They tell tales of a man who reveled in light and killed the darkness. As people slept he would enter into their places and give them the dreams of death. In his hands he held his weapons and his eyes were filled with fire. Sometimes though, instead of dreams, he brought his wicked transformation and made others akin to him. They say he was caught.
But that was years and years ago.

Today we all know his story, but it holds little bearing on our day-to-day lives. We know he’s gone; I know he’s gone. I’m Abby Victorsen, and my purpose in life is to become a master painter.

I have studied the masters of the day: George Hemerson, Alexandria P. Floyd, and Franklin Williams. I have even studied the old human masters, who are far more numerous simply because they had more time. I don’t enjoy them nearly as much though, because their messages are meaningless now. They’ve lost their power.

I attended an art college and graduated last year. I had been good and skilled, but I never received the type of attention I wanted. Moments I will surely remember forever.

*

“Your use of colors is above average, but your forms lack the detail the viewer wants to see,” Professor Adrian said.

I wanted to ask him how he knew who my audience would be, but I didn’t. I just applied a bit more paint to the canvas. “What kind of detail?”

“See, here.” He pointed to the shoulder of a lady. “The colors blend perfectly but there’s no texture. It just looks flat.”

I paused, lowering my brushed as I looked at the shoulder. I could almost see what he meant. “What do you recommend?”

“Well.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Have you ever thought of trying some abstract pieces? That might suit your style a bit better.”

*

Abstract. What in life isn’t abstract? I had tried his recommendation, and the following paintings had received a better review, but still had never made the waves that other people’s work had made. I hadn’t been too upset though; I always knew my time would come soon enough. Now, here I am. A year out of college, living in a small apartment, and working at a restaurant.

It’s quite late, nearly dawn, and I draw the blackout curtains on my single window. In my living room converted to studio I dabble in my craft. Sometimes, I almost feel as if it’s leaving me, as if the colors are draining out my feet. I close my eyes, imagine the colors surging upwards, not toward the floor, and lay a few blind strokes.

They don’t fit the overall composition, and I paint over them.

What can I do? I set the tools aside, and enter the kitchen. In the refrigerator there’s a neat row of bottles on the top shelf: my blood pills, grade B+. I take one and follow it with a can of tomato juice. I check the time, and sit to wait.

Five minutes. I get up and pull the blackout curtain aside, just in time to watch the sunrise from behind the mountains. I wonder how many people would like a painting of that.

* * *

Fire-Eyes.

The next nightfall I awaken, and sit up slowly. From the kitchen the smell of coffee is already wafting toward me. I almost smile, but then my stomach clenches.

In the kitchen I mix cream and sugar, then grab two blood pills. I follow them with coffee and stand in the silence, sipping my drink. Early nighttime is always so peaceful. Slowly, I wander into my studio. I set the coffee down and pull the curtains away. There’s no light in the sky, but that’s only because my window faces east.

I stand in front of my unfinished painting now. Allegory of Triangles is the name I’m turning over in my mind, still uncertain. It has far less triangles than I had originally planned, but that was simply for the sake of balance. Perhaps I should just call it Allegory of Shape.

I work on it for a short while, then must get ready for my lunch shift.

* * *

“One steak please, very rare. Oh, and hold the sauce.” The customer looks up at me and smiles, his black hair slicked back and in deep contrast to his pasty skin. Skin almost the same as mine, but mine is slightly darker. My peers always say I get too much sunlight.

I jot down his order. “Any coffee?”

“Maybe later. What grade of blood pills do you serve here?”

“Up to grade A.”

“Oh, okay. Then that’ll be all.”

“Alright. It’ll be out shortly.” I take his menu with New Caravaggio’s glistening gold against black and walk away.

It’s all so routine, orders always the same. Steak, very rare; chicken, very rare; cheeseburger, very rare; pasta, heavy on the meatballs and very rare. There are no side orders, no appetizers. Sometimes customers will order coffee; fewer times they will order wine.

I add the order to the stack in the kitchen.

“Hey, Abby.”

I turn. It’s Rick coming in for the dinner hours. “Hello.”

“You won’t believe this.” He walks up to me, still adjusting his bowtie. “You remember that string of murders that happened a few years ago up in New York? They’re making a movie out of it, and they’re making the killer a Fire-Eyes.”

“Seriously? That’s disgusting.”

“Oh come on, it’s just a movie. And they never did find out who was doing the killing. It could’ve been a Fire-Eyes.”

