Selfie (Part 2)

After he had a small meal at a local Italian restaurant, he went back to his flat and set the new canvas on the easel.

He had done several self-portraits before. He didn’t even need a mirror anymore. Thinking for a moment, he decided to portray himself doing what he knew the world would remember him for. He set his pallet up with his desired hues and set to work.

The moment the brush touched the canvas, an energy coursed through him. He knew this feeling well, as it happened every time he picked up one of his tools. It guided his hand expertly, tracing exactly what was in his head. He had never felt it with so much intensity though.

It was like a fire in his veins, filling his entire body. Just ten brush strokes in, and he was already drunk with the thrill of it.

He had just finished the final touches on his right ear when a knock came at the door, but it was faint; somehow muffled. He looked over his shoulder at it, and the knock came again, a little clearer.

He tried to set the brush down, but he could no longer feel his arm through the fire coursing through it, and his hand continued to move from pallet to canvas, now working on his nose.

It was as though cotton balls had been stuffed in his nostrils. He could no longer smell the paint. He moved his right hand, which refused to set down the pallet, to his face to rub his nose. His eyes widened when he couldn’t feel anything there. Still, the brush moved on the canvas, denying his will to set it down.

The phone rang, but he couldn’t pick it up, nor could he talk to the person on the other end, now that his mouth was finished on the painting. His right eye went black as its pupil was filled in. The pallet fell to the floor with a clatter as his right arm vanished. The remaining paint splattered tiny droplets on his Persian rug. He moaned through nonexistent lips. He had prided himself on never spilling a drop before, and the rug had been a gift from the Supreme Leader of Iran for the portrait of his son.

His left hand was the final piece, and the brush dropped to rest on the easel, now bearing the final work.                

---

The artist could hear voices jeering at him.

“This fool thought he could be clever and give the woman a portrait of himself without using his whole body in it!” one voice was saying. “Wrong move, mate. Now you’re worse off.”

The artist opened his eye. “Where am I?”

“You’re in your first of several long lines ahead of you. It’s going to get you to the other lines, but only one at a time. First, you need your injection to start growing the rest of your face. Then you get back in this line. Then your injection to grow your left arm back, then back in this line. And so on. You get the idea.”

---

The old woman from the art emporium came in. She picked up the pallet and set it on the desk. She took the brush from the easel and cleaned it in the nearby cup of water. Ignoring the twitching half body on the floor, she placed the brush back in its case and pocketed it. She picked up the canvas, stepped over the figure, and exited the flat.

When she returned to the emporium, she hung the brand new portrait on the wall in the place she had made ready.

She placed the leather case back where she had gotten it, then turned to admire the portrait.

It showed the artist painting a portrait of himself, painting a portrait of himself, on and on until the canvases were too small to be seen.