Paint It Black
Bekka sat up, gasping, sweaty, and terrified, the dream still as vivid in her mind as though it was really happening. Searing brilliance, nearly burning her eyes out; voices whispering at her, trying to lure her to her doom. She couldn't see where the voices were coming from, and she didn't know where to go to hide from them. Awake now, she looked around her room, which was lit by nightlights placed to illuminate every crevice and corner. Nothing could be hiding in the room; the malicious voices were only in her mind, a part of the dream. Gradually, her shaking stopped and her heartbeat returned to normal.
She lay down again to try to go back to sleep. That was the hard part, closing her eyes and surrendering herself to the darkness. So she lay awake, counting slow and steady breaths, keeping her eyes open until they would stay open no longer. And then she slept.
In the light of morning, the dream seemed distant, but the effects were real. Weary and foggy-headed, she struggled to get out of bed. There was a knock on the door, then her assistant stuck her head into the room. “Your client’s here, Miss Holden.”
Bekka groaned and looked at the clock. Nine o’clock. Why did she keep scheduling appointments this early? Even on the nights when she didn’t have the nightmare, she lay awake most of the night worrying about it. Oh well. Mrs. Bomir was waiting, and Bekka couldn’t afford to keep her best client waiting for too long.
She washed and dressed quickly, then left her bedroom and crossed the apartment to her studio. Mrs. Bomir sat in one of the elegant armchairs in the consultation area, one arm stretched out to grip her walking stick as though she was about to get up again and leave. She wore dowager’s black, from her netted hat to her high-heeled button-up shoes. Bekka averted her eyes from the dark blot in the warmly-lit room.
“Is my portrait finished yet?” Mrs. Bomir demanded. “My grandson’s wedding is less than a month away, and I want to have the redecoration done by then.”
“It’s nearly done, madam,” Bekka answered. She went to her easel, turned it, and removed the protective cloth draped over it so that Mrs. Bomir could see the painting.
The old woman stared at her portrait for a long moment before speaking. “My hair,” she finally said, her voice as cold and hard as steel, “is not gray. It is black. You are an artist; one would think you would notice such things.”
Bekka glanced at the old woman’s hair--jet black, obviously dyed. Then she looked away again. The blackness made cold fingers of dread creep up her spine. “It isn’t gray, madam. I think it’s a very becoming shade of silver.”
“It’s gray.” Mrs. Bomir pushed herself to her feet with her walking stick. “I expect you to paint me correctly, or I will withold the balance of my payment and demand that you refund what I’ve already paid.” Without another word she walked from the room, the thump of her walking stick on the wood floor adding its own note of disapproval to her departure.
Bekka studied the portrait. She had painted Mrs. Bomir wearing silvery-blue satin rather than widow’s black, which the dowager had not objected to. But the hair... She had tried to force herself to paint the hair black, but it had been so long since she had touched her tubes of dark paints that she had forgotten they were nearly empty. When she went to the paint shop, she hadn’t even been able to make herself reach for replacements. All she could think of when she envisioned painting with black was unspeakable things hiding in the darkness, watching her, whispering to her. So she had bought a silvery gray instead, and left the shop thinking about how to persuade Mrs. Bomir that she would look so much better with natural gray hair.
That attempt had failed quite soundly.
She couldn’t afford to give up the rest of Mrs. Bomir’s fee, and she certainly couldn’t afford to pay back the deposit. No other commissions had come in in quite some time--she had overheard a potential client whispering to his wife as they looked at her gallery that her paintings seemed flat, somehow. They lacked depth. Her composition and blending were as skillful as ever, Bekka knew, but more and more she had trouble forcing herself to paint shadows.
Things lurked in shadows, things she didn’t want to think about, that grasped and whispered and stole your life away.
But she had no choice. She had to please Mrs. Bomir, or she was in serious trouble. She had been counting on that fee to pay the next six months’ rent on the apartment and studio. Without the rent, she was out on the streets, and out of work.
Every day for the next week or more she ventured outside just after noon, when the shadows cast by the sun were nearly non-existent, and went to the paint shop, where she stood outside, face pressed against the glass, staring at all the tubes of paint and trying to work up the courage to go in and ask for a tube of black. Or indigo, or burnt umber, or even dark gray, or anything dark enough to let her paint Mrs. Bomir’s hair the desired color. And every day, the cold feeling of dread squeezed her stomach and weakened her legs until finally she walked away, defeated and empty-handed.
The nightmare came every night now, instead of every two or three nights. She was surrounded by blinding light, no shadows, no hidden corners, nothing was hidden from her sight--yet she couldn’t see. Voices whispered to her, their sources invisible, the things they said all the more dreadful for her not being able to understand them. She would wake up shaking, nearly sick with terror, unable to go back to sleep. Every morning it was harder to drag her stiff, weary body out of bed and to focus her exhaustion-fogged mind on the day’s business.
