By Myriss
myriss1013@yahoo.com
 

If you have any of my stories archived, can you please
update it with my new email address? I no longer check my
old ones.

Date: Sun, 25 Aug 2002 12:25:14 +0000

DISTRIBUTION:  Ephemeral OK. I will forward to Gossamer
myself. Others OK but please let me know so I can visit.

RATINGS WARNING: R (To err on the safe side)

CLASSIFICATION:  X

KEYWORDS:  3POV

SPOILERS:  Nothing really.

SUMMARY:   What is the thin line that separates madness from
genius?

THE DISCLAIMER:   Any character you recognized from the t.v.
series belongs to 1013 and Fox (except for Scully or Mulder
who belong to each other).  I am just borrowing them.

*AUTHOR'S NOTE*

I am not quite sure how this happened. I sat down to write
some nice  Mulder torture, but instead, Skinner popped up
into the story and would not leave. So here it is--my first
Skinnerfic.

P.S. - This is not quite canon. So if that bothers you,
please don't read. A word of warning. It's one of my weird
fics.

THANKS to Carole for beta-ing.

~~~

Paint By Number
by Myriss (myriss1013@yahoo.com)
 

There are those who are jealous of true genius and seek to
stamp them out...to crush them beneath their feet.  I
suffered such a fate...a man who wore the label of "teacher"
but who was a destroyer instead.

Oh how I hated him.  He would take my pieces...ones that I
had labored over each stroke of a brush or a pen, and he
would ball them up and toss them into the trash.

His voice would reek with contempt.  "There, " he would tell
me, "there is the only place where your art is fit to be
shown", sneering at my tears.

Oh yes, how I hated him!  How his balding head shone in the
northern light. How his glasses would glint, blinding me
with his arrogance.

"Why don't you do something else?" he told me. "You are
wasting my time."

His words drove me mad...drove me crazy...

but they inspired me...I grant him that.  In a fit of
exhilaration and discovery, he became my first piece.

"Screaming Head in a Trash Bin." A severed head painted
blood red, open mouth stuffed with red and yellow tissue
paper, and covered with crumpled drawing paper. Ugliness
silenced by the beauty of truth...

Oh, the accolades I received for that one...the praises...

I thought his hold would be over with my success, but it was
not to be. His voice stuck to me, whispering, calling me a
"failure"--"no talent" and worst of all, "You're nothing but
a paint by number artist."

And the urge to prove him wrong would drive me forth...

*****

I found my second piece after having dropped a cab fare at
the corner of Sayles and First. It was sitting in the
darkness of the alley way. I could see the streetlight
glinting off the corner of its wire-framed glasses and its
shiny bald head.

It was very easy to subdue. It reeked strongly of alcohol
and didn't even notice me as I snuck behind it. I knocked it
out with the butt of the gun that I had begun to carry in my
cab (I had been robbed twice in the past month), then I
bundled it into the trunk of my cab.

It screamed for hours, crying, begging, and pleading. In the
end, the canvas was badly bruised.  I was disappointed. Like
many artists, I had been taught that craftsmanship was a
sign of a true artist. A piece was only as good as the
materials that were used.

After that, I drugged my found objects. Less damage to the
canvas and my ears did not hurt from the screams.

My earlier pieces did not last very long. They began to
develop a stench and neighbors began to complain.
Reluctantly I destroyed  them all except for my first piece:
"Screaming Head in a TrashBin."  I would never part with
that one. I found a safe place to store it and proceeded to
research, experiment, and pefect my technique.

You can see the success in my latest piece.

It started out as an out-of-town computer salesman who
complained bitterly about the heat. It wiped the sweat off
its glasses and its balding head, then tried to sell me a
computer.

Looking up into the rearview mirror, I saw *him* staring
back at me with that characteristic smirk that I so
despised.

Ugliness became my beauty.

"Mastery Over Memory."

A nude male figure with a bulging belly crouching over a
keyboard.  His body covered with microchips. Two power plugs
inserted for eyes. The word "overload" spelled out from the
letters from a keyboard over his mouth.

It received critical acclaim, but alas,  no monetary awards.

I was still a starving artist. I ignored *his* mocking voice
that whispered in the back of my mind that I would never be
more than a cab driver, that I was not a true artist, but a
rubber stamp copy, always imitating...never real.

My art was calling me. My hands itched to create, but I had
yet to stumble on what I could use for my next piece...none
so far had proved suitable.

My masterpiece.
 

