The Painter (Short Story)

His painted strokes onto the white paper were wobbly and unsteady. The blankness of the life sized canvas had haunted the artist in a way he could not have imagined as possible.

For every single time he turned to look at it, images seemed to dance across it like a still, silent pantomime. Images of his daughter. They were always the same.

At the beginning, the images would be of her, healthy and happy. But as they flickered across the canvas, her skin turned a deathly white. She grew frail and sickly, a mere shadow of what she had once been. And he could do nothing but stand there helplessly and watch her die. Over and over again.

It was worse than torture. For guilt and lost love was a terrible thing to bear.

He knew it was all because of him. Of the life he’d chosen to lead. The life of a poor, struggling painter.

So he’d finally decided to paint something over it, to still the hallucinations. To bury the unbearable guilt.

The hand holding the paintbrush was trembling, but the artist forced his mind away from the memories that haunted him still.

He stubbornly continued to paint, dipping the tip of his paintbrush into the different coloured paints on his palette before slowly moving it across the white canvas. Gradually, his strokes grew steadier and a landscape began to emerge out of the blankness of the paper.

The artist sighed as he set the last stroke onto the canvas. How he wished she was not merely an image he’d just committed to paper. He would give anything to see her alive again.

Settling the paintbrush behind his ear, he surveyed his painting as though he had never seen it before. And in a way, he hadn’t. He had been so absorbed in his painting that he had never really noticed what he had actually been painting as a whole.

This landscape was not like any normal landscape that one saw in reality. It was a fantasy world, created by the unstable state of his mind.

Dark purple trees and russet hued grass, mellow green skies streaked with crimson and gold and twin silver crescent moons. The only things that appeared normal were the flowers he had added inside.

Lilies.

And an image of his daughter, smiling as she buried her nose into those flowers.

The lily had always been her favourite flower. It had been her namesake after all.

His eyes glittered at that particular memory. Somehow, his fingertips seemed to reach out of their own accord and brush against the painted cheek of his daughter.

Yet they never made it across. Instead, they seemed to dip right into the painting itself. The artist gave a start, withdrawing his hand immediately. Was he still hallucinating?

He was finding it hard to tell the difference between reality and illusions.

The painting seemed to shimmer enticingly in the afternoon heat. It almost seemed to be beckoning him to step into it, like a portal leading to a far flung world. Still, he hesitated. There was a strong sense of foreboding which he could not explain away.

But maybe he could get to see his daughter.

The artist could contain his curiosity no longer.

With a pounding heart, he stepped into the painting. Almost immediately, he felt as though the physical aspect of him had been stripped away.

It was a curiously light feeling to experience, especially for one who had been weighed down by burdens for so long. There was a light hearted skip in the artist’s step as he strolled around the strange landscape.

It was entirely devoid of any other life form, yet the artist felt a strange sense of calm washing over him as he treaded silently on the russet grass.

"Father."

He froze. That voice. That sweet, innocent voice. He’d recognize it anywhere even if she never spoke again.

His daughter stood, facing him with a smile on her pale lips. Her coal black eyes glittered in the soft green light as her hands grasped a bunch of snow white lilies.

"Lily …" he managed to utter, choking out the words before guilt clawed at his throat, rendering him speechless.

"So you’ve come to see me," she said warmly.

"Bu - but you’re an image that I painted. How can you possibly exist?" he stammered, slowly backing away in disbelief.

"I exist in your mind, Father," she replied soothingly. "In your heart, soul and body. I’m as real as you are in this painting."

"This can’t be real … I must be dreaming," the artist muttered to himself repeatedly.

"It is real," she kept insisting. "The only difference is that you can create new things, new objects with your paintbrush in this world."

The painter looked up in disbelief.

"I can?"

"Try it for yourself."

Hesitantly, the artist drew out his paintbrush from behind his ear and moved it across thin air. To his surprise, black ink poured out from his paintbrush and floated in the air, waiting to be molded into something.

As he continued to paint, the ink seemed to attune itself to his mind and transformed into the colours that he wanted to apply to his painting. Within a few minutes, a magnificent reddish golden wildcat dropped to the ground and padded away nonchalantly.

The artist gaped at the unusual sight. Had he just created new life? The very idea sounded intoxicating. He could be the Creator of his very own world.

"And I’ll be by your side always," his daughter whispered into his ear. "I will never leave you ..."

Her voice trailed away, leaving him plagued with a powerful longing mixed with doubt. He wanted to stay, yet this was not his world. He did not belong here.

"In your world, you’re nothing," she continued, her voice turning slightly cold. "In your world, you’re just a penniless artist out on the streets. In here, you can create anything you want with just a single paintbrush. Wouldn’t it be much better to live in luxury than suffer in silence for your art?"

"I ..."

"And don’t forget, you are the reason for my death," there was no mistaking the accusatory tone in her voice now.

It drove a spike of chill deep into his heart. How could he have possibly forgotten? He had not even noticed the gradual change in his own daughter’s physical state, so absorbed was he in his art. By the time he’d found out, it had already been too late.

Suddenly, she started to sob uncontrollably.

"You did not love me, Father. You loved your art more than you loved your own daughter. Oh, it was your passion, your life. And I was merely someone you had to feed and clothe. But never to love."

The artist drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Because all of it was true. He had not been a good father to his daughter.

"But I did love you, Lily," he said desperately. “And I still do.”

“Then stay,” she said. Her eyes seemed to flash with an unwritten challenge. Prove that you still love me.

The artist finally gave in.

"I’ll stay."

A wild joy lit up his daughter’s eyes like a flame sprung from a spark. Yet there seemed to be something more to that joy that the artist found unnerving.

"Then you’ll have to seal a pact," she chanted in a sing-song voice.

Before the artist could question anything further, she placed a fingernail against the flesh of his skin and dug in. It was surprisingly sharp.

When she withdrew her finger, it was stained with blood. The artist gasped, as the fiery feeling of pain overwhelmed his senses.

"What are you doing?"

"Just making sure your soul stays here," she said, smiling widely. "Forever."

By now, the artist was already rolling on the grass, recoiling from the pain that was overtaking his consciousness.

The blood seeped into the grass, yet it seemed to have stained everything with its colour. The looming trees had never looked more menacing, with blood dripping from its branches and ghastly faces twisted into its dark red wood. Even the twin crescent moons seemed to be bleeding into a bright crimson, casting everything red in its light.

An ominous black painted the skies with its dark shade, playing its own part in the nightmare that was taking place.

Though his daughter did not look any different, there was something chilling in the way she calmly crushed the lilies under her foot. In the way she stared at him expressionlessly.

You are the reason for my death.

She had never truly forgiven him.

The truth was, he had never forgiven himself either.

I’m sorry, he thought before closing his eyes, giving in finally to the pain that was too much to bear.

A tear slowly trickled down his cheek.

-------------------
The artist’s body lay amidst the strewn tubes of paint and sheets of paper. His clothes were splattered with different shades of red paint; a wooden paintbrush gripped tightly in one hand.

To a normal passerby, he might have looked like he was sleeping.

Yet on his parted lips were words he could never utter again.

I’m sorry.