Houston stood up from his stooped position on the sunken mattress edge. Shuffling over to his one lone window he grabbed a paint stained old t-shirt and used it to gingerly wipe the filth off of the closest pane. The light he allowed entrance made the sorry state of his quarters look all the more uninviting. Piles of soiled clothing, dozens of glass bottles, torn canvas shreds(he could never hold his temper long enough to sleep on it) and empty paint pots from one unkempt corner to the other. No wonder he had not worked in months. How could an artist create in such a state? He sighed heavily to himself and pulled on faded blue jeans with a plaid button up. Clothed and comfortable he surveyed his "work" room, which consisted of his five foot wide, two foot deep closet with the doors removed. The easle sat sad and empty, waiting to fulfill it's sole purpose: to support the realized weight of this man's genius. He was a painter. A **** good one too or so some folks said. He was still a skeptic. Houston mainly painted to control his temper. It was his only outlet for a hair trigger rage that simmered just below his sweet and gentle demeanor. Those closest to him understood his struggle and did their best to not instigate but every once and a while they dealt with the business end of Houston Montgomery. Not a show anyone would want a repeat performance of.
One of his so called "masterpieces" was sold to a gallery down town for twelve thousand dollars last year. Seven months had come and gone since then. . He would trade his most amazing memory to be able to rewind back to that day. Around that time the fates must have decided Houston was having far too much fun. That very same month he also came across a down on her luck actress who went by Sylvia Stone. He had been doing pretty well for himself up until that point. Bills were paid, fridge was full and his clothes were clean. Then everything went to ****. She was easily impressed with Houston's new money and thought jumping on this pony was better than settling for a jack ***. Houston spent more time with her than he had expected. More time than he really wanted but he had not been with a woman in many many months and she was incredible in the sack. She did this thing with her mouth that had his eyes even now rolling into his skull and his spine quivering. Too bad she turned out such a psychotic ****.
His art started to suffer. Normally he could sit down and pump out two pieces a week. For four months straight he only produced three total and they were horrible, shamefully lack luster. He told Sylvia he needed space, that it wasn't because he did not want to be with her but that he needed more time to work. He would get a few pieces done then they could spend a week together. She seemed understanding but distant. Houston went back to dedicating his time to his work. Hoping that after he made some money Sylvia would be open to picking up where they left off, Houston worked quickly to pump out something fantastic.
Things were quiet and productive
for seventeen days.
**Then Sylvia called.
