The Starving Artist

 

        It was one of those nights. My mug of coffee had run dry, and the day’s Times was just dreary and unmoving. The rain struck hard against my windows, the bleak streets broken only by the yellow glow of their lamps on this dark night. The ceiling fan spun wryly over my olive-green office, threatening to put out my last cigarette. It was then that I heard a faint strike on my door. The rat-tat-tat of a youngster, unsure if this is the place.

        “Come in,” my voice answered before I’d decided. I’d had enough money for the week, and it was late enough to pretend to be away. Oh well, what’s done is done.

        The door creaked open, and a young woman stepped inside. She had a flapper’s dress on, and in her hands she carried her purse and her gloves. She was dressed for a party, so I couldn’t help but wonder what lover’s quarrel led her here. I had her sit down, handed her a glass of whiskey, and turned to the streets, my eyes watching the lonely motorcades of the normal and mundane strike up the waters of the street, intermingled with the image of myself in my coat and bullfrog trousers.

        “I came for advice,” she said at last.

        “Well that comes cheap.”

        “And assistance.”

        “That, not so cheap.”

        I hear a rustling, and catch a glimpse of her pulling a framed photo out of her bag in the window’s reflection.

        “It’s about my husband.”

        “What, sudden disappearance? Suspected cheating? Maybe he’s getting out of dodge due to a debters?”

        I was callous, cold, but it was a late night and an unexpected visit, can ya blame me? Well, the daggers in the reflection told me she certainly did.

        “He’s not missing, nor cheating.”

        I withheld further smart-alec comments.

        “Then what brings ya in? Ain’t exactly desperation that brings ya in at 2 AM.”

        She looks off to the side.

        “He’s been in our apartment for a week. And he hasn’t left once.”

        “Do you know why?”

        “His work.”

        “What’s he, a novelist?”

        “No, a painter.”

        I rolled my eyes. Reclusive and a painter, of course I get the eccentric types. I felt I was in for a long night.

        “So, you want me to scare him out of the flat?”

        “I want you to check on him.”

        “Why?”

        She didn’t answer for a period, her eyes crossing the floor.

        “He hasn’t been eating.”

       

       

        The silence was powerful. Had I been any shorter, I’m sure the ash falling from my cigar would’ve been audible. But all I heard was the rain, as her words sank in. I took a moment, and slipped my revolver into my jacket pocket.

        “When did you last see him do so?”

        “What, fast?”

        “No, toots, eat.”

        “On Monday, at breakfast.”

        Shit. Six days. And in a handful of hours it’d be seven.

        “What was he like this morning?”

        “I don’t know.”

        “Why not? Weren’t you worried?”

        “Of course I was!” her voice cried out, “But he locked me out. I can’t get in, and I’ve had to stay at my sister’s while he’s been like this.”

        I suppose it was the discomforting sound, but I couldn’t turn this case down now. I knew too much. I should’ve turned her away at the door, as now it’s do or don’t-sleep.

        “Fine. I’ll check up on him. Give me the address to your sister’s, and yours. You’re welcome to wait here until I get back, but that might be a while. If you do,” I added, as I stopped in my doorway, “You’re welcome to anything you can find to drink, but do your stressed mind a favor and leave the coffee untouched.”

        Admittedly, after closing the door, I groaned. I was starting to sound like my mother, giving advice to people who didn’t ask for it. But I shook it off; now was not the time for social regret. The situation was urgent. I got down to the street, and took a cab up to the place in question. When I stepped onto the curb, I got a startlingly good look at it.

At the ground floor, it was like any old apartment building. Glass revolving door against simple painted brickwork standing out like a gas-lamp to the lonely travelers of the night. But once it crossed the first floor, things changed. The building began to warp. Warm orange rooms began stretching and changing into flat yellow lights, the walls of the building darkened, as the whole structure literally loomed over the street, becoming a more and more abstract version of imposing, until it was this dark, stretched tower of almost children’s book origin. And yet despite this childish design, it still managed to imbue me with a feeling of impending doom.

There was no question; This was the place, but I may already have been too late. As I entered the lobby, I found it had been painted over. Doors looked outlined, pictures seemed re-designed, and there were arrows on the floor leading to the proper rooms like in a children’s playground. The shape of the building made me uneasy, so I found myself taking the stairs. As you might expect, the higher I went, the weirder the situation became. The floors quickly swapped from tile to inked-over wood. Dark splotches struck the walls in odd places, like a fountain pen that went projectile. Some rooms had the furniture bolted to the ceiling, some were covered in words and strange writings. All in all, the place seemed entirely abandoned. After wandering the twisting corridors and stairs for a few minutes, I finally made my way up to the fifth floor. The way my coat dangled despite standing straight up told me we were in the section looking straight down at the street. Bizarre what these things can do.