The days passed. Time grew short. And once again she turned away from the paint shop in defeat, with no tube of black paint to show for her effort. Mrs. Bomir sent a note around, asking if the painting had been completed yet and reminding Bekka--as if she needed to be reminded--that the painting would need time to dry before it could be displayed in her grand reception hall for her grandson’s wedding supper. Bekka stared at the note, her heart sinking. She had come to dread even the daily walk to the paint shop, never mind finding the courage to go in and buy what she needed. She would not finish the painting on time. She would lose the biggest commission--and the richest client--she had had in years at a time when she could least afford it. She was as good as ruined.
That night, she sat up late in her bedroom, trying to think of a way to convince Mrs. Bomir to change her mind, or to persuade the landlord not to evict her, or what she would do if she failed. There were no answers. Despair clouded her thoughts, and she couldn’t see any way out.
And then the voices started up--the voices from the dreams, the voices she always heard whispering in the shadows and dark corners. Come to us. You cannot deny us. Come see what you’re missing.
Terror chilled her. What did they want with her? What horrors were they holding in store for her? But the life she was facing held its own horrors--destitution, homelessness, disgrace, the loss of her art. Was that any better than the fate the voices were trying to lure her to? She could see no other course of action. There was indeed no more denying them, no escape, no other option.
She said a silent farewell to everything she had lived for--the joy of seeing pictures take form under her hand, the satisfaction of a final painting that matched what she had envisioned, the admiration of satisfied clients--as she walked towards the thick gold-and-cream draperies that held the dark and dangerous night at bay. The draperies covered a set of glass doors that opened out onto her balcony. Never before had she opened those drapes after the sun began to sink beneath the western horizon, much less gone out onto the balcony at night. How many years had it been since she had left her apartment at all after sunset? She couldn’t remember. But she couldn’t hide any more. The voices from the shadows were in her dreams, in her room, in every part of her life. All she had left was the ability to meet them on her own terms.
She pulled the drapes apart with a flourish, trying to pretend a courage she didn’t feel, and unbolted the twin glass doors. One more deep breath, one more brief memory of everything she had loved, then she opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony, into the dark of night.
Only it wasn’t as dark as she had expected--a faint light, from somewhere--
She looked up, and saw stars. Tiny points of brilliance, scattered across the night sky like diamonds across black velvet. She had forgotten about the stars. She looked at them, marveling at how they stood out against the sky--
And then she understood what they had been saying to her. Whether she was blinded by darkness or by light, she was still blind. It was only in the presence of the one that the other could be seen--that the other had any meaning. Only in darkness could the stars be seen.
* * *
She stood on the balcony, watching the stars in their slow parade across the sky, until the gray of dawn touched the eastern sky. Then she dressed, ate breakfast, and arrived at the paint shop by the time it opened, to buy a tube of black paint.
Copyright 2013 Kyra Halland. All Rights Reserved.
She lay down again to try to go back to sleep. That was the hard part, closing her eyes and surrendering herself to the darkness. So she lay awake, counting slow and steady breaths, keeping her eyes open until they would stay open no longer. And then she slept.
In the light of morning, the dream seemed distant, but the effects were real. Weary and foggy-headed, she struggled to get out of bed. There was a knock on the door, then her assistant stuck her head into the room. “Your client’s here, Miss Holden.”
Bekka groaned and looked at the clock. Nine o’clock. Why did she keep scheduling appointments this early? Even on the nights when she didn’t have the nightmare, she lay awake most of the night worrying about it. Oh well. Mrs. Bomir was waiting, and Bekka couldn’t afford to keep her best client waiting for too long.
She washed and dressed quickly, then left her bedroom and crossed the apartment to her studio. Mrs. Bomir sat in one of the elegant armchairs in the consultation area, one arm stretched out to grip her walking stick as though she was about to get up again and leave. She wore dowager’s black, from her netted hat to her high-heeled button-up shoes. Bekka averted her eyes from the dark blot in the warmly-lit room.
“Is my portrait finished yet?” Mrs. Bomir demanded. “My grandson’s wedding is less than a month away, and I want to have the redecoration done by then.”
“It’s nearly done, madam,” Bekka answered. She went to her easel, turned it, and removed the protective cloth draped over it so that Mrs. Bomir could see the painting.
The old woman stared at her portrait for a long moment before speaking. “My hair,” she finally said, her voice as cold and hard as steel, “is not gray. It is black. You are an artist; one would think you would notice such things.”
Bekka glanced at the old woman’s hair--jet black, obviously dyed. Then she looked away again. The blackness made cold fingers of dread creep up her spine. “It isn’t gray, madam. I think it’s a very becoming shade of silver.”
“It’s gray.” Mrs. Bomir pushed herself to her feet with her walking stick. “I expect you to paint me correctly, or I will withold the balance of my payment and demand that you refund what I’ve already paid.” Without another word she walked from the room, the thump of her walking stick on the wood floor adding its own note of disapproval to her departure.
