Chapter 61, An Evening of Portraits

Chapter 61, An Evening of Portraits

In another part of the city, not too far away, Kreig had just finished retelling in soft tones how hed met Erica and how Darius seemed awfully interested in asking odd questions about him. This little run-through occurred at the dinner table, where a fine meal had already been served and eaten. The day was concluding, and happily so. Both George and Sam seemed glad that Kreig was taking so well to his everyday matters, and he agreed fully himself.

The only other thing that made that evening special was that Kreig had finally gotten his hands on more painting supplies. Nothing too grand, just a few canvases, a sketchbook, plenty of pencils, a small palette of oil colours Simple stuff, really.

For some odd reason, Kreig got to work with an almost feverish passion. It wasnt just that hed been given something so delightful from his siblings, it was also just the reeling of finally being able to do something productive again. Away from people, lost in himself, merely painting. Moving as if possessed. And he knew just the sketch to transform into art. Hed already painted Peter once, so the only part he had to really put his all into was portraying Mrs Willowgrove right. Her eyes were no longer frozen lakes.

He got right to it. As George settled down on the couch with a cup of tea and a book and Sam sat next to him, back at it with the television, Kreig painted. He had a song in his heart that he had to put to the canvas.

In his fervour, he lost the time, moving at a brisk pace to complete the painting, to give form to a love he hoped he wasnt imagining. Placing Peters personality, as he became and as he was by the end of his life, and not as she remembered it. Maybe it was a hopeless thought, but Kreig believed that if Peter had lived, if he had met his ageing and withered mother, he would have changed his mind. He wouldnt be frowning like a sulking teen, no, as Kreig so delicately painted it, hed be smiling. Carefully, gently. A hand on his mothers shoulder where she sat just in front of him, on an old wooden chair, wearing a ballgown that might have been older than even her.

Warmth. Emotion. Longing for someone already gone.

Maybe it was conceited of him, but he placed his own emotions in there like a little birds egg. He missed Peter, too. In a way, in a strange, wicked way, hed known Peter and missed him far longer than she had. Of course he missed his best friend. But did he miss him as much as his mother did?

That was not a question he could answer, and, like many, many other questions, he shuffled it to the side. Big questions werent for him to answer. He wasnt that kind of artist.

He wasnt the kind of artist that reimagined the real as the unreal, he didnt exaggerate features or create anything fully new and original. He saw what there was and that was what he drew. A face, a human. A moment from his life. He could put these people in new positions and situations all he wanted, but it remained simple. Unremarkable. Though, he didnt expect much. After all, had he not gained this skill through the power of the system?

Could he really say that he created this art on his own when he had so much help from the system? Practically speaking, it was entirely unremarkable. Dishonest, even. A fraud.

It was the same with his cooking and fighting and everything in between. All thanks to the system, thanks to the white roots within them.

Kreig wrinkled his nose. Yeah, no. He went and grabbed another canvas. What now? Someone. Paint someone. Someone new.

How about Erica? Hed met her only that day, drawing her surely wouldnt be odd. Ah, though For some reason, the thought of her seeing his painting of her when they had only met two brief times felt a bit embarrassing. For some reason. Darius, then? Now that hed gotten a fully proper view of him (his first portrait was just a little off), he could surely paint him accurately.

So, he got to it. And two hours later, he had a fully fleshed-out painting, with Darius sitting in his armchair beneath that green-filled window and the little blooming flower pots. A little painting that would hang well on Kreigs wall.

The time was 00:00. Sam excused herself to go to bed while George sunk further into the couch, seemingly joining with it as he gluttonously indulged in the book.

George. Of course!

But just painting him again felt a little odd. No, now that Kreig thought about it, hed been doing all these portraits very strangely. Right from his head. Nobody to look at. Didnt most reputable painters require a model of some sort, especially for the one they were painting? Of course, of course. His paintings werent lacking, but Kreig was sure that if he were to have George pose for him, only sitting on a chair, doing as he pleased, Kreig would be able to extract much more of George than before.

Brother, Kreig said. Would you sit in front of me as I paint your portrait?

George flinched so hard Kreig was afraid he might fly off of the couch. Huh? I-, where-? What?... Oh, Kreig! I-, Im dreadfully sorry, could you repeat that? This he said while his head whipped around erratically, his eyes glancing desperately back to the pages hed been ripped away from.

...Id like to paint your portrait. Will you pose in front of me as I do?

It took George a full minute to process the request, during which Kreig was allowed to witness him both escape from within his own imagination as well as retreat back into it. Very fascinating. And, at the end of it, Georges brows shot up. Um, sure! What should I-, I have a suit. In my wardrobe. Should I wear it? Or?

...If youd like to?