Snapshots from a Man's Day

Winston stared up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers methodically against his stomach. A twang of pain murmured from his spine, aching like it had been for days, but he ignored it as he did most things. His eye twitched with every drip of the leaky sink. He finally mustered the energy to step out of bed. He stretched, ripples of tension releasing out of his joints, and yawned while making his way towards the kitchen. Reuben sat at the table awaiting him.

"Good morning, Rube," he smiled at the man. Reuben nodded back. Winston hummed as he set water to boil, grinding up coffee beans rhythmically. He tsked at a spider skittering across the kitchen counter.

"We really should take care of those pesky bugs. They've become more and more frequent, you know." Reuben mumbled a halfhearted affirmation. Winston continued to prattle on, ignoring his disinterest.

"Were you cooking toast? It smells like burning toast. Also, last night, it sounded like you were on a call. Right? Who was it to?"

"It wasn't a call." Winston whipped around, brows furrowed.

"What?" He swallowed. "I was sure I heard voices."

"Mmm."

"You heard them too?"

"Yeah. Probably just neighbors or something."

"Right. Sure." He continued to pour himself a cup. Winston shook his head, dissipating any confused thoughts. A sudden twinge of discomfort hit his bladder.

"I'll be right back," he stated, heading to the bathroom.

Once he finished and walked back to the living room, Winston was greeted by emptiness. It wasn't uncommon; Reuben often disappeared to his room or out the door to work. It was just one of his quirks.

He sat back down to finish his coffee, letting his mind drift.

***

Winston stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, breathing heavily into a damp scarf snug around mouth and neck. He walked slowly, listening to his sister talk about her ex-husband. He nodded occasionally and made little sounds to keep her satisfied, but couldn't really focus on what she was actually saying. Her words fuzzed together, muffled and distorted. Perhaps it was his earmuffs. Wherever he went, Winston tended to get strange looks from strangers around him, especially when he was in the company of friends or relatives. He supposed it was due to an ugly scar that ran from his forehead to the corner of his mouth, but most simply avoided him, so he couldn't tell.

The sidewalk had strange patterns on it- geometric shapes of all colors that seemed to change based on the light. He chuckled to himself.

"Look, Lucia. The sidewalk." His sister paused, staring down.

"Hm? Yes, yes, very pretty. As I was saying, Richard just would not stop calling- keeps begging for forgiveness. As if I'll just let him back in after all he did. I had to block his number, and even that hasn't stopped him..."

Winston's eyes glazed over. Shadows crept around him, snow prickled his skin, his sister kept chatting to herself, and the sidewalk continued to flicker. It really was quite pretty.

***

Dipping the head of his brush in linseed oil, Winston smeared black paint onto a newly dry canvas. Parts of previous work jumped at him. The thing about oils, he thought to himself, was that they take forever to dry. But when they do- god, when they do, it was beautiful. Layers upon layers of paint all coming together in harmony... it was extraordinary.

His preferred style was realism. Winston enjoyed painting portraits, specifically of Reuben or even his own self. There was something entrancing about creating art of the same person over and over, almost duplicates of each other but with small, meticulous differences. He painted what he saw. Sometimes it came across as surrealism (for reasons unbeknownst to him), making it difficult to sell commissions to those who wanted realistic portraits. The art world was confusing and prestigious.

Today, Winston had decided on a self-portrait. He did so by glancing periodically at a mirror propped up by his easel. While his brush kissed the painting, he whistled along to music omnipresent in the small studio. After hours, Winston stepped back and frowned at the product. A blotchy face stared back at him, random patches of black and blue permeating through the art. Winston wiped his eyes and looked back. He turned to the mirror, trying to find where those patches of color could've come from. He remembered painting them- but why?

He was probably stressed and overworked. He'd barely slept the previous night, he was just tired. Just tired is all.

***

Winston slammed facefirst into a wall.

He cradled his swollen nose, squeezing the shocked tears out of his eyes. "Jesus," he grumbled, fumbling around for a pack of ice. He was sure he had been farther away from the wall.

"I'm out of it today, aren't I." He laughed hollowly shaking his head in disbelief at his own stupidity. He was shaken from his thoughts by a peculiar meow.

"...Hello?" He called towards the door. Winston didn't own any cats, nor did Reuben. And yet, as he walked down the hallway, he was greeted by a rugged, black kitten staring back at him.

"What-" he blinked in disbelief. A cat was in his house. Where in god's name could it've come from? He lived in NYC, it's not like there were stray animals. The cat, however, had different plans. It promptly fell to the floor, rolled onto its back, and looked up at Winston with pleading eyes.

"You want me to... pet you?" It meowed in response as if it understood him. He continued to stare in shock. Finally, he came to his senses and opened the door.

"Sorry, kitty cat, but you've gotta go."

***

"Winston?"

"Hey, ma."

"Listen, honey, could you come over? There's something we need to talk about."

"Is it Richard again? I keep telling Lucia-"

"Winston. Please. Don't- don't mention your sister."

"What? Why?"

"Just come over. Please."

"Alright. Yeah, I'll be there in twenty."

***

Winston sipped his tea gingerly, looking at his mother doubtfully. "What's this about, ma?"

She sighed and gathered her hands neatly in her lap. "Honey, I want you to see your psychiatrist again."

"My psychiatrist."

"Yes, I..." she rubbed her eyes. Winston could tell his mom was trying not to cry. His face sobered.

"Your schizophrenia has gotten worse."

"I don't have schizophrenia."

His mother slammed her hand onto the table, startling Winston.

"For christ's sake, have you even been taking your meds?" He scoffed.

"I'm not going to sit here while you try to manipulate me into thinking I'm insane." His mother crumpled, burying her face in her hands.

"I'm not insane." Winston grimaced at his mom's pain.

"I'm not insane. I'm not."

His voice lowered as his lip quivered, water prickling at the edges of his eyes. Winston's words dropped to a scared whisper, a lost child.

"I'm not insane."

"I'm not insane."

"I'm not insane."