Crimson

True Purpose

Lupe had been painting for years, won various competitions, and had her work sold in galleries and auctions around the world.
She was fucking famous.
"I was fucking famous" she'd say to every glass of brown honey-flavored whisky she brought to her lips.
Her fame collapsed quickly, and her friends eventually stopped calling. The large house, which would once hold lavish parties, now sat empty save for one sad woman, forever staring at an empty canvas. She'd lost the edge. She'd lost the soul.
"Soul's gone" she'd say.
She was talented, there was no doubt, and no one could tell the difference between something she'd pulled out of her ass a week before and the next Starry Night.
But she wasn't content with the toilet paper anymore. Only the bottle seemed to satisfy her anymore.
The only person to ever really call in anymore was Marcus. And even then, he was only a messenger for his boss, Santos.
In recent weeks, Lupe had burnt through a lot of the cash she'd saved up from her last gallery and times were getting tough. She was getting desperate. Jimbo at the liquor store down the street started expecting the money "up front" when she wanted to grab some booze.
"Motherfucker."
So she borrowed some money.
"Lots of people borrow money, even rich people borrow money."
But now Santos was after her.
"He can wait in line behind Jimbo."
Still, Lupe was unfulfilled. She painted a line, drank, sliced open her finger, closed her eyes when the stream didn't want to stop and listened to the sounds of the house settling and the neighbors mowing their lawns and then suddenly-

Silence.