Through the Eyes of a "Blind" Artist

“You're free now,” they said, batons in hand as they tried to pull my bony body off the conveyor belt I had been sitting on for the last few months.

“We don’t got all day, there are newcomers that need to be conditioned. So, get off… NOW!!”

I begged and pleaded to stay but to no avail. I never wanted to be free. For freedom now meant I was nothing but a bloodless vessel, A machine.

With a force stronger than my own will, the guards pried my resistant body off, pushing me into the line of “graduated thinkers”. A title given to those who passed a rigorous litmus test. All to prove that you thought like them. That you were conditioned, submissive to their every command. I’ve always purposely failed the tests, wanting to stay on the looped conveyer belt that faced a wall filled with the paintings of older, freer times. From the encapsulating landscapes of Monet’s to Washington Crossing the Delaware. There was always something new to find within each piece. Yet now, as I was shoved into a large room, packed in with a dozen other “graduated thinkers”, I realized my luck had run out and randomly picking my answers to the multiple choice questions was no longer a viable option.

Water rushed our bodies as screams echoed. Nothing left me, I was too numb. If only the world’s biggest power hadn’t fallen, then we wouldn’t have been invaded, pillaged, and massacred in our own homes. One might say I was lucky to be alive… that maybe I would become a part of the resistance, if there was one.

No.

As the water dripped from our soaking bodies, black clothed guards threw folded garments at us as their laughs rang. Forcing a fight for survival. For the gift of warmth in these tattered clothes. I didn’t beg, I didn’t fight. I just waited until there was a large ripped short sleeve shirt and shorts on the wet ground. The clothes clung to my body, reminding me of older, peaceful times on a rainy day that I spent with my wife. Memories now soured by her death.

The only thing that made me feel alive were the paintings they used as torture. Why? Why these paintings of freedom and hope? To dehumanize us? To diminish the value of freedom in our minds?

why?

As I was herded out of the confines of the conditioning facility, I glanced back one last time towards the home I’ve survived in and those paintings I so desperately needed to remember. And then, the world I knew was gone and I was in a new space, a hazy fog-ridden place. It was dark outside. Only the lights behind us guiding the way.

“You're free to do whatever you want now, If you survive that is,” said a guard with a high-pitched laugh.

Everyone but me started running, their feet causing dust to stir up from the dirt ground as the guards laughed, placing bets on who would and wouldn’t survive what’s to come. Whatever that was. I was the only one they hadn’t bet on, deeming me the runt that would for sure die first. It wasn’t long before the guards were gone as a mix of inhuman screeches and human screams filled the air. I continued walking, if I died now, then I could see my wife again. I replayed the paintings in my mind, their colors more vibrant. Each step I took, could’ve been my last. Yet, as the screams dwindled, my heart began to race. All those paintings I committed to memory danced in my mind as I thought, maybe I should recreate them. For me. For her.

A memory locked away surfaced as I pictured her twirling blond hair while she spun round with arms wide and an even wider smile as the golden heart-shaped locket I gave her swayed to a stop. We were at Le Louvre, decades before the deadly war, walking past the renaissance paintings she adored like the Mona Lisa towards my favorite rococo piece called The Swing. She enjoyed my company, and I hers. But those were younger times. Now, she’s gone, she chose to die in my eyes. To join the cause that put me on the conveyor belt in the first place. I never resented her for her decision. But maybe I was just lying to myself. I knew she was dead, but the memories lived on. That was my torture. Those paintings that I cherished were laced with pain but the pain numbed the betrayal I felt. The heartache. As the quiet night faded and color filled the horizon, I knew where I was. Cacti filled the empty Nevada desert as the sun rose, bringing heat that warmed my cold soaked clothes. I turned back, dead, scavenged bodies laid on the ground, torn apart. I was the only survivor.

It wasn’t long after the sun rose that two guards came to get me, driving their grey armored vehicle. Its engine hum louder than the chirping birds I’d rather be listening to.

“Wow… we didn’t expect you to be the sole survivor. Honestly, we all thought you’d be the first to go” The guards laughed as they looked at me.

I wanted to feel disgusted, but Instead, I felt rejoiced. I can paint them now. My memories. But I wondered why? Why did those people have to die when I wanted to?

“Consider yourself lucky, bud” A guard's gloved hand hit my shoulder as I got in the vehicle.

“Those beasts were ravenous this time around” Their laughter continued.

Why? Why were you so cruel to the dead?

“What… happens… now?” I could barely muster a whisper after months of quiet.

“Well… since you survived, you passed the selection and now you get to live in the city. We’re taking you there now. You’ll have to get a job soon or else you’ll be back here for being a delinquent, and I highly doubt you want that” A deep chuckle left the guards throat, probably at the thought of seeing me again, this time getting eaten by those beasts I never saw.

I watched the scenery change from the orange desert to the untouched concrete jungle as I looked out a barred window. Eventually, they dropped me off at another center. A place for rehabilitation and a job assignment that I couldn’t choose. And then, I was left to my own devices.

Months passed and my life was filled with struggle. But I had a goal, something to strive for. Every morning before my twelve-hour workday, I would paint. I wasn’t good at painting, but I would still paint. When I came home from work, I would paint until I fell asleep. The first piece I finished was Guernica by Pablo Picasso. Its simpler shapes were easier to mimic than the extensively realistic pieces, like The Last Supper that I would get to later. As I worked on my current piece, The Persistence of Memory, I painted those dropping clocks with several strokes, startled by the growing smile in my features as I finally realized, Life and death were the same, you don’t know when it happens, but when it does, cherish it while it lasts.