The bed creaks beneath me as I awaken and rise out of bed. It’s cold out, it makes my bedroom cold. As I stand, my raggedy nightgown hanging just below my knobby knees and my wiry white beard itching my neck and chin, I’m standing face to face with horrible, painted art. It’s hideous, I hate it. It’s ugly and I hate it all. It’s a disgrace to say that the art was my own. Meaningless paintings cover my walls from top to bottom. Paintings of happy families, fruit, and the occasional portrait. I should have given up this career path years ago. I’m poor. I have no family or friends. All I have is the voices. The voices of people who aren’t really there. Sometimes I think they are really there. Those are bad days, when I can see the people who speak to me in my head in my own living room. The despots threaten to hurt me every time I see them, but they haven’t yet. I don’t think they really could anyways.
That’s why I started painting. It was to cope, and to escape the voices. But they always find me. But today, I don’t think they will… I haven’t heard them in quite some time. So it’s final, today I will paint. They hate it when I paint, they’ve only ever let me make those meaningless pieces of rubbish. Today will be different, I will paint them. I don’t care much about what will happen if they get mad. Time has been catching up with me recently and will be taking me any day now. I try not to fear that day.
I don’t even change out of my night clothes before I gather my supplies. My large easel stands in my small living room. My paints and brushes are lined up neatly on a table. Multiple jars of water sit next to them. I put a canvas on my decrepit wooden easel and pick up a thick brush. I dip it in water before coating it with light blue watercolor paint. As I go to stroke the canvas for the first time, I hear something. A voice. It’s quiet for now. I begin painting an eerie background of blues. They don’t know what I’m painting, yet. Thankfully.
As I continue to paint, shapes grow more obvious and sharp. My heartbeat grows faster. I’m nervous. As I begin to paint a body I hear a shout. “STOP” it yells in a frightening voice. I quickly look all around me for the voice. I don’t see anyone there, yet, so I continue to paint. “STOP” it yells again. This time I know it’s in my head. Though, I am still afraid. I pause my painting and yell back.
“What do you want?!?” my voice is shaky as well as my hands. I wait for an answer. The room seems to grow darker. I feel claustrophobic in my own home. The rotting wood in my walls suddenly seems to release a horrid, pungent scent.
“What are you DOING?” The voice is hardly clear in its speech. I begin to panic. My breathing is loud and unsteady. But it’s all my fault. I knew this would happen. This is what I wanted. I still wish to paint. I will not let this stop me. I am going to paint.
“I am doing what I should have done a long time ago,” I say confidently. I dip another brush, this time in a bright red acrylic I could hardly afford. I paint a corpulent, evil, frowning face on the body on my canvas. It’s the voice’s persona. I feel a shiver down my spine as I continue to paint.
“STOP IT!” the voice yells harshly at me. It sounds different than before. It sounds too close and too… real. I am afraid, too afraid to move a muscle. I stand still and slowly look around the room. I see it there. The voice. A blurry figure stands in the corner, watching my every move. It looks like a bugaboo straight from a horror story. It wasn’t there just a moment ago. My whole body shakes with pure fear for my life. The figure is tall, a true behemoth. Its shape resembles a human’s. The figure has almost no color or detail; it is entirely black with a few white facial features. The head of the monstrosity tilts to the side as it frowns at me. There is no life behind its eyes. It wants to kill me. But I won’t let it. Not today. Not before I do at least one meaningful thing with my dull life.
I pick up the brush, and I paint again. I add great detail to the outline of the body, it’s fuzzy but not with fur, it’s closer to static. I add the white rings around his big, black, empty eyes. I couldn’t forget the shape of its head, as well. It looks as if it had hair with dreads, but they have no texture and are not even separated from the face. The beast is completely flat even as it stands behind me. It yells again. “STOP! STOP IT!” Its voice is loud, low, grumbly, and abstruse. But this time I don’t listen. I don’t respond. I don’t even look at it. “STOP IT NOW!” It continues shouting. It isn’t stopping, so neither would I.
I paint with fast, broad strokes of my brush. Dark colors and sharp patterns cover the canvas. The yelling seems to be right behind me now. It’s closer than before, most definitely. “STOP IT! YOU CAN’T!” It goes on. I have never felt so scared. My hands tremor so terribly, I almost ruin the painting completely. “STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!!” It screams, fiercely demanding me, with a slight undertone of crying and begging. It’s trying to trick me. I won’t let it. I paint faster and with more passion than I ever have before. It takes everything in me to not look behind me for the creature. The piece is almost done. But I am still terribly afraid. I paint and paint until the voice grows too close. It sounds as if it is right next to my ear. I can practically feel the cold breath of the creature down my neck. I can’t help myself. I turn my head to take a peek at where the being is located. I was right. It is close, very close.
I begin to hyperventilate, I am shaking hard. The large figure stood directly in front of me. It towers over me like a beast. I know I can’t fight the figment of my own imagination. I fight all instincts I have, squeeze my eyes shut, and turn back around. I start to paint again. The voice goes from yelling words to shrieking constant nonsense. All I can hear are screams. The piece is too close to being finished for me to give up now. I continue to paint. Just a few more strokes of my brush… I feel something. A hand. A large hand wraps itself around my neck. The hand starts to squeeze lightly for just a moment before suddenly gripping me brutally. It is choking me. I struggle for air, but continue to paint. Spit from my coughs dirties my canvas. But I still would not stop painting.
All it needs is one more stroke of my brush. The hand squeezes harder. I am losing oxygen and energy. My knees buckle and I stumble as I stand. I knock over cups of colorful water as I grab the small table for balance. Paints and jars crash on the floor. I raise my other hand that is still managing to hold onto my brush. I paint one last weak line while blood begins to rise up in my throat. I look up. The full-body portrait of the monster stares back at me. The painting is done. The hand around my neck suddenly disappears. I fall right on the floor and in a mess of mixed-up paint, water, and broken glass. I feel the shards sink into my skin through my thin nightgown, but I am too distracted to even consider taking the time to take it out. I whip my head around to see where the creature has gone. I notice the silence of the previously loud room. The being is nowhere to be seen.
I shakily rise up from the floor, ignoring the terrible pain in my body, and take a few steps back from my work. I look at the painting up and down. It is an exact replica of the creature I just encountered. It’s perfect. It has meaning and it is beautiful. For the first time in years, my head is quiet. I feel free. The old, wooden floorboards creak while I slowly walk away from the painting, at last happy in my lonesome.
