Painted Ash

Vincent Harris' life had been defined by his artistic talent. Even in his youth his extraordinary talent of shaping and creating worlds with a stroke of a paint brush on whatever canvas it touched was recognized by everyone around him. It was his talent at art that brought him up from obscurity and made him a renowned artist whose works had sold for top dollar in the art world.  His works had been on display at exhibitions in New York, Paris, and even Beijing. It had been through one of these art exhibitions that he had met his wife Laura, a journalist that had been assigned to interview him for an article on latest paintings dubbed "The Solar Veil". Each work was of the same location (an empty house at first that  eventually found itself occupied by a lone figure without defining features) but at differing moments throughout the day.  Each of the 24 painting were of one specific hour of the day. Critics had raved about the philosophical implications and merit of these paintings, but it was his future wife that had pressed him on the pretentious nature of these latest pieces. She had cut right through the air of mystique he had cultivated around himself. It was the first time he had found himself vulnerable with another human being.  If Vincent had been honest with himself at the time, he would have admitted that it had been less about his personal artistic desires and more about placating his peers. Intrigued by her criticisms Vincent contacted her magazine under the guise of a follow-up interview and requested her specifically to do the follow-up interview.  The interview quickly transformed into their first date and the rest was history. It was his art that has made it possible to meet the love of his life. For a time it seemed the Muses themselves had blessed him with their full adoration. Though Fate was far more fickle on how long Vincent's stroke of luck would last.

Where once Vincent had been the golden apple of the art world his works were soon overshadowed by new up-and-coming artists. At the height of his career his works were often sold before he had even finished them. Now though he found himself being barely able to stay afloat financially. Many of his works still remained on the walls of his studio covered in dust. What artwork he was able to sell were often pieces that ended up in the waiting offices of businesses and doctor’s offices. For Vincent it wasn’t the fall from his prestigious pedestal amongst the art elites  that had truly put the nail in the coffin for his downward spiral into obscurity. It had been his wife cancer diagnosis that had caused him to abandon any further attempts at trying to maintain his career.

The medical expenses quickly ate through his financial resources leaving him at the mercy of loansharks that bound him in a perpetual slavery of loans he could never hope to repay. The rounds of medications and surgeries to remove the cancer from Laura’s body had taken their toll, leaving her infirmed. During her good days Vincent would reminisce with Laura about their early years. Laura would often direct their reminiscing to the memories of their honeymoon stay in a small cottage in a small mountain town that they had chosen on a whim. Their honeymoon had been in the early spring and had involved just the two of them staying in a small cobblestone cottage that was nestled amongst a field of wildflowers predominated by dandelions. They had remained in the cottage exploring the wonders of newfound marriage and had only bothered to leave the confines of the cottage to make food runs to the nearby town or to wander through the natural wonders in the valley. Vincent  had never told Laura, but his fondest memory of the honeymoon was watching her as she ran through a patch of dandelions. The force of her movements caused a whirlwind of dandelion seeds to dance around her. It had seemed surreal to him and there had been a magic in that moment that had remained with him always. It had been without the doubt the happiest moments of their lives. “I wish we could go back and live there forever” Laura would say as the harsh reality of their lives ebbed back into their thoughts. Vincent would smile and assure her that one day they would but both knew that tomorrow was a promise that couldn’t be kept. The last doctor appointment had made that dream impossible. Laura would more than likely not survive the year. Laura had allowed the truth to settle in and had accepted the  her fate. Vincent however could not. Vincent's world had become a coffin with the loansharks and unmanageable debts he had accrued as the nails that were slowly sealing away any thoughts of happiness from reaching his soul. The thought of his wife no longer being with him was a reality he could not accept.

Vincent had packed up the last of his paintings for a trip to his longtime friend and art dealer Robert Dawson. A new business park had recently been constructed and several of the businesses had contacted Mr. Dawson looking for some cheap artwork to furnish their offices. Dawson knew that Vincent was hard up for money and had offered him a sizeable amount for his latest works. Vincent knew that many of the pieces were selling well below a reasonable offer but his last meeting with his main creditor, a particularly vicious loanshark by the name of Laurence had made Vincent instantly accept the offer. Laurence had told Vincent point blank that if he didn’t have his latest payment by the end of the week than he would have a very unfortunate accident would occur in his studio resulting in it burning to the ground.  "Shit happens all the time.  A faulty wire accidentally sparks some of those paints you keep in the studio and then the whole place just burns to ash." Laurence had said this to Vincent while he was recovering through a vicious beating by two of Laurence's associates. As Vincent struggled to stand up Laurence had grabbed him up by the jaw and started unblinkingly into Vincent's already swelling eyes. "Have we come to an understanding?" Laurence asked. Vincent nodded quietly..  Their meeting had concluded with Laurence taking one last drag of his cigarette before pressing the still lit end into Vincent's cheek. Laurence and his associates left without another word. Vincent knew that this was the end of Laurence's patience.  What would come next would be far worse than he cared to dwell on.