*****

The rain poured down in sheets. It was very late at night
and there was hardly any traffic when I picked up my fare at
the airport.

As I slowed to a stop, my heart skipped a beat.

This is what I'd been looking for.

Tall and big, it hung up a cell phone before slipping into
the back of my cabby. It pulled off its glasses and rubbed
its eyes tiredly.

"To the Blue Bay Suite Hotel on Main," it said in *his*
voice.

Trembling, I peeked into the rearview mirror.  *His*
supercilious face stared back at me.

I tightened my hands on the steering wheel....

Oh, yes...

I could finally work on my masterpiece.

*****

I was surprised how easy it was. It had fallen asleep in the
back street. I seized the opportunity and shot it up, then
took it to my studio where I tied it up tight, then I went
through its belongings...

Knowing your material helps working with it.

The name on the driver's license was Walter S. Skinner, but
the face that stared back at me from it was *his* face, the
lips curled the way they did when he was about to let out a
blistering critique about a piece that I had poured my soul
into...

Angrily, I slammed the license down on the studio floor.

I would not let *him* interfere with my work anymore!

I forced myself to finish. The wallet was stuffed. Credit
cards. ATM receipts. Old rental cars receipts. Airplane
ticket stubs. It was obvious that it had not been cleaned
out for years.

There was a small photograph of a little boy--red-haired and
blue-eyed. Curiously I looked at it and flipped it over. On
the back, someone had scrawled, "To Uncle Skinman--thanks
for everything. Will- Age 3."

I set it aside.  Then, a badge. A fucking FBI badge.

My found object was an Assistant Director for the FBI.

DAMN! DAMN! DAMN!

<Stupid, stupid, stupid> *His*  voice whispered mockingly.

I threw the badge hard against the studio wall.

That  won't stop me! I refused to give up. My art comes
first! And when they see it...the beauty of it...they will
understand...Oh yes, they will understand...

"No Man Is An Island. "

Nude male figure, lying prone, covered completely with a
layer of sand. He rests on a platform of blue. He is an
island, an isolated soul. Society binds his hands and feet,
restricting his freedom--repressing. His mouth is agape,
filled with sand. The society feeds him, it fills him full
but yet it starves him...it starves his soul and silences
him by the emptiness...

Tears leapt into my eyes at the beauty of the concept. It
was to be my masterpiece.

A self-portrait of an artist who suffered and has been
misunderstood by those who could not appreciate true genius
when they saw it...

<paint by number.>

Furious, I found myself pummeling the canvas with full
force...

A muffled groan broke through my thick fervor.

Oh god....

I pulled away, frighten at my lost of control.

Have I let *him* ruin it all for me?

No, never.

I soothed my canvas with a caressing hand and bent my head,
trying to calm it by explaining the great gift I was giving
it. It would live forever as my art. One day, generations
would gaze at it, awed by its creation...

I began to tremble with excitement...

It would be my gift to mankind....

*****

I had to leave my piece. I had an artist reception to
attend. A trendy new art gallery was holding a showing of my
abstract watercolor pieces. I could not miss it.

The gallery was crammed. I was very pleased with the
turnout. There was nothing more mortifying for an artist
than to hold a show and noone shows up.

Oh yes. Nothing more.

I stood, watching the people studying my art while sipping
free champagne and nibbling on crackers and cheese. My heart
swelled at the comments I overheard.

Yes, these people understood a true genius when they saw it!
Not like *him*! The Bastard.

No, no. I wouldn't let him ruin this night for me...

Instead they did.  Two FBI agents. A male and female.

They came up to me, flashing their badges and asking
questions. The female agent was a short, little red-head.
The man...

Well, well. My, oh my...how scrumptious....

What a man he was. I could feel the heat curling up inside
of me as I gazed up at him....

Oh yes. What a beautiful man he was.

"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder," he said in that voice of
his.

Ooh, la la, Agent Mulder, did your mommy know what a fox you
would be when she named you that?

He introduced the female agent but I couldn't remember her
name. Who could when there's such a fine specimen of a man
standing in front of you?

God, he made my toes curl!

"You didn't notice whether or not you were being followed
after you picked up Mr. Skinner at the airport?" he asked
me.

I managed to tear my eyes away from his lower lip.

"No, no," I said truthfully. "I didn't notice anyone."

I became fixated by the mole on his cheek. I would like to
