The Guiltiest Paint

By Brock Wright

It took eleven days to paint the portrait for his dear Amelia’s funeral. Eleven days of almost sleepless nights, being awakened by nightmares, and obsessive hours of occupation. Little time to eat, continual drinking of the finest off-vintage wines the mahogany cabinets held neatly for so long. Yet, once finished, the critics of the highly acclaimed and esteemed Tobias Toussaint were in awe of his talent with a paintbrush–more so than they were with any of his portraits prior to this tantalizing feat, born out of tragedy.

Out of respect for his personal life, the critics kept their opinions of the piece quiet, discussing its veristic elegance out of sight from Tobias. It was well known amongst the peers and advisors of the talented Tobias that he adored his young Amelia. She was far too young, just barely sixteen, and her death was understood by most to be a loss to humanity.

Those days of painting in requiem, Tobias had many guests come offering him comfort in his now all but empty multi-million mansion, just overlooking the ghastly Lake Geneva the common folk believed was cursed.

“My condolences, I can’t imagine what it is you’re going through.”

“Darling, please take it; you look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“Tobias, I know you better than many. You’re driving yourself insane isolating from your friends. We’re here for you, and you know that.”

“To lose a child to suicide is horrific, and not so long after your wife...” As the days passed, his portrait becoming complete, his guests turned into insulters.

“Good god son, you look like a corpse!”

“I can easily find someone in town who would gladly help clean the place for you.”

Soon, others who cared only for the profits and portions of his art knocked upon the door, waiting just enough time for the recency of her death to pass and the emotions to begin to mellow–a perfect time for corporate exploitation.

“Do know that you have earned a break from your work. We’ve got more than enough for you to live comfortably for some time, as well as give Amelia the burial she no doubt righteously deserves.”

“It would be a shame if you allowed this horrific accident to affect your future as an artist. In fact, they say that deaths of loved ones spark unbound passions to the potential of being set free from the shackles of a family.”

Tobias was not necessarily a welcoming man, but he made sure to allow each of his guests to say their piece, keeping them strategically within the confines of the foyer, the darkness of the surrounding rooms and halls a visible sign of no entry. His eyes glowing black, and his voice sounding dusty from disuse, Tobias would respond, “Thank you for stopping by, you know little how much it means to me,” abruptly closing the door behind consoler and vulture alike. The main hallway became his escape route back to his studio.

As he would pace back and forth through those eleven days, he made sure to pull the photos from the walls, laying them on the floor face-down. When he did this, he couldn’t help but relive the memories attached to the individual family photos he took down.

The first one to come down was the largest. It was a photo of him, his late wife Amma, and Amelia when she was ten during their vacation in the mountains, hiking and camping for almost a week. The memory from this trip that struck his heart the hardest was when Amelia had fallen down a slope off the trail. Amma had tried to catch her, but she was too slow. The two parents violently raced down the slope, Tobias tripping over a root at the base and falling face-first into the mud. When he lifted his head in search of his daughter, Amelia and Amma were embracing and laughing uncontrollably. Through hysterical tears, Amelia croaked, “Daddy, I think you should watch your step!”

Tobias wanted to be frustrated with embarrassment; but seeing Amelia’s childish missing teeth from her comically wide-open mouth and Amma’s once-glowing emerald eyes looking upon him in endearment, he couldn’t help but join them. The trip ended with the three of them painting the sunset on the last day before reaching their destination near a small camping village, where they would take the bus back home.

The second framed picture he took down was his wedding photo. Amma had never looked more beautiful than that day in her dress, her hair in a braid embroidered with flowers from the nearest garden.

“The day my eyes found yours, I could feel the ocean tides stand still in awe, the mountains shift closer in fascination, and skies go clear to see us closer,” Amma recited to him once they were alone after the ceremony. “We are the gods of love, and we shape our destiny, picking one rose petal at a time. We are eternal.”

Amma Toussaint for the next five years was the light of his life. She bore witness to his success in his artistry. She was the one by his side reading, as he painted portraits and landscapes so real the canvas was but the iris of one’s vision. And most thankfully, she was the mother of the innocent, beautiful, compassionate Amelia Toussaint.

For fourteen years, Tobias’ dream of family, fortune, and fame all came true. His ability in his craft only increased with each passing art piece. The craftsmanship of painting a piece, stroking the brush along a once-empty canvas, creating the view of what he deemed reality looked like, and supporting his family and the materialistic lifestyle he’d adopted was all he ever wanted since he was a boy.

That all changed once Amma became sick two years before his daughter’s death. Those two years were heartbreaking and vividly difficult. Amma became callous towards Tobias with his endless fascination with finding her a cure, for fixing her. He flaunted his money like a moral-less agent, seeking nothing but his own gain. His work became his duty, while Amma and Amelia were left to accept the future on their own.

One night, just a few months before Amma’s passing, Amelia approached Tobias as he vigorously painted the family portrait of an influential political figure.

“Daddy, I need to talk to you.”

Without looking at her, he said, “You know my rules, Amelia: no distractions in the studio,” his voice calculated and stern.

“Mother is hardly the distraction that you’ve been treating her as.” His hand stopped mid-stroke. “She needs you, and you aren’t there for her. You’re not there for me.” Silence from Tobias.