Bekka studied the portrait. She had painted Mrs. Bomir wearing silvery-blue satin rather than widow’s black, which the dowager had not objected to. But the hair... She had tried to force herself to paint the hair black, but it had been so long since she had touched her tubes of dark paints that she had forgotten they were nearly empty. When she went to the paint shop, she hadn’t even been able to make herself reach for replacements. All she could think of when she envisioned painting with black was unspeakable things hiding in the darkness, watching her, whispering to her. So she had bought a silvery gray instead, and left the shop thinking about how to persuade Mrs. Bomir that she would look so much better with natural gray hair.
That attempt had failed quite soundly.
She couldn’t afford to give up the rest of Mrs. Bomir’s fee, and she certainly couldn’t afford to pay back the deposit. No other commissions had come in in quite some time--she had overheard a potential client whispering to his wife as they looked at her gallery that her paintings seemed flat, somehow. They lacked depth. Her composition and blending were as skillful as ever, Bekka knew, but more and more she had trouble forcing herself to paint shadows.
Things lurked in shadows, things she didn’t want to think about, that grasped and whispered and stole your life away.
But she had no choice. She had to please Mrs. Bomir, or she was in serious trouble. She had been counting on that fee to pay the next six months’ rent on the apartment and studio. Without the rent, she was out on the streets, and out of work.
Every day for the next week or more she ventured outside just after noon, when the shadows cast by the sun were nearly non-existent, and went to the paint shop, where she stood outside, face pressed against the glass, staring at all the tubes of paint and trying to work up the courage to go in and ask for a tube of black. Or indigo, or burnt umber, or even dark gray, or anything dark enough to let her paint Mrs. Bomir’s hair the desired color. And every day, the cold feeling of dread squeezed her stomach and weakened her legs until finally she walked away, defeated and empty-handed.
The nightmare came every night now, instead of every two or three nights. She was surrounded by blinding light, no shadows, no hidden corners, nothing was hidden from her sight--yet she couldn’t see. Voices whispered to her, their sources invisible, the things they said all the more dreadful for her not being able to understand them. She would wake up shaking, nearly sick with terror, unable to go back to sleep. Every morning it was harder to drag her stiff, weary body out of bed and to focus her exhaustion-fogged mind on the day’s business.
The days passed. Time grew short. And once again she turned away from the paint shop in defeat, with no tube of black paint to show for her effort. Mrs. Bomir sent a note around, asking if the painting had been completed yet and reminding Bekka--as if she needed to be reminded--that the painting would need time to dry before it could be displayed in her grand reception hall for her grandson’s wedding supper. Bekka stared at the note, her heart sinking. She had come to dread even the daily walk to the paint shop, never mind finding the courage to go in and buy what she needed. She would not finish the painting on time. She would lose the biggest commission--and the richest client--she had had in years at a time when she could least afford it. She was as good as ruined.
That night, she sat up late in her bedroom, trying to think of a way to convince Mrs. Bomir to change her mind, or to persuade the landlord not to evict her, or what she would do if she failed. There were no answers. Despair clouded her thoughts, and she couldn’t see any way out.
And then the voices started up--the voices from the dreams, the voices she always heard whispering in the shadows and dark corners. Come to us. You cannot deny us. Come see what you’re missing.
Terror chilled her. What did they want with her? What horrors were they holding in store for her? But the life she was facing held its own horrors--destitution, homelessness, disgrace, the loss of her art. Was that any better than the fate the voices were trying to lure her to? She could see no other course of action. There was indeed no more denying them, no escape, no other option.
She said a silent farewell to everything she had lived for--the joy of seeing pictures take form under her hand, the satisfaction of a final painting that matched what she had envisioned, the admiration of satisfied clients--as she walked towards the thick gold-and-cream draperies that held the dark and dangerous night at bay. The draperies covered a set of glass doors that opened out onto her balcony. Never before had she opened those drapes after the sun began to sink beneath the western horizon, much less gone out onto the balcony at night. How many years had it been since she had left her apartment at all after sunset? She couldn’t remember. But she couldn’t hide any more. The voices from the shadows were in her dreams, in her room, in every part of her life. All she had left was the ability to meet them on her own terms.
She pulled the drapes apart with a flourish, trying to pretend a courage she didn’t feel, and unbolted the twin glass doors. One more deep breath, one more brief memory of everything she had loved, then she opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony, into the dark of night.
Only it wasn’t as dark as she had expected--a faint light, from somewhere--
She looked up, and saw stars. Tiny points of brilliance, scattered across the night sky like diamonds across black velvet. She had forgotten about the stars. She looked at them, marveling at how they stood out against the sky--
And then she understood what they had been saying to her. Whether she was blinded by darkness or by light, she was still blind. It was only in the presence of the one that the other could be seen--that the other had any meaning. Only in darkness could the stars be seen.
* * *
She stood on the balcony, watching the stars in their slow parade across the sky, until the gray of dawn touched the eastern sky. Then she dressed, ate breakfast, and arrived at the paint shop by the time it opened, to buy a tube of black paint.
Copyright 2013 Kyra Halland. All Rights Reserved.
