The Painter

Chapter 6
Part 6

Chapter Description: The Painter's final act....

The moment was nearing. The last customer has been served. The materials are ready for use. The painter stood outside of his studio, staring at the full moon.

“My Father,” he began, “I am tired. I have been doing this for a long time now. I feel that’s time to begin anew. I trust that you will protect me once I complete my renewal. I hope that you are pleased with my work that I have done. Amen.”

The painter looked at his reflection in the fountain that was near his studio. He looked over a hundred years old. His hair was snow white, and his skin was old and wrinkled. Liver spots decorated his scalp. The painter backed away.

The painter walked inside the studio. He had already set up the big canvas in the middle of the studio. The picture of him was set up on the board next to it. His paints were on a table on the opposite side. The painter pulled up a tall chair and sat down. He normally stood up when he painted, but he would have to make an exception for this final piece.

The painter brought up his brush, looked at the picture, and began.

He started with the face. He carefully fleshed out the child’s face, adding every detail that was visible in the photograph. He then brought out the boy’s dark brown hair. It was short and spiky at that age, so he used the smallest brush he had to bring it into detail. He then moved on to the torso.

The painter felt another stab of pain in his arm, but he kept going.

He painted in not the child’s shirt, but his own. He painted it loose and baggy, as if the boy was playing dress up. He had the normally short sleeves long that reached past his elbows. He fleshed out the hands with the most amazing detail that he has ever put into a painting. He had one of the brown hands gripping a paintbrush. The next part was the lower body.

The painter’s vision blurred. He fixed this by taking a swig of water.

He had the shirt overlap the waistband of the oversized jeans. The painter created deep creases in the pant legs. He had them rest at the shoes, which he made so loose to the point where they were about to fall off, dragging the large socks with them. Finally, he drew in the chair that he was sitting on. The painter lay back.

He stared at the picture. It was the best he had ever done. It would’ve been easier if he could’ve simply drawn the child in with the clothes he had in the photo, but then it wouldn’t have worked. The painter sighed.

Could he do it? This was it. There was no turning back. After two minutes of just contemplating his life, the painter signed his name.

Jack B

The boy looked in both directions. He felt his shoes fall off, followed by his socks. The boy thought that was odd, but the thought passed quickly as he climbed off the chair, causing his pants and underwear to slide off. The child stepped out of them as he ran to another part of the studio. His shirt hung down to right above his ankles.

The boy could not remember how he had got here. He looked in both directions again, this time seeing a man at the end of the room. The boy thought that he might be able to help. The man held out his hand.

“Come with me child, you have earned your rest,” the man said in a voice that seemed to be made up of a multitude of voices. The boy wondered what the nice man was talking about. He took his hand.

And the studio was empty.