Inspiration springs from necessity.

David Li could not recall where he had first heard those words, but tonight they clung to him, shouting at him, demanding to be heard. Inspiration and necessity. Intrinsically bound to one another.

David needed to take control. He needed to prove himself and to make good on his potential. He needed something, anything other than this failure of an existence. Most of all, he needed to create, to take his brush to a canvas and will an image into being – to pull it into existence from nothing, as if the very fact of his need could usher into being a spark of inspired resolve where currently he found only an empty bitterness. He needed...

"I need a drink."

The bartender raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." David cocked a glance at the tap. The handles blurred, and he rubbed at his eyes. His vision cleared momentarily then immediately blurred once more. He decided to take a stab in the dark.

"You got an amber on draft. Don't care which."

"Whatever you say." The bartender grabbed a pint glass from under the counter and headed off.

David could feel the man sneaking a glance his way, but the bartender's face was as blurry as the draft handles. David blotted at his eyes again. Still nothing. He blinked and his vision cleared for a moment, but only a moment. His vision had been fading for over a year now.

Struggling, David pushed that thought away. If he dwelled on it for too long, he wouldn't be able to think about anything else.

The bartender returned. "Seven dollars."

David pulled out a ten. "Keep the change."

He winced as he said it. Everything was too damn expensive in the city. Everything. Hence the necessity. David needed cash. His funds were running low and his debt way too high. Isn't that the way of it, now, he thought. A generation drowning in debt before they even begin?

He laughed. Something about the bleakness of it all made it morbidly amusing. David didn't think of himself as a cynical person - somewhat down, but far from the bitter man he could see in himself at that moment. His mind had chosen dark paths to follow this evening, and he reveled in it, not just basking in the misery, but more drawn to it. That darkness overpowered him and he had no choice but to immerse himself.

Somewhere, deep down in David's subconscious an alert sounded. David was no martyr, and self-pity though a path he occasionally traveled was not one upon which he lingered often. It was good for a brief visit, but extended stopovers never led anywhere worth the cost of the stay. Something wrong, something unseen bored in, digging its claws down deep.

The bartender raised his brow once more, as if to ask 'what's so funny,' took the bill, and wandered off to the next customer before David could explain himself. Not that David planned to say anything in his defense, anyway. Why bother? At the far end of the bar, the bartender and his new customer faded away into little more than vague shapes of color.

David reached into his pocket and pulled out a small eyedropper. He tilted his head back applying two drops to each eye, and then blinked, artificial tears streaming down his cheeks.

That's better, he thought as his vision came into some semblance of focus. Still, pocketing the dropper, he could feel his anxiety stealing back in. The drops were almost gone and he was already out of lid scrubs. He didn't have to look in his wallet to know that he lacked the cash to stock back up. Payday was over a week away.

What's a painter without his eyes? he asked himself. Royally screwed, came the inner reply.

He took a long swig of his beer, and then took in the bar around him. A pub like many others, a scattering of table lamps cast a warm dim light over the sparsely populated establishment. A few drab landscapes lined the dark walls, most placed in vain attempts to conceal the bar's slow decay. The gesture failed miserably. Flecks of peeling paint and water stains protruding beneath poorly sealed windows stood as damning evidence of the bar's decline.

In a corner booth meant for four, a solitary old man dozed. His breaths came slow and ragged, and for a moment David's gaze lingered there, half-expecting the man to expulse his last breath, slump back against the booth, and bid adieu to his mortal coil. The man snorted, swatted a string of snot from his nose, then rolled his head to the side and continued his slumber.

The bartender and a young college girl wearing a USC cap chatted it up at the other end of the bar. David couldn't get a direct view on them, but he could vaguely discern their reflection in the mirror lining the back of the bar. Closer by, a few hipsters sat beneath a high window in newly aged, mildly ironic t-shirts exchanging tales of sellouts and pontificating on authenticity.

Nothing about the bar stood out. Same orange barely-there lighting. Same concrete floors, dark red booths, and wooden tables as a dozen other local bars. Same depressing early-evening atmosphere.

