The Portrait

Word Count: 994

        He took another long draught of his wine and stared hard at the personage before him. What an asshole, what an emotional butcher.
         “You've done it again you self absorbed fuck.”
He was disgusted to his very core by looking at this drunken, womanising fool. He hacked up the phlegm in the back of his throat and spat on the mirror.  Taking a deep draw on his cigarette he blew the smoke into his image.

         An idea struck and he reached to the wall to pull the mirror down. He swaggered out to the studio drunkenly, the mirror held tight under one arm. Once inside he raised an easel and set his load down. He selected a canvass from the wall. One big enough to contain the fullness of it's unholy subject. Busily he started squeezing paint on his pallet and mixing furiously. Mixing dark tainted colours.

         Perched upon his stool he stared hard into his reflection.
         “I've got you now.” he spat.  “I'll capture your true light.”
Selecting a brush he started  thrashing at the canvass. Dark hues flooded the white skin. He worked long and studiously, Occasionally glancing back at his hated subject in the glass. Another bottle and a half later and he needn't look further than the canvas in front of him to see the malicious eyes and smug sneer glaring back. He laughed,  a touch crazily, into the portrait.
         “That's you alright. I've got you pegged.”
Angered by what he saw he picked up the canvass and hurled it across the room. Then accosted once more by the face in the mirror he lifted a foot and kicked straight through the glass. Jagged shards bit into his calf. After a few minutes of heavy breathing he reeled towards the door, still cursing under his breath. He staggered to his bedroom and sprawled himself over the bed.

         The sun was high in the sky before he was roused from his stupor by the horn of a passing motorist. He moved begrudginlgy before he noticed a pain in his leg. He looked down seeing blood  had seeped through his jeans. He sat up and pulled up the leg of his pants for a closer inspection. He stared at the deep gashes questioningly, before recalling a hazy image of an exploding mirror.
         “What the?”

He searched through  his broken memories. He recalled Sarah being angry. He was flirting shamelessly with a nubile, young blonde. There was a fight.
         “That's just who I am babe” he'd proclaimed to the bar. Almost spilling his glass as he gestured emphatically.Shit.

         He showered. The water stung his leg, he didn't mind, it was cleansing. He threw some bacon in a pan and cracked the eggs  before making up an extra large mug of coffee. Feeling somewhat human again he wandered into the studio with his second brew. Glass covered the floor. The stool and easel were knocked over. A splintered mirror frame was slouched against the opposite wall. He was hit with a recollection of his crazed frenzy of the night before. His attention snapped to the canvass near his feet.

         The sight of this demented caricature made him pull back in revulsion.  He lifted it hesitantly and carried it stretch far from his body, as one would an infected carcass. Having set it up he stood back to take in the portrait's full sickening depiction. It was him alright. An appalling, twisted version of himself, barely recognisable to his vision. Yet somehow, begrudgingly all too familiar to his soul. He both could not bare to look at it, and could not look away. After standing transfixed for a period he shook his head. Something must be done.

         He started mixing a lighter array of colours and set to work. Softening the glaring eyes, Lightening the gaunt cheeks and taming that wicked smile. He lightened the shadows in the background which seemed to both oppress, and feed into, the hitherto monstrous image. After a few solid hours work he put down his utensils satisfied.

         Much later he returned to his studio with a mind to take in his more flattering self portrait. The aversion he'd felt at the sight of the original still clung to him. He needed a second take at the transformation for reassurance. What he found was shocking. It was that demonic image staring him down, staring through his flesh into his hidden, dark heart. Fighting the panic which arose he sat to face his nemesis. He fought to control his trembling hand as he picked up his brush and proceeded to, once again, reform the demon in front of him.

         He barely finished lifting the scowling eyebrows and starting work on the terrible mouth when he looked up to see it back to the detestable original. He fought the hysteria rising within him. He started brushing again at the imperfections. Still to no avail. Every stroke now seemed to disappear almost instantaneously to reveal the sinister being underneath staring lustily into the his very core. In a mad effort to bury his shame he squirted whole tubes of thick paint over the vile portrayal and thrashed madly with a commercial painter's brush. He broke.
         “Alright!” He yelled “ Ok, I fucking get it. This, Is who I am! This is me! It's my depraved,  self worshipping soul! It's me! It's me. It's, fucking...” He collapsed, tears streaming down his face as he rocked violently. The shards of the mirror bit into him from all sides but he didn't notice. He didn't notice anything.

         Sarah came around the next day to find him huddled in the corner of his studio, ragged and blood soaked. His glazed eyes were glued to a canvass.
         “Dave?”
         “It's me” he whispered.
She walked up cautiously, glass cracking beneath her shoes. She turned to the canvass.
         “I don't get it Dave.”
It was a dripping mess of thick, dark paint.