Portraits

The smattering of rain against the glass windows of the gallery disguised the persistent tapping on the the door across the noisy room. Almost. I doubted anybody else noticed- and if they did, they didn't seem to care, their senses flooded by the paintings they examined, the wine swirling around in their clinking glasses, or the various high-nosed critics rattling on about god knows what.

I realized that I had stopped talking, and the curious patrons of the showcase were beginning to follow my wandering gaze.

I issued a quick apology to the group, and made some excuse about bowel movements- which I doubted they wanted to hear anything more about- before dissolving into the crowd and pushing my way towards the door. This was getting out of hand. I pushed open the door, ducked inside, and collapsed against it, eyes closed. I dreaded opening them, because I'd grown to expect exactly what would happen when I did.

"Hello, Sacramento." I opened my eyes, the little white goat inches from my face. I still flinched to make eye contact with the thing. At first, I hadn't noticed what was so off-putting about him. By our third meeting, I had realized that his eyes were not the barred yellow eyes of the (admittedly few) goats that I had encountered before, but distinctly human ones- whites, irises, pupils, and all. I had dubbed him Sacramento after my hometown, though the name had built up some twisted irony over the past year as the bovine followed me farther and farther away from home.

The goat let out a bleat of acknowledgement, as if to say Hey, Penny before coughing out a plume of red smoke and speaking in a voice that still prickled the tiny hairs on my arms. "The deal will be carried out tonight. Have you chosen a candidate?"

Candidate. I looked down. "Yes. The blonde woman in the violet dress. The-"

"-Violinist. I see you are being strategic about your choices now."

I continued looking at my clasped hands. My fingers were clumsy and thick, the harsh lines of my stocky palms hardly tapering down at the wrist. They were not the hands of a painter. The brush had rolled clumsily around my fingers, creating swirls where dots should be, thick lines that should have been thin. "Thank you." I whispered, standing and re-entering the lively room. I didn't bother looking back- Sacramento would have be gone as soon as I opened the door.

The band struck up another song as I surveyed the walls. The portraits stared blankly at their creator, eyes unblinking and unforgiving. I forced myself to turn my attention instead to the band and the slow, almost waltz-like tune they'd started. I was only distantly aware that this was my art showcase, and people were expecting me to thoroughly explain each piece. I'm not sure I could explain my art to someone if they demanded it at gunpoint. However, this situation seems close enough, so I'll do my best.

The first 17 or so years of my life passed with ease and relatively good fortune. My parents were wealthy- and not even just upper middle class wealthy- again, we lived in Sacramento, which was pretty hard to do if you didn't have money to burn. I was an only child of two very busy parents, which left me with a lot of time to myself. Sketchbooks and canvases kept me company for days at a time, my closest friends other than the mailman and the maid that sometimes came over with books that her child didn't want to read anymore. When I took art in the first grade, the teacher had called home. I was sure I was in trouble, but my mom patted me on the head after she hung up. "Good job, Penelope. You can make lots of money by being a painter, you know." As soon as she left the room, I practically beamed. I decided that I would never stop drawing- not now that it served not only me but my otherwise unaffectionate parents.

By middle school, I had entered and won several painting contests in the area. By high school, I'd won several in the state. By senior year, just about every liberal arts college in the country wanted to enroll the glimmering child prodigy, Penelope Court, who had managed to get her paintings hung in museums and lavish mansions alike.

I still wonder what deity was at play to knock my life so violently off course. I often look up, or down, or into the distance and question who the hell saw 17 year old Penny trembling with excitement as she read her letter of acceptance into the UCLA Department of Fine Art and decided that they would like to see her existence torn to shreds.

Whoever it was, they struck in December. I woke up on the morning of the first snow, inhaling the freezing air, laced with the scent of snow. My eyes widened, and I rushed to the window. Sure enough, it was snowing in California. Snowing, and actually cold. I sprinted to my canvas, which was positioned perfectly in front of a window. I picked up my brush. Instantly, my hand buckled and the brush dropped to the ground. Looking back on it, I think I instantly knew. There was no way I could possibly have fumbled with a paintbrush so uselessly after years of poring over brushstrokes and holding the tool. My blood drummed in my ears. I knelt down and intended to grab the brush, but my fingers would not curl. My breathing was rapid now, and I tried the other hand. I'd injured my dominant left hand before and learned how to paint with my right. Surely this wouldn't pose a problem. My right hand only shook as I tried to bend the fingers. I might have screamed. I wouldn't know. I pushed the hand against my chest, trying to mold them into a shape that they simply couldn't make anymore.

My parents had rushed me to the hospital as I screamed and wailed. My dad sat in the back with me, desperately trying to mend the broken body of his perfect daughter. It hurt more than any pain I'd ever known. He stopped when he noticed that my screams were only getting more pained as he tried to bend the digits. I begged him to keep trying. By the time we got to the hospital, I was unrecognizable as the girl in the newspapers. My copper hair hadn't been straightened, my glasses not switched for contacts. To anybody watching, I probably looked like a blubbering child who'd sprained her wrist or something.

Localized Moersch-Woltman syndrome. That's what the doctors came up with. My muscles were spasming uncontrollably. They would recover for short periods, but the dysfunction would be triggered by any contact with my hands. They advised me not to paint to prevent the condition from worsening.

It was snowing in California, but I could not paint.

When we got home, I cried. It was hours before I could wrench myself from my bed and drag my exhausted body into my painting room. The snow had ceased, leaving an even more beautiful scene outside of the window. The scenery taunted me, knowing I could not get the chance to capture it's beauty. I reached for a brush. My fingers closed around it, but no sooner had they done so than a burst of pain shot up my wrist. I bit my lip so hard that I could taste blood, focusing on keeping my pathetic fingers curled around the brush.

