Deformed art

The session with the psychoanalyst had left me on the verge of madness.

I arrived home in a mental whirlwind, unable to be alone with myself.

I desperately prepared some concoctions, trying to anchor myself to reality. I contemplated my paintings, hoping for reassurance, but then something changed.

The figures began to writhe and take on a life of their own.

Misshapen faces emerged from the canvases, staring at me with vacant eyes.

Slimy brushstrokes crawled out of the paintings, enveloping me with their putrefying appendages.

I screamed at the top of my lungs as the creatures born of my deformed art dragged me back into the darkness of the canvas, plunging me into the depths of my own madness.