Demon Stories

Blancha: The Subject of the Painting, 1478, Spain

Blancha

The Subject of the Painting

1478, Spain

"Blancha, my Blancha..."

"That is not my name, my Belleza..."

"That is not my name either...it does not matter...it does not matter..."

This name you have given me is suitable still. My true name was given to me by those I hate, calling me this thing full of pain. But you christened me a new name. A lovely name which means to create, and create I do, of the art you love and of the pain. Pain in the love, pain which excites and makes you cry this name. This lovely name.

When I was born, my mother cried so hard she died. The nurse woman could not believe her eyes so she died, too. Or this is how I was told it. My father was so in pain that he threw me away. Unwanted, for I was white as bone exposed in flesh. Too white, too much pain. 

As I grew, my lavender-red eyes scared everyone. One should not have such eyes, they said. A demon has such eyes, you are a demon, you should be dead. 

So as a demon child, I drew ones who are like me. The pain flowed out as I drew the dead things. A dead bird with its neck twisted and its beak facing its back. A frog with insides on the out. My teacher's neck cut open by my knife. 

I sat and watched him die. His eyes stared at me until the last second. Then they fogged over and I drew that, too. I drew his hands, gnarled and in a begging. His wide, gaping mouth, begging, too. The evil man on my paper forever, staring at me. His soul in the paper now, just for me. 

The drawings I buried as I buried their corpses. All the corpses in a row. My lovely things. My leather-bound folio with the yellowed paper inside with all of their souls piled on top of one another, just for me, hiding in the dirt.

As I grew, I got hired to draw other things. People knew I drew, but they did not know what. They wanted portraits for their wedding, a beautiful announcement for their baby. All these I drew, but they never knew. If they had known, what is that they would have done? 

In the house of my teacher I sat for many days at a time, drawing these things. No one knew where he had gone, so I used his house in his absence since I lived there, too. I took his unfinished paintings and painted over their canvases new, better things. Paintings done in red of berry. But it was not real enough. Never could I get the brownish-red which I needed. 

It drove me insane. This brownish-red color. How to mix the colors to get it? None of it was perfect. The ivory of the bone was correct. The hair of the animals was correct. But never was the red of the dried blood on their bodies. Never. 

So I killed a country mouse and squeezed him into my jar. Mixed with water, the blood became brown but not solid, not for a while. I painted with his blood, and how marvelous it became. How correct it became. 

My beautiful, lovely paintings. These perfect corpses painted in blood. But there was never enough. Too long it took to kill another mouse before the painting was done. I would lose the momentum.

That was until he came. How he found me, I do not know. Another demon. A true, real demon. My lovely belleza. My beautiful evil twin removed from me, with black curled hair and body of womanly-ness but still like me in true masculine form. He came with such a blood desire which aided the paintings he so loved and which I loved.

This man. As he made love to me, he gave me a new name because he did not know my language. "Facture," he said, instead of white. Blancha instead of Blanca. And how suitable a new name for me, since I create all of the pain. 

And together we would create pain. Always together. My hauntingly beautiful muse treasure. As I painted him, he laid there, spread out and covered in the blood, sighing with the pleasure of being copied. And his soul was mine, but not on the canvas this time. 

It was in my white, facturing heart, always. Always.