The painting I made that night resulted in a destroyed canvas and an even more thoroughly destroyed room. The pain worsened every day, and I was hospitalized multiple times- through graduation, then UCLA orientation, then the first month of college.

The last time I was hospitalized, I knew it would be the last time. I would make sure of it. I was not religious- my only religion was my art, and that had been washed away by a year of tears. In spite of this, I sent out a final prayer, if it could be called that. Please. I would kill for this. I would die if there was even the smallest chance of being able to paint in the afterlife. I will do anything. Please. It was a pathetic excuse for a final wish, and I presumed that any listening gods or otherwise would turn their heads away. I stood, and began setting about opening the window.

"Wait." A voice. The strangest voice I'd ever heard. It was like an amalgamation of every person I'd ever spoken to, but deepened in pitch and slowed beyond recognition.

I turned. The man that stood before me was intimidatingly tall, his face wrapped in white bandages. Brown eyes that seemed to flicker yellow peeked out from two eye holes. He wore a sharply tailored suit. "God?" I asked.

"No, not quite." he replied, shutting the curtains of my hospital room, despite me being the only patient there.

"Please, don't hurt me. I was just about to die, anyway."

"Oh, my apologies. I thought I heard something about doing anything to paint again, and I thought I might be able to help. But if not-"

I threw myself at his feet. "Please. Anything. Forget what I said. Anything you want."

"Well, what about what you want, Penelope?" he asked.

"All I want is to paint."

"Hmm... And your hands have failed you?" The stranger observed.

I nodded through tears.

"Perhaps, then, it's your hands that are the problem."

I gave him a sort of "No shit," look.

"What I mean to say," the man continued, "Is that maybe somebody else's hands would do the trick."

A shudder ran through me. "Oh."

"Don't you agree?"

"Y-yes? It's just, I don't know how I could possibly-"

His voice was almost comforting now. "Shh. I'll take care of the details. All I need you to do is tell me who would make a good fit."

I'll admit, I didn't really know what he was getting at. All I knew is that this man had to be some sort of benevolent deity that had answered my prayers. "I guess," I started, "my nurse told me she used to be an artist."

A smile crept across the man's face, the corners of his lips drifting into obscurity under his bandages. "Did she? Well, I think I know which nurse you mean. I'm sure she wouldn't mind helping you out."

Now I knew I was dreaming, because I clearly saw the man's pupils lengthen into rectangles swimming in the golden sea of his eyes.

I swallowed hard. "Okay."

He shut the window and locked the latches again. "Back to bed, now."

I closed my eyes, and dreamt I was an artist.

The next morning, I woke up and pulled the covers down from my chest. I pulled the covers down from my chest. I shot up in bed and immediately curled and uncurled my fingers. I shrieked in excitement and was on my feet in seconds, running to the pad and paper that my nurse had left on the table the morning before. I scribbled on it at first, but after several minutes the scribble had formed an abstract drawing of the stranger from last night. I danced around the room for a few moments before looking down and examining my hands again. They looked oddly wrinkled, on closer inspection. The left one had a diamond ring on, which I found particularly odd.

A diamond ring. Wrinkles. The stranger from last night.

It all came together too fast. I froze where I stood, looking at the door. The nurse hadn't come to wake me that morning. I examined my hands for any Frankenstein-esque stitches, but found none. Ever so hesitantly, I opened the door. Nothing. I let out an obscenely loud sigh of relief and made an executive decision not to look too far into the miracle. I was not so stupid as to think that something supernatural had not happened- that much was clear. But the probability of the nurse being okay didn't seem impossibly far off.

I was kidding myself. Even if she had died, did I really care? I sprinted down the halls of the hospital in search of a canvas. I found a recreation room, and began to paint.

As it turned out, the nurse was gone. The news confirmed as much upon my discharge from the hospital and arrival home. Andrea Ramiro-Something, gone missing. I told my parents to shut off the television. I had portraits to make. I decided that my first one would be a tribute to Andrea, for I was now certain that she, alongside the god I'd encountered was responsible for my recovery. I had never been happier. Not in my childhood, drawing only for myself. Not even when I'd got my acceptance letter. I left Sacramento, college, and my family. I took a red-eye flight to New York and started painting again.

Everything was as it should be until the night of the 31st.

Something was tapping at my door, and I was fairly certain I knew what it was. When I opened the door, I was promptly proven wrong by a small white goat standing at my feet. It was unsettling- far more so than the bandaged man for reasons I couldn't quite place. It trotted (Do goats trot? Perhaps it walked?) into my studio apartment before coughing up a mixture of blood and smoke and beginning to talk. "Hello. I hope all is well since we've last spoken, Penelope. I hope you still maintain your passion for art. If that is the case, please select a new benefactor. I'm afraid you can only go a month at a time with your new hands."

"Oh. Um, okay." I considered this. I reassured myself that this was worth it. My art had only improved since I'd gotten my abilities back, and I was set to have it displayed in a gallery in several months. "The old man that works at the deli." Somebody no one would miss, I thought.

The cycle had repeated itself since. The police had never found out who was behind the disappearances, if anybody. After all, it wasn't unusual for a few inconsequential people to go missing in the big city. My art was in museums again. On walls. In people's minds. Surely, I thought at that gallery on that rainy day, my good deeds cancelled out my worse ones. My eyes once again drifted away from the band and grazed over each portrait that decorated the gallery, all the way back to one of a beautiful, dark skinned woman with a glimmering diamond ring on her left hand. I beamed like I had that day when my mother had discovered my talent for the first time. I looked into the woman's deep brown eyes, then down at her hands. "You're welcome." I whispered.