He sat at the counter of the bar, trying to drown the dreary feeling in his stomach. He avoided looking at the dusty TV in the corner that was still playing the news about the explosions the day before. He banged his head on the counter a few times, then left it there, staring down at his knobbly knees.
“Are you okay, sir?” a soft female voice asked, and he looked up.
She was a red-headed beauty in her late thirties. On a normal day, he would probably have bought her a drink. Today he just grunted a noncommittal sound.
“What’s wrong?” She gave him an encouraging smile.
“I think it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”
The jukebox in the corner stopped, and he watched as someone dropped in a new coin and pressed a button. A rather depressing song started playing.
“What’s your fault?” He stirred and returned his attention to the redhead.
“The fire, the explosions, everything.” Somehow it felt good to talk to someone, even though he already knew no one would believe him. After all, how could anyone believe that one man could have caused several gas explosions all over the city that resulted in a fire that destroyed half the city?
“How could it be?” Predictably, she had a skeptical look on her face.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” she pushed on.
He considered it for a moment. If she didn’t believe him, she would think he was a freak. If she did believe him… Well, then he could end up in jail.
“I don’t know.” To buy himself some time, he took a large gulp of his beer.
“Oh come on,” she pulled a stool next to his, sat down and ordered herself a cosmopolitan.
“Well,” he made up his mind, “okay then.”
She accepted her drink from the barman, then turned to look at him again, stirring her drink with the straw.
“It all started when I was younger. I met a guy on vacation, and he taught me how to paint and even connected me with buyers. I thought it was the best thing that ever happened to me. In the beginning, I only painted abstracts. ”
“Oh, I would love to see those,” she squealed but stopped talking when she saw the look on his face. Somehow, now that he started talking, he didn’t want to stop. He had to tell someone.
“A while later, I started painting different things, just for fun. I started with the obvious things: Fruit bowls and things like that. I got really good and progressed to landscape. That’s when it all started getting weird. One day, I finished my first painting of the city’s skyline, well more inspired by it. I added a gorgeous sunset to it, one so beautiful you wouldn’t even dream of it being real. That night, the sun set in exactly the same shades of colors I had used. It freaked me out a bit, but I was sure it was just a coincidence. Next day I found out, that a certain combination of hot and cold winds had created the sky, and I pushed aside my suspicions. A man, a rather strange guy, bought the painting for a very good price and requested five more, all of them with the same skyline, but different sunsets. Said he wanted to do a collage or whatever with them. What do I care.”
The bluesy song stopped playing, and someone started a more uplifting one. His companion – he realized he hadn’t even asked her name – started moving with the music. He emptied his glass and waved the barman over, ordering a whiskey. This story called for a stronger drink.
“That was a week ago. I finished the first one, a pale pink one, and again the sky looked exactly like it. I finished the fifth painting yesterday and each night the sunset looked like my painting.”
The barman set down his drink, and he immediately took a sip to ease the feeling of panic building up inside him. The woman patted him on the shoulder.
“So, why do you think the explosions are your fault?” She still looked incredulous but seemed determined to let him finish his story.
He swallowed hard, steeling himself. “I have a feeling something is wrong with my painting. I just know this is all my fault.”
“Stop whining, you idiot. Let’s go!” And with that, she drained her cosmopolitan, stood up, paid the barman and swung her giant red purse over her shoulder. She tapped her black heels impatiently and stared at him.
“What?” It was all he could say.
She grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of the bar and into a taxi. The taxi driver turned around and looked at them with a mumbled “Where to?” Without knowing why, he gave him his address, and they drove towards his house.
“Wow, painting really seems to pay you well,” she gasped when they pulled into the driveway of his home. She was right: It had made him a good fortune. People said his paintings were special, that they felt almost too realistic. He had always taken it as a compliment.
Without waiting for him to move, she pushed a bill into the driver’s hand and walked up the driveway. She ran her fingers over his car gently, when she walked past. He caught up with her at the door. He hesitated, really not wanting to see proof that it was all his fault.
“Go on,” she whispered. He could hear her excitement and wondered, why she even believed him, let alone wanted to learn more. With a shrug, he put his finger on the reader and the door clicked open. When they walked in, the light flickered on and illuminated the large staircases on both sides of the entry hall.
He heard her gasp again next to him but ignored it and walked into the living room ahead. He immediately saw what was left of his painting and clutched his hands to his mouth. His easel had been knocked over. There were tiny black paw prints everywhere. The black tube, which he must have left open, lay next to the canvas on the floor. Splatters of paint and pawprints covered, at least, half the painting, converting the previously amazing sunset into a dark and moody scene.
“Damn cat.”
Interested the woman stepped closer while he stood transfixed in the doorway.
“Fascinating,” she said, “Very interesting.”
He still couldn’t say anything. He jumped when she whirled around and ran towards him.
“It’s simple!” she exclaimed.
“What?” He still stood rooted to the spot.
She put a hand on each of his shoulders and smiled at him. “All you have to do is paint another one.”
“I’m never touching those brushes again. Never!” He had made his resolution the moment he had seen the painting. Never again would he paint something, even if it meant selling his house.
But she didn’t even listen. She was already running around the room, collecting his brushes from the table next to the window, filling his cup with water and arranging the paint tubes. He just stood there. Somehow he knew she wouldn’t be stopped, even if he tried. The woman fascinated him.
She set the finished painting against the wall and searched through the empty canvases in a crate at the wall until she found one in the size of the one she had just discarded.
“There, go on,” she said and pushed him towards the canvas, completely ignoring his protest.
After a few feeble attempts to explain, that he had made a promise to himself never to paint again, he picked up a brush and started painting. The whole time, she stood next to him and watched him work, making encouraging comments or suggestions.
When he was about to start on the sky, she handed him a tube of golden paint and without questioning it, he started painting a golden sky above the buildings.
By the time he was finished, the sun had started rising. He set down his brush and walked out onto the balcony with her. Together they watched, as the sun bathed the city in a golden light, showing no trace of the catastrophic damage that had been everywhere the day before.
“Thank you,” he said, looking down at the beautiful view. He turned to look at her, but she was gone. He looked around, but she was nowhere to be found.
“I must have imagined it,” he said to himself and sighed.
When the buyer showed up, he was so happy with the paintings, he gave him a large bonus. As he drove away, he could have sworn, that he caught a glimpse of red hair behind the blackened car windows. He blinked and it was gone.
When he went back inside, he packed away his canvases, brushes and paint and swore to himself, that he would never paint another sunset.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 