Beautiful Madness

When I was at last free from the awful asylum I moved to Auvers. There I lived, under the careful watch of Dr. Gatchet, who Theo had sent to look after me. While living in Auvers I painted more than I ever had before. Some weeks I would paint something new every single day, while others my depression would come back to haunt me and days would pass before I attempted to paint again. Life went on in this pattern for some time, I didn't necessarily enjoy it, but I didn't dislike it either.

It was another hot July day when things changed. Not long before I'd been to Paris to visit Theo. He was married now, and had a son that they called Vincent. I could tell something was off. He was stressed and I couldn't quite figure out why, that is until I overheard him speaking to Joanna, his wife. I felt a sudden bout of guilt when I realized the cause of his stress. Not only was he trying to support his family, but for many years now he'd been supporting me as well.

That was not all, he was ill, he had been for some time, and I knew it was worsening even though he didn't say. He assured me all was well before I left, and in his letters after that, but I knew very well that was a lie.

The next day, hoping to clear my mind of these worries, I set out to paint.

* * *

The sky was painted a thousand shades of blue and gray and black, colors of sadness and pain. The field of wheat burned a bright yellow in the warm afternoon sun, a color so bright it was blinding to the eyes, so bright it seemed to give off a certain warmth. But the sky was so dark, so cold, and then came the clouds. The clouds that filled the sky in a single swift movement, pushing away the sun's light, and leaving the once beautiful field just another shade of dull gray. Even the yellow warmth of the wheat was gone, as though the color had been drained from it and replaced with a bland substitute.

The clouds brought with them a certain feeling of hopelessness and despair, as if trying to trick me into believing the sun would never return. Perhaps it wouldn't. I stepped into the field, setting aside a painting of the beautiful scene before it had turned cold and lifeless, another painting that would forever be beautiful in no one's eyes but my own.

What was the point in staying here?
The thought came suddenly and without warning, refusing to leave my mind. My fear failed to push it away, as my hand felt its way to my belt and closed around the pistol it held.

What reason do I have to remain here, in a cold world where I am nothing but a burden to others?

The wind roared as I raised the gun hesitantly. I slowly turned it over in my hands, and drew it closer to my body, until I held it only inches from my racing heart.

Why should I stay in this world so full of anger, pain, and hatred?

My thoughts grew darker, the questions continuing to come, while their answers drifted away.

Why stay in a place so full of anger, pain, and sadness… the sadness will last forever.

I placed my finger on the trigger.

* * *

That evening's cold air awoke me. I still lie in the quiet wheat field, surrounded by darkness. Realizing I was not yet dead, I gathered my strength and wandered home, the pain from the shot growing worse with each step.

A concerned neighbor, Mr. Ravoux, had come to see if I was alright after witnessing me returning home. Upon hearing what happened he immediately called a doctor.

A telegram was sent to Theo, who arrived the next morning.

"Why have you done this Vincent?" he said as he pulled up a chair and sat beside me. I couldn't begin to answer the question, especially not to him. I had the feeling he didn't want an answer anyway. His eyes were tired and weighted with the troubles he'd seen, so many of which, I now realized I had been the cause of.

"Am I going to die Theo?" I asked. I couldn't keep my voice from shaking as I spoke.

"No, of course not." He said, a bit doubtfully it seemed to me. "You're going to be fine." I don't think either of us knew for certain who he was reassuring.

That is what he said then, but the day went on and my temperature mounted, while Theo and Mr. Ravoux's expressions grew more and more concerned.

That evening he thanked Mr. Ravoux and sent him home, and then it was just the two of us. He sat at my bedside, mostly in silence, getting up only to fill my pipe from time to time.

I asked him again, when the silence became unbearable. His response was not as immediate this time.

"No," he said finally. "No, you'll be alright."

I'd known him long enough to recognize the way his face changed when he was lying, and I think he knew that.

"It's for the best." I said. "What will the world be without me but one person less?"

"Don't say that―"

"But it's true, don't you see." I interrupted, my voice raising as I spoke. "I am nothing, nothing at all! Nothing but the mad painter that frightens others away! Nothing but a burden to others! I am―"

"Quiet!" Theo said. "I refuse to listen to these lies."

I will never be good enough, I will never be anything. When I am gone I will be nothing but a memory fading away over the years…

Theo took my hand. "I know what you're thinking." He said softly, his voice calm and comforting. I made no attempts at a protest. "And don't think for a second that it's true."

We sat for the rest of the night in silence.