My name is Siša and I have a five-digit personal identifier. An obsessed aristocrat gave it to me in exchange for a mediocre painting. He had spoken to me in that calm, gentle and distant manner they use to assert power.
“How much?”
I found it a ridiculous question. The showing had barely begun and the painting wasn't even my best work there. Obviously, he had come for neither the paint nor the brushstrokes, so I asked for his most valued possession. His high rise was stormed the next week, and that painting and his life were taken. In the idiot's defense, the shading was some of my best.
I take what's left of my Vidalin. I call in my agent, the one who thinks she's in charge. I draw her a vial with my fingers. She glares at me and I look away.
“By the way, you have a showing at a charity in four weeks.”
“Why? Another poem?”
“Yes. And keep it palatable, please. The secretaries will be there.”
I look at her.
“They want an outsider.”
I let out a deliberate sigh as she leaves. Most of these people have never seen someone so meager before. I am exotic because I could never afford the privilege of living beyond reality. They like to debate the value of people they have never met, exemplifying with my art and expecting me to affirm whatever inane ideas they have. But I make a living being their voiceless pawn.
An outsider.
I close my eyes. Vidalin does not play well with neuroticism. It's kicking in now. I feel the faint flashes of a face, bathed in color. Right there, that concentrated look. The surrounding machinery and its dance of light. Steady hands manipulating something, grasping at an idea that is almost gone. Out of instinct I grab the brushes. When I dose I have visions. It's manufactured creativity and it helps me stay on top of everything. I don't dream anymore.