“Except that they’re just legends.”

“That’s exactly what the Fire-Eyes want you to believe. They’re out there, still causing people to die or disappear.” Rick grins ridiculously.

I sigh. “I don’t have time for this.” I try to walk past him.

“Wait.” He blocks me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it your paintings again?”

“No, it’s not.” I push past him, and try my best to avoid him the rest of the night.

My paintings aren’t the problem. Everything else is the problem. I don’t have enough time to work on them. That’s the only reason I haven’t finished a single painting in over two years.

The rest of the night goes mercifully smooth. Before I know it, we’ve closed and I’m standing in the parking lot, unlocking my car. Another night over. Sometimes it’s so hard to keep the nights straight, keep them from all blurring together, like watercolors that haven’t dried.

Soon I’m ascending the stairs to my apartment, and unlock that door too. The keys clatter as I drop them into their allotted bowl by the door. In my studio, I look at Allegory of Shape. I sigh. I take it down. I set it against the wall with the other unfinished paintings. How many are there?

In the kitchen I start making coffee, decaffeinated. I take a blood pill, loiter around a short while, and finally the small pot is filled. Sipping the coffee I realize I forgot to pick up my mail. Oh well. I’ll just get it tomorrow night.

Back in the studio I look at the counter stacked with paints. I need to paint something I can really sink my teeth into. Something important and meaningful. Something. But what?
I know the sun is about to rise. I walk to the window, and watch as the sky brightens.

Then it appears over the mountains like a molten drop of metal. Why don’t I paint it? Yes, why not? I smile.

But then, I doubt others would be able to appreciate a painting of the sun. My smile slips away. I could just paint it for myself, not show it to anyone. That seems pointless though. I think I’ll hide it, the sun, within the painting. It will be an abstract representation of life. It will be infused with the essence of life, infused with the sun. I’ll call the painting Life, and no one will have to know from where the inspiration came. That’s what I’ll do. I smile again, and pull the blackout curtain shut.

* * *

In the evening I awaken much earlier than normal, my excitement urging me out of the near coma. So early that my stomach isn’t yet clenching for blood. I ready a new canvas, one not too large, then I grab all my warm colored paints and set to work.

I’m only able to work for a short while, just able to ignore the clenching for an hour or so. I set my tools aside and go to make coffee. I take two blood pills as the coffee machine gurgles away. Everything will go much better once I finish this painting. Even if I’m not able to sell it, I know it’ll get me into the creative mindset I need. The coffee finishes and I down a cup of it quickly. There are only a few hours left to paint before I must start my preparations for work.

* * *

“Hey, Rick.” I stop him in a side aisle during a slow hour of lunch.

“Yeah?” He stands a bit close.

I hesitate. “You’re probably gonna think this is crazy.”

“Try me.” He smiles.

What could it hurt? I wouldn’t actually mind too much if I put him off. “Do you ever think about the sun?”

“What? You mean the fiery thing?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Uh, no.”

“Oh.”

Now he hesitates. “Why?”

I shrug. “Dunno. Just wondering.”

“Are you…?”

“No I’m fine.” I reach out to clasp his upper arm, but instead only brush it a moment. “I had this idea for a painting, so I was just throwing some ideas around.”

“The sun?”

“…Yeah.”

His face is almost blank, the hint of some other emotion just under his skin. “You might as well go back in time and paint some marauding Vikings and give it to a monastery.”

I have to laugh. “Why, Rick, I didn’t know you knew history so well.”

“I went to college too. Geez.” He crosses his arms. “And stop laughing, this isn’t funny.”

I pull a hand over my mouth and try to quiet myself. “Sorry, Rick, I’m sorry. I won’t make fun of your education again.”

“Not that, your painting. Are you really serious?”

Now I do stop laughing. “What?”

“You’re really gonna paint the sun?”

“Well–” I pause a moment. “It’s not really going to be the sun. I just got an idea from it.”
He bites his lip for a few seconds. “Well. Okay. But–” He closes his mouth, then opens it again. “Never mind.”

“What? What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Just don’t look at the sun when you’re painting.” He starts to walk away.

I bite my tongue, suppressing another laugh. “Don’t worry about me.” I give him a smile.

He looks back for a moment. “I’ve gotta get my tables.” He disappears around the corner.

I stand still. That didn’t go as I thought it would. Why do I feel bad about it now?

