muttering to himself in his room, with a palette of many colours. He mixes primary colours to get his pigments. He looks through the window unparsed by the bars. He starts to twirl swirls with the flick of his wrist he is in a self-imposed state. A nurse strides in, carrying his morning meal but he remains fixed. She drops the medicine into his drink, puts it on the counter. He's silent but his neighbours aren't. He is an emotive artist. Splaying his feelings onto the canvas. His neighbours don't understand him, call him a loner. One does notice this silent man. One with a dusty paintbrush.

He was inspired the one day when watching through his window; standing in the frame. Van Gogh would paint the gardens, the patients walking about. Oblivious to his secret admirer who mimicked his technique to only be frustrated. Van Gogh had even been given a studio, an extra room to produce a series of artworks. His secret admirer had the confidence to approach him the one day.

"As for me, my health is good, and as for the head it will, let's hope, be a matter of time and patience."

He gave his admirer more reason to idolize him. He tried countless times to create art. It just led to his demise, in that he never felt fulfilled by his work. It made him question art. What is art? There is no art that is good or bad or deemed unworthy to public appeal. He thought to himself while strolling the pale corridors with flowers marking the windowsill. Van Gogh would paint what was in front of him, he thought. What about painting internal, what lies inside. He didn't dare open the shadows of his mind in fear that it would consume him. But isn't that art? To create something miraculous that would shock people, create awe in their minds. Or is art conventional? Is it conceptual? He fought these thoughts daily but decided to face his inner core.

The room lacked creativity. The walls were white. He'd used it as a canvas, to only be dragged away by the nurses. He'd sit with his mangled thoughts in the corner, weeping. "Is blood not thicker than paint?" he flustered. He decided to barricade himself in his room; to stop the judgment of the doctors. He had a canvas, only one. He needed only one, for the other was complete. He sat naked, near the window covered with his mattress. He started to thread his skin with a knife he stole from the kitchen, slicing from his chest he cried. He'd stop in-between, to catch his breath. Watch as the liquid flowed down to his member. The nurses caught on to his act, trying to open the door. But he started already, to mark the canvas with his medium. He had already plastered it with acrylic, adding blood would be his impasto. He would sob in-between screams, he's looking to the wall, remembering that he was the artwork.

"Is this art?" he'd ask himself.

He had pieces of himself in a bucket, thin strips of skin. He picked them up, watched droplets of red dot his palm. And he started to mould it, taking a thread and crafting an object. As if it were cloth he created a makeshift butterfly, with his chest hair and matter. He made clean cuts, to him it was beautiful. When he started to feel his strength fading he went to his canvas, with his thumb he finger-painted onto the acrylic. They were trying to jam open the door, they were nearly inside. When he was done, he took a step back to admire it. To cry. He went to the wall, sat down and leaned his head onto the brick. A bellowing scream escaped his lips and he started to bang his head against the wall. A foot appeared in the crack of the door, his head cracked at the crown. He carried on, marking the wall with colour. One knock, the second killed him.

His body was cold by the time they reached him, his face unrecognizable. His head had a dent, and his brain was displayed. Blood splatter leads to the image on the wall, colourful the red of his blood decorated her dress. It was of a woman laying down, with her body to the side and her hand out. She looked as if she was reaching to him as if he needed a helping hand. The flesh on his bed, the object that caused a blonde nurse to scream was of a butterfly, with its wings almost glued to the sheets. When the doctor came in, with the crinkling moustache he looked to the canvas on the easel. The portrait was of a figure, screaming as if in such agonizing pain he wasn't able to voice it. The doctor looked to the patient, his heart out to him.

"Sell it," he said.

"He has no family," he walked to the door, "Everything about him, is amiss."

The unmoving eyes of the paintings were neither comforting nor iridescent of their vibrancy. The eyes were as bleak as those of the Mona Lisa. She found comfort in knowing that she wasn't alone; the schools of people were suffocating her. Before, being swallowed into the next lecture-she got a call from Harry.

"The tours started babe I can't chat right now."

She ducked her head between students in an attempt to hide, forgetting that she was short enough to disappear amongst the masses. "Yes, I love you."

"How much?"

"Harry, you can't ask me that right now."

"Dona my dear Dona," he said. "Confess your love to me."

"Sounds like you've been busy with your poetry."

He took a few seconds to reply. "Maybe". He chuckled," Dona, answer the question."

" I love you so much; I can't even explain just how much. I'm at a loss for words Harry."

"Try to."

She sighed with a smile and her eyes scanned the room. It was as if she was trying to find solace in a romantics painting. One painting has a Rembrandt effect that gave her no thought like that of a romantic. Harry stowed her away from her thoughts by saying," Quote a line from a poem."

She stood near Eugène Delacroix's painting of Liberty Leading the People and got an idea. "How about from an artist?".

Harry took a moment to consider it. "Nope."

She smiled and looked at her wristwatch that glinted on her caramel skin. She looked up to notice that Jasmine was engrossed in another art analysis with the group. As her hand rested to her side, her bracelet squeaked next to her watch. Her Harry bracelet, with his name, etched onto the silver.

"From Miranda in the Tempest by Shakespeare, when she asked him do you love me, do you know what he said?"

"Do tell."

"Beyond all limit of what else in the world. Do love, prize, and honour you". She giggled," You know you're supposed to say that to me."

"I've got one; I'll leave you to your tour after it."

"Okay." Jasmine's Afro was perked with enthusiasm this morning; the checkered female has many questions for the guide. Dona shook her head at the sight of her, smiling unbeknownst.

"A love lyric by the famous James Graham, I'll only say the first stanza."His words distorted the sounds around her, and she found herself moving around the area aimlessly. She occasionally looked down at the floor to avoid the eyes of paintings. There was this unrelenting feeling that kept gnawing at her, from the moment she walked in. As if she was being watched by more than a painting.

She started to walk around the museum corridor, staring at one artwork to the next." My dear and only love." He accentuated his words. "That little world of thee, Be governed by no other way. Than purest monarchy," she walked passed The Virgin on the Rocks artwork. " For if confusion has a part, and hold a synod in thine heart." Dona stopped at La Belle ferroniere and Harry continued to say," I'll never love thee more."

By the time she slid into line, Jasmine's analysis was over. She stood next to Dona was a confident smirk and twitched her eyebrow. "You guys are just adorable." Her words were going to side-step into a new subject. "You know what isn't adorable?" Her words took a slant yet again into her usual rant involving what she deemed to be the atrocities of the world. "War doll, war." She used artworks as a reference before changing the subject.

"By the way, how's your blog going?"

"It's going well. When I went to Spain to do an article and vlog about Dali, I got a few more sponsors and requests."

"Interesting, where too next?"

"One right here in France, another from Norway and England."

"I'm hoping to go with Harry to the next one, but he is releasing his book during that time."

"I heard, he has done quite well with his poetry." The tour guide led them into the next hall.

" Who knew that one day in a bar, spoken word poetry would become something?"

"Yeah, and not so long ago he finished his M.A in Organisational studies." She continued to say," Me on the other hand; I'm waiting for one artwork in particular."

"Which is?"

Before she answered; she felt a lump in her throat. The icy wind wasn't only cold to the touch, but she could feel its hands on her. The slow rising panic subsided as she stopped to turn around. It immediately caught her attention. The artwork on the far side of the interior was covered by a black veil.

"What's that?."

Jasmine turned to check out what's caught her eye. "Check the sign."

PERSONAL ONLY

"It figures." Jasmine turned to her." It doesn't look like anything important."