Before: The Painter BEFORE The Painter
The eyes are all wrong.

For one thing, they are not her eyes.

Hers are wider set and blue. These golden-chartreuse-color eyes are more realistic than any she has ever painted before.

These are the first thoughts she has when she comes back to herself, soon followed by What have I done?

Music plays on a record player in the corner of the room. Chicago 17. Newly released, and her current favorite album—easy listening, ideal for painting. She sits on a metal stool in front of the canvas, the gauzy fabric of her paint-spattered bohemian skirt—her artist’s uniform—gathered between her legs. She holds her brush in midair, and the tension in her fingers creates a quiver through the wooden handle to the paint-drenched hog bristles. A drop of deep red hovers, falls to the floor, and lands on her bare foot. There are angry scratches on her right forearm, not yet scabbed over. The nails on her left hand are sharp, short but ragged; a few show bloodied crescent moons.

A tickling sensation scurries across her cheek, and she presses a gentle finger against it. Something comes away with her touch—an insect’s wing. Her gaze snaps to the painting, where she finds more wings—so beautifully patterned, nature the first artist—placed carefully, adding texture to the arched eyebrows of the subject’s face.

A loud metal screech pierces the silence as she shoves her stool back and stands, trying to get some distance from the painting. Wingless cockroach skeletons fall from her lap as she takes in a deep, urgent breath. Fear thrums through her and her heart races, as though she’s run a fast mile.

The goddamn eyes.

She lets out a low moan, shakes her head back and forth until she’s dizzy.

But there’s no time to be self-indulgent. With a purposeful step forward, she bends and dips her brush into the plastic yogurt container below the easel. She presses her lips into a thin line so the bile breaching her throat doesn’t spill out.

Dipping the brush five, six, ten times soon oversaturates the bristles. She stops, the color streaming thinly back into the container as she pauses, holding still. Then, with a guttural scream, the painter launches herself toward the canvas. Her paint-laden brush connects with enough force to shove the easel back half a foot.

She splashes thick blackish paint across the eyes and cockroach-wing brows with frenzied slashes, covering the subject’s entire face. Her mouth hangs open as she sucks in quick, shallow breaths. A moment later she stops and her body stills, except for her heaving chest. The painter watches carefully, wondering if she’s done enough.

The answer comes quickly, the newly applied paint shifting. It’s subtle at first. Small bubbles, like what form on a barely simmering pot of heated milk. The paint slides away from the subject’s face in wide swaths, like someone else is undoing the painter’s work. The sudden smell of marigold flowers (acrid, antiseptic) fills the air around her, as though she has stepped into a field of the sunrise-orange blooms.

She thinks of her daughter then, and wonders how to explain what she’s done. The painter never meant for it to go this far. However, now she needs to finish what she started.

With shaking hands she sets the brush back into the pot, removing a small cardboard box from her skirt’s pocket. The wooden matchstick she pulls from the box feels rough in her fingers as she twirls it. Crouching, she slides the match head slowly but firmly along the sandpaper-like strip on the box.

For a moment she stays as she is, holding the now-lit match, inches from the painting.

She drops the match into the linseed-oil-soaked rags, gathered purposefully in a pile under the easel. They catch easily, and she scrabbles backward from the flames, even as she knows she won’t leave the room.

The wooden easel catches fire next. As she watches, refusing to blink despite the tears streaming from her eyes, the subject’s face comes to life. The mouth opens in surprise, then morphs into a grimace of pain. The eyes lock on her own as the canvas starts to burn. Then the wing-brows rise a half inch and the subject’s eyes… blink. Once, twice.

A piercing shriek that comes from elsewhere fills the room, and the painter presses her hands against her ears. She trips over a tin juice can holding paint when she tries to get farther away. A dark red puddle forms near the tipped-over tin.

As the liquid inches toward her, she knows it will soon reach her bare feet. The quiver starts in her stomach, then spreads all over her body, and she recognizes the sensation as terror. She didn’t used to be afraid of blood.

The black-red liquid lazily but thickly fills the crevices between her toes, the space around the painting now a burning inferno. Suddenly, a voice echoes through the fire’s roar, and it’s childlike. Heartbreakingly familiar.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

Tall flames lick the floorboards under her, the fabric of her skirt catching quickly. The thick smoke engulfs her, and she coughs involuntarily and squeezes her eyes shut. But she manages to smile, whispering, “Here I come… Found you, my darling!” before the fire takes her.