lick it...yes, lick it...

"If I did," I said in a low tone, "I would be sure to let
you know, Fox."

The female agent gave a small snort. I shot her a dirty
look. The bitch.

Jealous, are you?

He smiled and nodded at the small abstract watercolors
hanging on the wall. "Is this typical of the work that you
usually do?"

I peered up at him from under my lashes, ignoring the
red-head.

"No, no," I said. "My main work is usually on a larger
scale."

He leaned close. I could feel his breath's warmth on my
cheek. Was that sunflower seeds that I smelled? Oh, God, who
would think that would be an aphrodisiac!

"And with what medium do you work with these pieces?" he
asked, his hazel eyes soulful.

My knees gelled beneath me.

"Mostly with found objects," I managed to say without
stuttering.

He lifted his brows. "Things you pick up on the streets?"

I smiled. "You could say that."

"I would like to see them," he said.

"My earlier pieces are gone," I said.

"Gone?"

"Destroyed. They weren't up to my standards," I replied.

He chewed his lower lip.

Oh, I would give your beautiful lips something to chew on,
Agent Fox Mulder.

"Nothing left?" he asked.

"Gone. Some of the galleries that display might have some
invitations they printed. Or catalogs. Otherwise-- " I made
a gesture with my hand. "Gone."

He sighed, then finally nodded before asking me a few more
questions., then he gave me his business card, asking me to
give him a call if I could remember anything else.

They didn't seem to be suspicious of me. As they were
leaving, I heard the female agent say to him, "Come on,
*Fox,* I want to make a phone call and check on William--"

I didn't hear his reply, but I wasn't worried anymore.
 

*****
 

While Agent Fox Mulder was much more my style, this found
object was beautiful in its own way.

I picked up a chipped shaving mug. Besides the scars on my
back, it was the only thing that I had left of my father.
Humming softly to myself, I lathered up the shaving soap
with a brush.

Then carefully, I lathered it and carefully shaved it,
watching the sharp edge of the razor skim the hair that
covered its large, muscular body...over its legs...its
buttocks...its smooth back...

Oh yes, it  was beautiful in its own special way.

I've been taught that an artist works with the material he
has. If he fights it, he will inevitably lose. That's why
they are kept alive. Death makes them too rigid to work
with. In the end, the piece loses some of its vitality.

I spent the next hours trying to fnd the perfect placement
and form...contemplating from every angle.

When I created, I knew how nirvana must feel.

Nothing else existed but the piece before me...
 

*****
 

There was pounding at the door. The door splintered open.

The next thing I knew I was being pushed face down on the
ground, my hands being roughly handcuffed behind me.

And my studio was crowded with people. They were trampling
everywhere.

I screamed at them. They were ruining my work! They were
just like  *him*!

The female agent was kneeling down by my canvas, calling,
"Sir, sir. It's me. Scully. It's okay. It's
okay...everything will be okay. We have you now, Sir."

Then I saw Fox Mulder kneeling beside her, one arm going
around her...the other hand reaching out and touching the
canvas that laid in front of them...

I called to him and pleaded with him to tell them to
stop...that they were destroying my work...that they were
standing in the way of great art...but he ignored me...

And then I could hear *him* laughing...laughing...and his
voice pounding in my ears...

<paint by number. paint by number. paint by number>

And I began screaming....
 
 
 

The End
 

*AUTHOR'S NOTE*

A few months ago, I read a news article about a man who had
an art showing of real corpses that had been flayed. It did
not mention where he got the corpses from, but it did convey
that the man (a doctor, I believe) really believed he
created great art.

Then watching one of those history channels, I found out
about a French doctor who perfected a technique of
embalming.  He would inject embalming fluid into a corpse
and carefully peel back the body layers. They said that his
fianc had died and supposedly he had taken her body and
performed the same technique, too. His stuff was used to
help teach medical student anatomy.

As an artist myself, I couldn't help wondering if he
actually thought he was creating great art. After all, both
Leonardo Da Vinci and Michelangelo dissected the human body
in order to create the human figure better.

That's how the story came about.

And fortunately, unlike the POV in the story,  I had
teachers who encouraged me in my artistic endeavors but I
have heard horror stories from fellow art students who
didn't.

As always, constructive criticism is welcome, though.

Myriss myriss1013@yahoo.com