Her adrenaline rising in anger, she pushed forward into the studio. “You have become a man who has no honor towards the vows he promised as a husband, nor the duties he’s obligated to as a father. For years now, we have been your ‘distractions!’ We’ve been the ones that you’ve treated as the problem getting in the way of YOUR future!” Tears streamed down her face, Tobias’ back still turned away from her. “You are not the man that raised me; you are now the man that would rather obsess over his paintings than face the truth that he’s killed his own wife quicker than any disease...” The back of Tobias’ hand swung back, connecting to the cheek of Amelia, the sound like the crack of a whip echoing in the vast studio.

She looked in shock at her father, the blackness of his eyes ever bright; no remorse nor apologies were given. Instead, after a few prolonged seconds of silence, he turned back around and continued to paint without another word.

Amelia left, defeated and alone.

The day Amma died, Tobias chose to console Amelia only for the cameras. The headlines of his reputation depended upon an image that he was not alone in this–that his legacy as an artist still had a future.

Three weeks went by without so much as a word between the two of them. Amelia spent her time locked away in her room, while Tobias continued to paint in his studio. Amelia’s room was positioned directly above the studio, and one day, when the silence filled her head, she could hear her father speaking to someone down below. She got up off her bed and put her ear against the floor.

“... I loved you more ... ever know.”

“I hope that the both of you can come to ...”

“... misses you ... and there’s only one thing that I know to do.”

“ .. make it quick ...”

Amelia figured that her father was speaking to her deceased mother, which at first concerned her. She had paced back and forth in her room, debating if she should confront him, console him, confide in him her own grief. She had even gotten to the bottom of the stairs, ready to enter the studio, but she turned away and skulked back into her room. Alone.

It took eleven days to paint the portrait for his dear Amelia’s funeral. On the eleventh day, once the last application of paint was complete, Tobias moved his leather-bound recliner into the studio and positioned it in front of the elaborate canvas, staring for hours.

He had made sure to put emphasis on her emerald eyes, so lifelike it felt as though she was forever staring back. You could make out the individual strands of her platinum hair, braided down her left shoulder, an assortment of flowers painted neatly into the braid mimicking her mother. Her skin was as smooth as it was when she was a baby, minus the collection of freckles and the dimple of her smile.

For seven hours, Tobias stared at his daughter’s image, until he finally collapsed and slept for fourteen more.

At the wake, Tobias could feel all eyes upon him as he took to the podium. He cleared his throat and began a speech he had written in memorial.

“My daughter to me... was my rock and my hope. I come from nothing, a family that gave me nothing. From the crumbs which I was dealt, I built something with my talent that I was proud of.” All of those who had visited him the past week and a half were in the crowd, some sniffling with tears, others absentmindedly listening.

“My wife Amma was the one who paved the path for the man I am today. After losing her just a few months ago, I became a man that wasn’t recognizable to me nor my darling Amelia. For that I am ashamed. I should have been there for her; I should have been able to see the signs. I should have honored the memory of my wife sooner than I did.” For the first time in years, Tobias’ eyes began to burn with tears.

“Amelia, if you are here with me...” he turned to face away from the crowd and to the portrait, “...you’re with your mother now.”

Time slowed and then stopped for Tobias. He couldn’t break his gaze from the portrait, no matter how hard he tried, and he felt paralyzed. While he tried to regain control of his muscles, he noticed the paint of his portrait begin to shift. Amelia’s face had become contorted, her eyes no longer emerald but bloodshot. Her hair tangled and the flowers molted. “Daddy...” the portrait wheezed.

Tobias’ throat tightened in fear, “Amelia...?”

Her eyes violently popped like a balloon, the sound echoing inside Tobias’ skull, blood pouring down her cheeks, rotting her skin as it flowed.

Her mouth opened revealing rotting teeth as she began to speak again, though it was no longer her own voice but the mimicking voice of Tobias, “Amma, I loved you more than you will ever know...” The lights within the funeral room began to spark and burst.

“But I hope that the both of you can come to understand and eventually forgive me.”

Amelia’s face was now completely gray, her skin rotting by the second.

“She misses you, and there’s only one thing that I know to do so that she can see you again.” The casket burst open, revealing no longer the corpse of Amelia but the laughing corpse of Amma.

“I promise to make it quick and painless for her.” Amma got out of the casket and began to pour poison down Tobias’ throat–the same poison he bought weeks ago and hid in the kitchen pantry.

He fell backward, awaking on the floor beside the podium, his peers and critics beside him aiding him.

“My dear, is you okay? Did you hurt anything?”

“You collapsed shortly after your speech.”

“Someone get him some water!”

Breathing heavily, washing away the line of sweat on his forehead with the collar of his blazer, Tobias accepted the help and stood back up using the podium as an anchor. He blocked out the voices of those around him, focusing his attention back to the portrait of perfected art. Amelia was once again smiling and as lively as ever. Reality was just that again.

Tobias Toussaint refused to be taken to the hospital but accepted a ride home from a colleague of his. The entire ride back to his mansion, Tobias sat in silence, while his colleague discussed nothing but future profits of future art pieces.

Once the front door was shut and locked behind him, he headed to the kitchen and found the sharpest knife he could find, taking it to his studio. He took his seat in his recliner and stared at a once again empty canvas in front of him. Only ten minutes went by before he found his artistic inspiration.

“We are eternal,” he whispered to himself alone in the dark studio.

Tobias stood, leaning against the canvas, knife in hand against his throat. With one stroke, he created his own portrait in just eleven seconds. ~

“No one has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can

- Zelda Fitzgerald