Brushstrokes of Fate

The vibrant red of the paint looked violent against the bumpy white canvas surface. Xavier grimaced. He'd never intended to make the painting so violent. But art had a mind of its own and so did magick.

He sat in the chair for hours ignoring the pain that cemented itself in the muscles of his bottom. For hours he did the slow work of creating something. And as was with all his art he had no idea what was going to be made when he'd first begun.

He got up once. To turn on the small lantern that sat next to his easel. Then again, he returned, glued to his uncomfortable wooden stool as hunger gnawed at his insides and thirst scratched at his throat.

An orange glow filled the room. The rising sun had decided to make an appearance in his large attic window. He raced against the nuisance, and finally, he placed his brush on his easel and sat back taking in his creation.

The scene had come together beautifully. Xavier raised a brow. It was odd how mundane the painting was. He'd never expected such a quiet scene. Not when the underpainting had been so red, so violent.

The image had come together to form a small cafe. Where the lighting was a soft orange. He saw the small version of himself. In the image, he'd looked identical to now. His foot was outstretched and a small woman tripped over his pointed leather shoe. He sighed as the colors bled from the painting, coming to terms with what he knew the Gods had required him to do.

His surroundings shifted and he was there, in the dull scene he had painted. The air was warm and filled with the smell of fresh coffee beans. In front of him was a porcelain mug of steaming black coffee. He took the warm mug in his hands bringing it to his lips. And there was the woman. Her brown hair was sleeked back into a bun. She had an aura of respect that seeped from her.

Xavier watched as the poor woman attempted to balance two layers of cupholders containing coffee. A pang of guilt burrowed itself in the pit of his stomach as the woman got closer.

He stuck out his foot. The woman's black stiletto heel connected with his worn leather shoes and she lurched forward. The scene seemed to slow. And Xavier pictured how it had looked from the safety of his attic room. Coffee reaching out like tentacles. The sharpness of the woman's shock across her face. He saw how he looked in the painting. Peaking over his mug, face obscure by steam.

Hot coffee splashed on his jeans and he hissed. Hot coffee splashed on the woman's arms and she yelped in pain. A couple nearby samaritans rushed forward to help the woman. In the commotion, Xavier got up from his chair and walked toward the bathroom. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again. He was back in the safety of his attic room.

The sun cast a glowing light on the painting. It emphasized the different-sized brush strokes. The paint on the canvas shifted. The scene changed of its own accord. The brush strokes swirled around each other like living tendrils.

It changed to the white walls of a hospital room. Where the woman lay, her arms wrapped in plaster. Xavier shook his head sadly. He'd never wanted to cause a stranger harm but he found that this occupation often led to just that. The woman held in her hand a pink slip. Her head was bowed, her expression concealed.

The painting changed again. The young woman looked wistfully out the windows of a house. An older woman sat across from her, her features similar to that of the young lady but her face was slightly wrinkled. Xavier presumed it was an older relative, maybe her mother. The older woman held a book in her hands. Hues of blues and grays colored the painting.

Xavier's face pinched in confusion. He ground his teeth together. Had the Gods meant to punish the young lady? Had he had a role in the orchestrating of the destruction of her life?

The scene shifted again. The image was dark. Except for the small glow that emanated from a computer screen. The glow reflected off the woman's face which held an unfiltered grin. He looked over the painting finding the subject of the painting's fingers excitedly pressing keys.

He smiled at her, although she'd never see it.

The scene shifted once more. Its colors were vibrant. Oranges, and pinks, jumped from the image. The woman stood behind a podium. Smiling at an object held tight in her hands. Xavier grinned as the color leaked from the painting once more.

He found himself in a seat. And again he felt the dominating aura of the woman. Claps reigned around him. And as is human nature he clapped too. "Any questions?" The woman asked.

Hands shot up from every corner. The woman chuckled. She pointed to one of the older women sitting towards the front.

"I'm somewhat of a writer myself, so I guess what I'm wondering is how did you find the courage to publish your first book." She asked.

The young woman smiled. "It's not the happiest story. After a particularly nasty burn accident. I had lost everything. And when you have nothing to lose, it's easier to take chances. Sorry, that's probably not what you were hoping for."

The crowd chuckled. The older woman shrugged. Xavier caught the eye of the woman. She tilted her head. Her eyes widened in recognition. He blinked at her. Unsure of what to do. And then he was back.

In his isolating attic.

He sighed and mumbled to himself grabbing the canvas. He made his way down to the ground floor, rolling his neck. He stretched and opened the door to his spare room.

Paintings filled the area. Each picturing its own unique scene. He tossed the finished painting into the room uncaring of where it would land and shut the door behind him. Quietly he wondered if somewhere there was an artist who would bend the wheels of fate to bring him some company.

His doorbell rang, the sound echoed throughout his empty house. He pinched his brows together as he was beckoned toward the front door. He opened the door. Xavier immediately recognized the woman in front of him because he'd seen her only moments before.

Except gray hair had begun to weave its way through her dark curls and smile lines had kissed the space between her lips and cheeks. She held a package in her hand. "I think this was delivered to-" She looked up catching his eye.

"You." She whispered, a mix of awe and anger.