* * *

Several weeks pass, and Life is still unfinished. That shouldn’t be a surprise; no painting of merit is finished so quickly. The problem is that I don’t know where to go with it. The bright colors swirl aimlessly, and nothing brings the composition together to make a unified whole. Its entirety is ugly, and I just don’t know what to do.

It’s terribly late, the sun a few hours over the horizon. I had taken my blood pill for the day, and watched the sun for as long as I dared before pulling the thick curtains over the window. The deep sleep presses over me, yet I fear to close my eyes. I can already feel the spark slipping away, the essence I tried to infuse into Life. If I sleep now, it may be gone completely once I wake. But the coma is too strong.

Long after the sun has set I awaken, groggy and uncomfortable from having slept on the floor. I sit up, my stomach clenching. I ignore it and look up at Life. It’s like a stranger now. If this too is gone, what can possibly be left within me to paint?

My stomach clenches tighter, as if I might collapse in on myself. I push myself up, and stagger into the kitchen. I down three pills. In the mirror I realize I must have fallen asleep on my palette, since the side of my face is covered in dried yellow paint. I scratch at it, and some of it flakes off. Then I notice the clock.

I stare in disbelief for a moment, but then, of course, the night after my final inspiration left me I’d be late to work as well.

* * *

The entire night had been horrible. I drive home, still mulling over the events of the last twenty-four hours. My boss had been understanding, since I’m rarely late, but the restaurant had been busy and now all I want is to just be home. Luckily, that wish is quickly granted.

Upstairs in my apartment I decide to splurge and prepare the steak I had been saving. As I prepare my dinner I glance into the studio; Life is still sitting there. It puts me in a sour mood.

Once it’s ready, I sit down and forgo utensils to eat the nearly raw steak. I dig in. It’s delightful, so much better than just a blood pill. The steak doesn’t just subdue the clenching; it fills me and provides a true satisfaction. Some small amount of blood that had still lingered in the meat slips down my hands and wrists.

I revel in this moment.

But then it’s finished, and I wish there had been more. After a moment I clean off my hands with a napkin and rest my head on my propped up arm. I glance at Life again.

I don’t want to think about it. My thoughts go to work, but I don’t want to think about that either. And Rick had just been a snot today. Talking about several Fire-Eyes and that new movie, Bringer Of Death, insistently because I hadn’t wanted to hear about it. I sigh.

Why can’t I depict life? Why can’t I isolate a clearer idea of it? Why don’t I understand it? I push myself up quickly, and grab a blood pill from the refrigerator. After swallowing it, I enter the studio.

Standing before Life, I scrutinize it, searching within the question for the answer. Then an idea pops into my mind from color theory: One color can be enhanced and made more vivid if placed next to its opposite color. So, what if I first painted death?

If I could understand death, surely I could understand life. But how should I paint death? Where should I start? A sudden smile touches my lips. Fire-Eyes. No one else embodies death so perfectly in my mind. With a twinge of guilt, I pull out my second easel and my last medium sized canvas.

“I will finish both of these.” I speak the affirmation aloud. “I will, I will, I will. Right after Death, I will finish Life.” I will not let these become two more additions to the stack of the unfinished.

I rifle through my paint supplies, eager to do as much as I can before the coma-sleep forces me away. Cradling the darkest paints in my arms, I carry them to the table and line them out. I decide not to use any black though; that would be too easy, too cliché. Already I’m piecing together the composition, my mind’s eye seeing it on the canvas. I get very little done before I sleep.

* * *

Several more weeks pass, and Death has taken shape. In it, the darkness of night surrounds the darker silhouette of the original Fire-Eyes, his eyes gleaming red with streaks of the fire running from them, off to both sides of his head. It’s simple, yet meaningful. But then, perhaps too simple.

It’s very early, the sun just barely set and I have already pulled aside the curtains. I stand, palette and brush in hand, looking at the new painting. Can I say it’s nearly finished? My mind fills in the missing details, which are not too terribly many, but I worry that it’s falling short.

I glance over at Life, still on its own easel, still set aside. It looks so much more intricate, like it should hold so much more meaning, but it feels empty. I look back at Death and see an essence simplified to banal shapes and colors that do not form. My muse has surely left me.

I set my supplies aside and walk over to the window, watching as the sky slowly turns to darkness. I hope it might supply some notion of inspiration, but I find none on its inky canvas. My shift is starting soon.

* * *

“Hey, Abby, I’ve got a joke for you.”