Vincent could overhear an argument as he entered into Dr. Dawson’s store with the first load of paintings. “I have told you for the last time I do not deal with art supplies! I buy and sale finished artwork!” Mr. Dawson’s voice was at fever pitch and his bald head was bright red from screaming at what looked to be an elderly man. Vincent could see that the elderly man was hunched over. The man’s spine was heavily curved and warped by some unknown disorder. He wore a simple ill-fitting grey suit and a wrinkled coat that was roughly 2 sizes too big for his frame. The hunched man was keeping himself propped up by an equally gnarled walking stick. The hunched man seemed to be waiting patiently as Mr. Dawson continued his tirade. The old man caught a glimpse of Vincent as he entered and promptly walked away from Mr. Dawson mid tirade. “You are an artist no?” The hunched man said in an accent completely foreign to Vincent. “Yes I am” was all Vincent could reply. Vincent could better see the hunched man’s face now that they were facing. The hunch man’s face showed signs of some trauma of a neurological nature as one side drooped slightly. Vincent would have guessed a stroke but the hunched man’s speech was unaffected by whatever had caused the muscles in his face to atrophy on that side. What remained striking about the man was his emerald eyes that showed none of the age the rest of his body did. They were not eyes of a simple old man but something else timeless and infinitely older. “I am not looking to sell but to give away the remains of my stock. A very special stock of paint and brushes you see. I need to give it to an artist that is deserving of them. Are you such a man that’s deserving of them?” The hunched man asked as his left brow rose in question. Vincent could only say that he did not know. “Tell me your story” The hunched man requested. Vincent looked over to Mr. Dawson and strangely enough he had simply vanished. Vincent looked back to the old man and told his life story. The words to his story came forth without thought and soon Vincent bared to the hunched man all the sorrows and joys that had brought him to this point in his life. He did not understand why but something about the old man caused his soul to spill its secrets.  The hunched man nodded approvingly as he clasped Vincent ’s hands with his own. “I will tell you a tale that I have carried with me for a very long time.”

In the beginning, long before the stars and earth and mankind had been created there was an unfathomable darkness; A timeless abyss without beginning or end. Within that darkness was born a child. How it came to be not a soul could explain. It was an infant opposite by every means one could fathom from the mother darkness that bore it. The child had thought and feelings and found itself wondering what the purpose of its being was. Its cries and demand for answers from the darkness that bore it were met with only silence. Soon the child fell into loneliness and despair. So different was this child from its mother that they could not console each other despite their connection. From that loneliness the child harmed itself. The blood and ichor and flesh that the child tore from its body mixed with the darkness and began to shape the beginnings of the universe. The child realized that it could use the blood and sinew of its own being to create something that would give itself purpose. The child’s very blood contained the power of creation itself, and the child created other beings both wondrous and terrible to stave off its loneliness. The child gave these beings the gift of free will so that they too could share in shaping the world around them as the child had. For only the gift of free will can give any living thing the power of creativity. Though these beings were small and petty and quick to realize their own limited power compared to the child. They watched the child and realized the power of its blood. Despite being created from the blood of the child, these creatures themselves could only manipulate around them what already existed. They could not create by sheer will alone as the child could. It was the one gift that the child was unable to pass onto them. The petty creatures quietly planned and began stealing a drop here and there of the child’s blood from the wounds the child had self-inflicted prior to its latest forays into creation. The creatures waited until they had gathered enough of the child’s blood to create a prison strong enough to hold the child. The child was unsuspecting of the terrible crimes the creatures planned to commit against it and when the creatures came and asked the child to see the marvel they had created the child walked unsuspectingly into the prison. The child’s naivety had led it into the chains that would bind it to the will of its own creations. The creatures drained the child of its blood and ichor and willed into creation their own worlds of wonders with the child’s blood. A small group of the beings still loyal to the child fought to free their creator but failed. Those loyal to the child were exiled to the darkness beyond the borders of the realm the creator had made. The child grew feeble from the frequent bloodlettings and lamented its sad state. The child’s cries echoed throughout all of creation and beyond into the darkness that bore it. The abyss heard the cries of its child and began to seep into the child’s creation unraveling all that it touched. The child’s creations screamed in horror as they were consumed by it. Only those that had tried to save their creator from the betrayal were spared. The darkness felt the child’s pain and realized that the child would not survive if it did not return to its depths to rest. As the child readied to return back to the darkness it relinquished an urn to its faithful creations. Within that urn was the child’s blood. The child had gifted the faithful the power to create their own paradise. In honor of their creator they set forth to continue the child’s work. The darkness relinquished part of itself to the faithful creations so they could have a canvas by which to begin their work. The faithful used the child’s blood to paint upon the canvas of darkness and bring forth the universe that exists today”

Vincent was silent as the hunched man finished his tale. On the table beside the man were a paintbrush and an urn that looked to be made of polished bone. “You see before you what remains of that blood. It is not as potent in the hands of mankind but it still can work wonders…” The hunched man lifted the urn and presented it to Vincent. “We are beings that exist in the physical. For this to work you must bring forth an image of what you desire and paint it with the blood. Once you have finished the painting will be a gateway to your paradise. Do you have such a place in mind Mr. Harrison?” Vincent’s thoughts went directly to the small cottage from his and Laura’s honeymoon. Vincent nodded to the hunch man as he gingerly took the urn. “I must caution you that the painting must be kept safe. It must not be ruined nor allowed to suffer any damage. The world created may become warped or worse”. Vincent pulled the cork that sealed the urn and looked within. He could hear the sound of liquid sloshing within but could not see the liquid itself. As he looked up to question the hunched man he found himself alone in Mr. Dawson’s gallery.
 
