Dark art by me

Wish I knew about this sub-red yesterday. Oh well.

Title: A nut in the pumpkin patch Medium: Digital/Procreate (no ai) Artist: Myself

(old drawing)

Hi I’m ZUMI , I am a Tattooer. I hand draw my flash and designs. Here’s my version of Bride of Frankenstein. Colored Pencil, Gel Pen and Felt Tip. On tracing paper. Drew this up for #Halloween Also this is my first ever post-thx 🎃

I’m a little shy to share my art on Reddit as I’ve had some not too great experiences in the past, would anyone want to see Peter? He’s a representation of my chronic pain/illness, and he has a wee bit of a story as well

Heres my story to go along with the painting:

It's quiet. In a bar, an old man sits alone, his hand resting on a glass that seems to have been placed there just for him. The room he's in reels infinite with the reflections beneath him and a soft, dim light casting everything in a gentle glow. He can't quite see too far out, not knowing what lies beyond his gaze.

Across the counter stands... the bartender, dressed in a deep, dignified red. His expression is calm, steady, almost all knowing; watching the man with a patience that feels both intense and tender. He is someone who has been around a long, long time.

The old man glances up at the bartender, his voice quiet, laced with uncertainty and the faintest tremor of fear.

“Where… where am I?”

The bartender nods slightly, as though acknowledging the man’s confusion. His voice is calm, reassuring. “You’re here.”

The old man looks down, absorbing the words, his hand lingering on the glass. After a moment, he glances up again, his face twisted.

“Are you…” He trails off, unable or unwilling to finish.

The bartender meets his gaze, steady and unflinching, his voice warm and assured, carrying a depth of understanding that seems to reach into the man’s soul. “I am.”

A shiver runs through the man, and he nods slowly, as though he’s received an answer he didn’t fully expect but somehow understands. His hand tightens around the glass, his voice trembling.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” he says, his voice breaking just slightly. “I thought… I thought I’d have more time.”

The bartender watches him in silence for a moment, then speaks, his words simple but carrying an almost unbearable tenderness. “No one ever feels ready.”

The man’s hand tightens around the glass, his voice trembling. “I left things... Words I… I should have said. I wish… maybe I coukd have told them.”

The bartender’s face softens, and his reply is gentle, quiet, as though offering a balm for wounds only he can see. “They know enough.”

The man closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek, his shoulders trembling with the weight of unspoken regrets. “I… I don’t know if thats true,” he whispers. “I don’t know if I even mattered.”

The bartender’s voice is soft, yet it holds a certainty that seems to wrap around the man, grounding him. “You were a piece of it... The design, I mean. Fitting perfectly into all that ever was and ever will be. Every breath, every choice—it set motion, branching outward, touching lives, shaping moments, creating anew. And those paths will lead to others, endlessly, in ways you may never fully know.”

The old man sits in silence for a long moment, his eyes downcast, his voice soft and heavy. “What… what happens now?” He pauses, looking up, his gaze shadowed with uncertainty. “And… what about my regrets? My mistakes?”

The bartender’s expression is steady, filled with a gentle understanding that feels boundless. “They’re part of it, too. Every choice, even the ones that haunt you, was woven in. Even your regrets, your mistakes."

The man’s face softens, a faint glimmer of acceptance mingling with his sorrow. The bartender’s gaze remains unwavering, a quiet reminder that every moment, every choice, has its place.

The man nods, a faint, almost fragile smile touching his lips. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the glass, savoring the moment, then sets it down gently, his face softening, a sense of peace settling over him.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice filled with gratitude. He sets his glass back on the bar's counter.

The bartender inclines his head, his gaze unwavering, his voice full of a kindness that feels endless. “It was my honor.”

The old man sits back, his face calm, his eyes distant as though preparing himself for what lies ahead.

Then, slowly, the bartender’s gaze shifts, lifting to meet YOUR eyes. His expression, steady and knowing, a silent reminder that this moment waits for each of us—that one day, we too will sit here, with our own questions, and he will remember us.

Various grade pencil design of a far too toothsome monster. - inspired by crocodilians, camels and certain eels. Side note - kinda gives me 'mars attacks' or 'they live' vibes.

Acrylic and oil on 18x24 canvas by me