Not even two minutes. He can’t even give me two minutes once I get to work. I sigh. “Not now, Rick.”

“Oh come on, you’ll really like it.” Rick tries to block my path.

“I doubt it.”

“It won’t even take a minute.”

“Great.”

“What do lawyers do when they die?”

I just stare at him.

He fights back a smile. “They lie still.” He grins now.

I close my eyes. “You’re such a moron sometimes.” Now I do push past him.

“Well I thought it was good,” he calls after me.

The rest of the shift proceeds fairly uneventfully. Business is a bit slower, as usual on the weekends. Most people prefer to stay home if they don’t need to be out, no need to worry about the sun then.

As my shift nears its end, I gather up the coffee pots and creamer pitchers, and take them to the back. I pour the coffee out first, and it steams as it runs across the metal surface of the sink. Then the creamer and–I almost turn around. Instead I notice the white swirling slowly in the black.

I stand there, staring almost blankly. Never have I noticed this dynamic yet common shifting of colors before. The creamer seeped along with white tendrils, blending the black, and forcing the darkness away.

“Abby?”

I nearly jump, then turn around. It’s Rick. “What?”

“Are, you okay?”

Why is he looking at me like that? “Yes, yes. Fine.” I grab the empty containers and brush past him. At least I can go home now.

* * *

Back in my apartment, I try to recreate what I had seen. I’ve left Death where it was, and have moved Life off its easel. Now I work on a much smaller, third canvas. My palette holds only white, brown, and black tonight, all oil based. I almost never use my oil paints, but for this it feels right.

But the effect is much more difficult to recreate than I had imagined. I labor a while before stepping back to view the work. It’s black and brown and white joining together, but it’s not what I had seen. It’s not the coffee in the sink, but merely a representation. A representation I’m not satisfied with.

I sigh, and it sounds more disgusted than disappointed. I opt for a break. In the kitchen I take a blood pill, then sit and think. Now the Coffee Study is certainly the last effort for this chain of works. If I can’t get it right, then Life and Death will probably never turn out as I envision them. I get up and make a pot of coffee.

Once finished, I pour a cup and slowly add cream, carefully watching the effects. The white and black merge, and the coffee becomes the color of peanut butter. It really shouldn’t be that hard, I know I can do this. I take the cup and return to the studio. Before I sleep, the Coffee Study is finished.

* * *

The next night I’m not scheduled to work, so I remain at home, working on Death. The Coffee Study has changed my perspective on the paintings. Not drastically, but enough that now I view the paints together, see elements of one in the other and vice- versa. Death and Life are too closely entwined to view them separately, and that’s why I had been unable to paint the paintings. Now that I’m focusing on what is the same, and not only on what is different, I can finish both.

This revelation had filled me with such enthusiasm that I have been working on Death for the entire night. I had turned on some light jazz, and it’s been playing in the background ever since I awoke. But now I take a very short break, and get a can of tomato juice and my midnight blood pill. Carrying the half-finished drink into the studio, I return to my craft.

A few hours later, I’m putting the last touches on Death, then glance out the open window. It’s getting late; the first slight lightening of the sky is starting over the mountain horizon. Smiling, I look back at Death. Fire-Eyes glairs out with intensity, and I’m truly satisfied with it now. The first painting I have finished in so long. I feel such happiness and contentment well up inside of me; I blink back tears.

I rinse out my brush, and immediately gather up the paint I will need for Life. I know I won’t be able to finish it before I sleep, but my joy is too great to rest. With certainty I begin painting Life again. A short while passes, and my stomach starts to clench for blood, but I ignore it for the time being, far too enthralled to stop my work.

Life is much more abstract than Death, but now I can see the missing details, the details of Death in Life that I had not known to add before. My studio grows slowly brighter, as if nature itself is joining in my exuberance. Life will be the best painting I have ever created, it will be celebrated among my peers. I know it, I know it. I work faster now. I swirl orange and white together on my palette, creating the perfect hue, and the sun rises over the mountains like melted paint.

Its rays strike my bare feet, and for a second I feel the infinity of life, then shriek. I fall, losing my palette and brush, hearing them clatter to the floor, landing in the pool of sunlight. Burning. Burning so intense. Writhing, my feet knock over Life and its easel. I can’t move, can hardly see, my whole body burning away. The last image seared onto my retinas, still resting on its own easel, is Death and Fire-Eyes.