Nonetheless, David found himself oddly drawn to the place. Connected to it, as if it ebbed and flowed with some hidden source of inspiration, a source that pulled at the back of his mind, begging for attention and lighting the creative fire. For a moment he forgot about his slowly diminishing vision and his meager bank account, and he settled in.

The place felt not peaceful, but right somehow. Even in its depressing décor, it mirrored him. The bar had seen better days and now it wallowed with him in the misery of the L.A. evening, sweltering in the dry heat. David sipped his beer and relaxed.

***

The day had started off with a glimmer of hope, which had been far too infrequent as of late. David had many talents, but networking, which was the lifeblood of a city that thrived on entertainment, that talent had never graced his repertoire. The hard truth was that David was terrible at networking, or socializing, or simply communicating with people at all. So when Joe Garrett, David's old painting professor, had landed him a meeting with fellow Cal Arts alum, Kris Glazer, it meant more to him than just a courtesy hello. To David this meeting represented a life preserver – a first step to pulling his head above water.

If the meeting went well, maybe there'd be another meeting, and possibly another, and maybe, just maybe, David could spin that into an actual opportunity. He needed the trust of one of the landed elite, someone that could proffer his name to a gallery or even to an apprenticeship program. He needed someone that knew how to navigate the slick-suited, onerous waters of the meet-and-greet and the cocktail hour schmooze-fest.

Kris Glazer just might be that person for David. The man may not yet have been walking the halls of artistic royalty - lacking his Piss Christ, or Tilted Arc – but his star's ascension had become a forgone conclusion. One spark, one painting at the right moment in time striking the right chord (and discord) and Kris Glazer would rise. Even in the interminable wait for that final catalyst, Glazer had been accepted into the elite if not into the highest pantheon.

So when David had set off down Franklin exiting from the shit-heap of an apartment building that he called home, he had started that afternoon with an unusually prominent sense of optimism. It had comforted him, as if spending a day with a childhood friend and finding yourself slipping right back into your high school roles, the years and hardships in between rendered meaningless.

Even strolling down Highland, pushing through the throng of tourists amassed at the commercial Mecca that had sprung forth around the former Grauman's Chinese Theater - a trap that David avoided whenever possible – he found himself holding out hope for the future ahead. The pot-bellied Spider-Mans and more appropriately drug-addled Jack Sparrow impersonators could do little to dampen his spirits.

Of course there was one man that could rain on his parade. Rain? No, it didn't rain in Los Angeles. Shit. There was one man that could shit on his parade, crouch down and take a rotten dump right on it. That man, of course, was Kris Glazer.

A little after five that evening, David had given up on him, just over an hour past their arranged meeting time. A little after six he finally received a text begging off with a rain check. No, begging gave Glazer too much credit. The man brushed David off with a weak, ephemeral offer of rescheduling.

Swamped. L.A., right?
Another day?
TY, man!

Fucking Glazer.

***

David downed the remainder of his beer and signaled for another. He couldn't see clearly, but David was fairly certain the bartender rolled his eyes at the gestured request. Fuck him, too.

Waiting on his beer, David envisioned Glazer stepping through the threshold, squinting blindly as he pushed into the darkness. David had more than a few choice words for him. He'd smile and wave him over to an empty stool. Then as Glazer sat his smug ass down beside him, lightly clasping the edge of the bar as he scooted into position, David would bring his pint glass down hard on those delicate fingers. He'd slam it down until the glass spider-webbed and shattered, and then he'd grab the biggest broken shard he could find and cut those fingers, filleting the flesh, yanking it back, and avulsing skin and meat from the bone beneath.

David shuddered. What the hell? He had never in his life envisioned harming someone, not seriously, and yet if he dared close his eyes he could see the skinless fingers of Kris Glazer, mutilated beyond repair. He could taste the ecstasy in slicing away the skin and knowing that this dick would never paint again. He could...

...he could taste the vomit forcing its way up. David swallowed the bile down and clenched the bar, waiting for his stomach to calm. The image flickered before his eyes like fairy lights flitting across his vision after straining his eyes shut. Yes, something was definitely wrong. Why couldn't he stop fixating on filleting Glazer's fingers? Why were all his thoughts so bitter and dark, and so utterly unlike his normal self?