He quickly made his departure back to his studio. It was the studio that Vincent prepared a large, unblemished canvas and imagined the small cottage and field of wildflowers. He gingerly dipped his brush within the urn and brought forth a black liquid that covered the bristles of the brush. Not a drop of the liquid fell from the bristles as he examined it. As he brought the brush to the canvas the colors of the wildflowers filled the canvas and soon the blue sky and distant mountains took shape. The small cottage bloomed and soon he found himself staring through the frame and into paradise. Vincent offered no explanation to his wife as he pushed her through the studio to the finished painting. While Vincent had not realized it, nearly two days had passed since he began working on the painting. Time seemed to lose its effect over Vincent as he felt nothing of the desire for food and drink. Laura thought perhaps her husband had a time sensitive commission and had left him alone. Anything she had asked him during that time was always responded with “When I finish you’ll understand.” At first Laura looked upon the painting of their honeymoon cottage with a puzzled look. Vincent took her trembling hand and brushed her fingers across the canvas. As Laura blinked she found herself amongst the wildflowers. The smells of spring perfumed the air and for the first time for what felt like forever the pain that had ravaged her body was gone. With tentative steps she lifted herself from her wheelchair and began to walk. The warmth of the spring sun radiated upon her and with it returned life to her spirit. She looked behind her and saw Vincent standing beside a portrait hanging upon a tree. The portrait looked to be of her husband’s studio. “How….how is this even…?” the words barely formed on her tear stained lips as she looked at her husband in awe. Vincent could barely keep his eyes from releasing the tears that swelled within them. “Because you were happy and healthy here…because this place was our paradise”.

Vincent told his wife everything about the hunched man the origin of the urn. He told her that as long as they remained here that the horrors that had existed for them outside this place would never hurt them again. Hours passed as they enjoyed each other while lying amongst the wildflowers and the spring sun. As they lay embraced together Vincent realized that he had once thing left to do before they could enjoy their paradise together forever. Vincent told Laura that he needed to find a safe place to keep the painting; to shield them from any of the outside world’s horrors from reaching them. Laura was afraid to let him go but relented as Vincent’s resolve became apparent. Vincent looked back to Laura one last time before passing back through the painting.

It was the smell of smoke that first alerted Vincent that something was terribly wrong. When he looked around the studio he realized that smoke was pouring from their upstairs apartment. Before Vincent could react a crowbar came across his back. Vincent dropped to the floor gasping in agony as pain shot up and down his spine. He was quickly surrounded by three men. “I told you this would happen if you didn’t pay up.” The cold, flat voice cause Vincent’s skin to crawl. He knew who it was. “Laurence…I have your money…just help me put out this fire and…” Vincent’s plea was cut short as one of Laurence’ men viciously kicked Vincent in the ribs. As Vincent flopped about on the floor trying to catch his breath Laurence motioned for his other enforcer to continue with his work. Vincent watched as the thug lifted a gas can and splashed it on the painting. The scream that left Vincent caused Laurence’s men to pause and look at their boss. Laurence himself looked almost worried when he heard the rage in Vincent’s scream. As Vincent rolled himself over on his stomach and attempted to push himself up, Laurence placed his shoe on Vincent’s spine and forced him back down to the floor. Vincent looked up to the portrait and realized in horror that he could see the painted image of his wife waiting in the foreground. Vincent watched in agony as Laurence removed a book of matches and struck one. The tiny head of the match flared up and glowed ominously. With a flick of his wrist Laurence sent the match through the air and onto the painting. Vincent could see the fire spring forth like ravenous locust across the canvas, and burning petals of ravaged wildflowers filled the room. Laurence and his enforcers looked about in confusion as Vincent watched his paradise warp into a hellish landscape. He could see the figure of his wife running in the painting, away from burning cinders that would leave her trapped within a smoldering world of ash forever. He knew that it was his mistakes had left her to suffer for all eternity. Their paradise was now her hell. The despair that overtook him made him a coward as he managed to free himself from Laurence's henchman and throw himself upon the burning remains of the painting. The fire consumed his flesh and his pain at first was unbearable. He knew though in the end that at the very least he would die. At the very least he would have that reprieve. He would not live and suffer with the guilt of what his actions had brought upon his wife. For the rest of their lives Laurence and his men would never speak of that night as they watched in horror as the painter burned alive. Sometimes at night they could still close their eyes and see the look of relief on the painter’s face as the charred flesh slid off his skull.