The Painter

It’s a nice night, but it could be better.

There is so much not right with the world.  There is so much ugliness.  I fix that, though.

I am an artist, you see.  I might not be the best artist in the world, but I do what I can.  It’s all about getting the right canvas.

Some nights, the canvas is easier to find than others.  Some nights, it just comes right along.

Tonight is a good example of that.  I barely had to do anything to get him to follow me.  Just a couple of drinks, and, well…

I look at him, sitting in the shotgun seat.  “What’s the matter?”

“My lips feel a bit weird.”

I smile.  The canvas is getting prepared.  “Oh, don’t worry, dearie.  That’s just the poison.”

The canvas starts.  He looks around wildly.

“Look, there's no point struggling. It's tetrodotoxin. Just sit still and be a good canvas.”  I haven’t stopped smiling.

The canvas stops struggling after a while.  I try to drag it in.  It’s a bit heavier than most of my usual canvases, but nothing I can’t handle.  This could prove difficult later, though…

The canvas has been inside for a while.  He is a… different specimen from my normal canvases.

But he will do.

I begin to prepare.  He is wearing a simple polo shirt and jeans.  I ponder leaving them on.  I’ve never tried using a canvas that’s got other stuff on it.  Eventually, I decide to prepare the canvas as usual.

Soon, the canvas is blank.  My paint and brushes are laid out neatly along the floor beside it.  I begin my work.

“This might tickle a bit.  I don’t know, though.  I’d imagine the poison would mess with how you feel things.”  I nod, mostly to myself.  I know the canvas is mostly conscious, but still.  Canvases don’t talk back.

I love painting.  The feel of the resistance of the canvas, the way the paint glistens before it dries, the sound of fading breath…

I spend a lot of time on this canvas.  Blues and greens mingle with deep reds and bright oranges.  The room is silent but for the sound of brush on canvas.  Sometimes, when I work, I lose track of time.  It’s always night when I begin to paint, but many times it is day when I finish.  Sometimes it is night, but it is the next night instead of the same.

I care about my work.  Tonight is one of the times where it is the next night.

Mother would be proud.

Mother was a painter too, but she died a long time ago.  Her work was some of the most beautiful I have ever seen.

I back up and look at my work.  It’s my finest yet.

The way the colours mingle.

The way the light strikes the swirls in just the right way.

Nothing is left uncovered.  There is no blank space.

I lean forward, and slowly, but lovingly, carve my signature into the canvas.  The ink may mess up the canvas a bit, but it is the most essential part.

The end result is a blood-red crescent moon.

To me, it is the most beautiful sight in the world.

My work is almost done.  The canvas is painted, the work is signed.  The only thing I am missing is a wall to display it on.  I carefully arrange the painting in the car seat.

I will find a nice, new place to hang this.

The hardest part of the painting is the hanging.  Sometimes, the canvas recovers from the tetrodotoxin by the time I have them where I want them.  Like this one.  I barely get the rope around him before he comes to.

There is a bit of a crack as the rope straightens out.

And with that, the night is just a little bit better.