As I walked down the corridor, which often chose to invert itself or twist in peculiar directions, I could distinctly observe everything becoming weirder. Every occurrence becoming worse. Paintings became solid colors, furniture was painted into place, odd colors adorned the walls, words became meaningless letters and then scribbles. All of which seemed to be drawing from the same door, the apartment in question: 527.

The door was pure-black, glistening and dripping with the air of fresh paint. And yet, despite the simple look, it carried the brunt of the towering energy within the building. Every step towards it seemed to cry out as though it were cruel, and every commanding glance was met by a far more overwhelming silence. But this door wasn’t the source, merely the gate.

This was it. Like a leaflet on the wind, I felt the pull of this room. I took a good look at myself, checking I was prepared. Had my revolver, my hat, and my bullfrog trousers. Though I could distinctly see the edge of my hat had gained an outline. I would have to be quick.

I grabbed the ink-black handle, and swung the door open.

The room was undoubtedly the champion of this horribly enigmatic building. It was meters longer than it should have been, the walls twisting their way up to an impossibly high ceiling, far enough up that I couldn’t see it in the darkness. All of this served only as the surrounding context of an enormous window, easily six times my size, which overlooked the street. But all of this meant very little to my mind, for my eyes had focused on the central figure of the room, the main cause.

Standing before a canvas and easel that could give a double-decker bus a run for its money, was a strange figure. Looming over the easel with a palette in one hand, and a brush held like a sword in the other, the creature continually swung at the canvas.

It was tall, well over my height by a good three or four feet, and it was dripping from head-to-toe in ink. Despite this, I could see the back of a clean vest and slacks, merely trimmed with ink on the sleeves and otherwise somehow stainless. The only sound that came about was a series of swipes. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. The rushed sound of the brush against the canvas, multiplied so loudly it may as well have been nails on a chalkboard. I was several hours too late.

As I looked around at the discarded mess of canvases and painted walls, knowing hope was lost, I determined the best solution was a quick execution. I drew my revolver from my pocket, and cocked the hammer. At the sound, the immense being craned its neck behind it to reveal two brightly glowing yellow eyes, and a crooked yellow smile across its face. I lined the gun up and pulled the trigger.

BANG.

…

…

It didn’t even flinch. But it didn’t appreciate it either. All in one moment, the strange beasts eyes and mouth ceased their almost child-like glow, and all that was left was a gaping, horrifying maw and sockets, which began to scream.

I held my ground, and as a giant paintbrush swung towards me, I leapt using the springs of my trousers on their lightest setting to get over it. I had to think, as I didn’t have many options. The Painter struck at me again, this time I narrowly avoided it by dodging off to the side. My gun was useless. And this beast was immense. Clearly if I had any choice at all, it would be through the window. But would a window that big even break if I smashed into it? I didn’t have many choices. I ran to the door again, using my opponent’s immense size to my advantage, and braced my legs against the door.

Ksssssssssshhhht.
        The hiss of my bullfrogs set as they were armed to launch. I waited, and sure enough, the beast drew up his paintbrush to bring down on my head, and in that moment, I launched myself between his legs at the window.

        CRACK!
        For a brief moment I felt success. And opened my eyes for the next step.
        And saw an unbroken window, and a lot of blood.
        I had completely shattered my shoulder, and failed to crack open the window. I fell to the ground, a crumpled heap, the pain only stifled by my sheer adrenaline. And in the corner, I could hear it. The shuffled wet steps of those gigantic, ink-covered feet rumbled the room, as I saw him raise his choice weapon above my head. In a last frantic effort, I threw myself aside right as the weapon came down.

The pattering sounds of glass being shattered deafened my eardrums. The giant’s brush was halfway outside the glass, its head turned to look at me, fury painted in the edges of its face. This was my only chance. I rolled my way over to the door, batting away leftover canvases with my good arm, until I was in position.

Ksssssssssshhhht.

Pomfph.
        I kicked off the door with everything I had, and I smashed right into the head of that wretched has-been. He stumbled backward, falling out of the newly shattered frame.
        And on his way out, he dragged me by my foot.
       

I found myself falling. Miniscule shards of glass were making their way past me as I hurtled towards the Painter, as we both hurtled towards the road. I looked at him, and observed his eyes had returned their bright orange glow, wide-eyed with fear and sadness as he looked passed me. I turned my head in the fall, and saw the same.

The apartment careened upward, the windows color becoming more complex, and the size reducing significantly, as the towering machination that had once been this fortress of ink and paper returned to its original position. The creak of brick and metal hollered as the size compressed, the last few possessions of the artist making their way out the window, as if left behind. It curled, retracted, and returned to its position on the side of the road.

And then it all went dark.