THE PAINTER

A sense of serenity serenaded the scene as chimes of calmness depicted a peaceful moment. There were no waves crashing onto the headland cliffs that night. No squawks from seagulls or honks from ships dared to pierce the silence that enveloped the evening. There was no sound across the stetched land of sand, except for the sound of splashes of paint being splattered onto a canvas.

The white canvas was marred with gashes and bruises of an assortment of colours as the brush wielder stabbed and jabbed the object. Water droplets bedecked his frowning forehead; dripping down his stony structured face. Sharp yet deep eyes squinted with concentration as his hands spoke words his lips refused to let out; as his hands re-enacted his life.

From another's view, his work was a masterpiece. His paintwork: precise and made of no error. In fact, many had even said he was a great sorcerer in his arts; magically weaving life onto his paintings. They always showered him with compliments on his work; marking him with their belief of who he was, who they wanted him to be; a painter.

Fingers tightened their hold on the broad brush as streams of memories burst into his view. All of the words: compliments and praises, slapping him awake to a vigorous feeling. A feeling that had always been there but was unseen; hibernating in the coldness of his stature.

Now, his brush began to convulse in his fingertips as if trying to tell a tale of it's own; urging the painter to follow its lead. And so he did.

The brush flickered and swirled ontop of it's white canvas as a dancer on his stage would, with practiced and assured moves. The brush carried out it's function with grace; defining features and adding colour to the scene.

Pause.

The painter tilted his head to the right, as his hands froze in mid-air. His mouth pursed with distaste in noting something just was not right. Something was missing, something was…

Wrong.

His eye flickered from point to point in the picture; skimming through each line, absorbing the whole image his own hands had concocted. His eyes examined thoroughly each stroke and dab whilst wondering if they were the cause of the unusual uncertainty on the portrait.

The portrait was of a man, a man the painter had just recently met. Very Recently. In fact, the painter did not even know his name. At this he smirked, as he dipped the brush into a cup of water; to purify it from the stain of the paint. Slowly, he dabbed the wet tip of the brush onto his rag; making it dry again.

A thoughtful look emerged on the painters face as he watched the pure transparent water in the cup slowly mutate into a murky liquid. As something pure was marred again by his hands.

Déjà vu.

His hands. It had been his hands. His hands had been:

Stained.

His hands had been tainted with red. Red stained hands.

His red stained hands

The painter could still feel the pulsating warmth of the liquids as it embraced his hands, covering every inch of it. Licking it's red tongue, over the nook and cranny of the crevice of his hands; engulfing it and never letting go.

'You're the painter aren't you?' the man had said.

The painter. The painter.

The words reverberated through his brain. For the thousandth time, they were set ablazed into his mind.

The painter.

Always the painter: Never more than 'the painter'.

Well, enough was enough.

He remembered the quiet rumble of his dormant eruption. The steady rhythm of his heart changing to a random sporadic beat. The roar of ferocity that had shattered his quiet façade.

He had clenched the brush in his hand, as the feel of the slash to his being coursed through his body. A chill running throughout his body at a fact he always knew; but kept aside.

Always the painter: Never more than 'the painter'.

All he saw was red.

Scarlet red covering his eyes.

That was all he remembered from that point.

Scarlet red.

The painter now smirked, as the whistling wind coursed around him:

That was what the portrait was missing. A dash of scarlet red, surrounding the focus; that was what was needed. With a quick dash of red swirl on his palete, the artist armed himself again with his brush, and gave the portrait it's final touch with a vengeful thrust.

Beautiful. The painting was beautiful. The subject caught In the middle of the image, eyes closed, body spread eagle on the ground.

Just as the painter had left him.

The painter smirked.

With that, he took the painting and carefully placing it into a large bag near him;

And threw it off the cliff.

The sound of a large splash met the painter's ears as he watched the bag sink under the cold blue see.

Cleaning after himself, the painter smiled, strolled off and started to whistle.

Justice had been served.

What a beautiful ending to his day.