Reality's Illusion

by Stephie Walls

  Convinced I had what I needed, I took note of the surface, deciding which to use. The remaining sunlight—the way it hit the sheetrock, the shadows that danced on the plaster—illuminated a wall. The ethereal glow called to me. It chose itself—the wall with the most direct light. I pushed the breakfast table out of the way and moved the chairs near the entrance to clear space to work. With my bowls and provisional pallet scattered across the countertop, I traipsed over to the makeshift canvas.

  The music took over, and I trusted myself just enough to reach into a dish and cover my fingers with a blue that was rich in color and flavor, not that I would be licking the wall. The intensity of the berries burst from the smoothness of the cream cheese. With no inclination of where this was going or what I was creating, I lost myself.

  The last inkling of natural light faded into a shroud of darkness beyond the windows. With no concept of time, no one looking for me, and answering to no one, the hours escaped without notice, until the sun rose, and the forms began to shape. The piece grew exponentially with each tick of the clock. I’d worked through the night and into the next day, stopping only to relieve myself and mix more color. Crushed crackers added texture and lumps of old bread developed depth. Somehow, even with the warmth of the room, the food clung to the surface.

  Startled by the knock on my door, I drew my attention from the wall. My hands were covered in chunky peanut butter, and there wasn’t a clean dishtowel in sight. Anxiety set in as the pounding continued.

  Dammit.

  I climbed out of the mess in my makeshift studio and raced to the front door. The escalating sounds of panic on the other side irritated the hell out of me. “For fuck’s sake! I’m coming.”

  When I reached for the knob, I covered it in grimy food, shook my head, and yanked it open. Nate stood in a fury on the other side. The crimson hue of his cheeks and neck resembled the raspberries I’d pureed in the kitchen.

  “For God’s sake, Bastian. I’ve been beating on your door for five minutes. I’d started to think you’d finally pulled the fucking trigger.” Nate stepped into the house but couldn’t get by me. “What the hell are you doing, and why is your door locked?” He glanced at my hands long enough that I stopped to examine my current state.

  “Try calling before you come, Nate.” It didn’t really bother me. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.” The fact was, Nate had been coming to my house every afternoon at five-thirty since the day Sylvie died, just to ensure I hadn’t ended it all.

  “I haven’t called in years, and I’m not starting now. What the fuck are you doing? Are you cooking?” He pushed past me with annoyance.

  Holding my hands in front of me like a surgeon who had just scrubbed in, I kicked the door closed behind him and turned as he made his way through my home. Frozen, I wondered how this would play out. The moment he stepped foot into the kitchen, he’d think I was certifiably insane and might try to have me committed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Nothing, man. I’m not doing anything.” Guilt was a stench even I could smell.

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re definitely up to something.” He inspected me from head to toe again. “And by the looks of you, it’s one of your weird fucking idiosyncrasies. You look like shit. How long have you been up this time?”

  In an effort to divert his attention and nothing to do it with, I tried to escort him back the way he came. “Nate, I’m fine. Thanks for checking on me, but you can head out. Maybe we can catch up tomorrow.”

  He smirked. “Holy shit. You’re trying to get rid of me.” And then the questions started. “What are you hiding? And why do you have food all over your hands?” He wasn't fooled, nor leaving. Fuck.

  “Can’t you just let this one go? I’m begging you.”

  “Not a chance in hell. You wanna tell me what you’re up to, or should I just keep moving until I find it?”

  Nate and I had been best friends since conception—at least that was the story our mothers told. They were always together; therefore, we were always together. There was no part of my life that Nate was unaware of, but not in a sick, female-henhouse kind of way. The way brothers would be if, indeed, we shared DNA.

  When Sylvie had gotten sick, he’d known before I told him, like one of those damn dogs that can smell death. When she had actually died, Nate was on my doorstep. No one had told him. Hell, I hadn’t even called the ambulance at that point. The fucker was just oddly in tune with me. I used to be the same with him, like twins, but after Sylvie, I became so engrossed in my own twisted nightmare that I quit listening to the inner voice that told me what he needed. I’d succumbed to my personal hell and currently drowned in a lake of fire.

  I loved Nate, but I hated his ass at times like this. I couldn’t deter him, he wouldn’t leave peacefully, and once he walked into the kitchen, the interrogation wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied.

  I sighed, admitting defeat. “Kitchen.”

  He pushed the chairs aside to get into my “studio.” “Did a bomb go off in here?” Then the sound of his heavy footsteps on the hardwood floors stopped, even though they continued to echo in my head. The moment he saw the mess on the wall, I knew.

  I waited with bated breath for the fallout.

  “My God. Did you do this?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Is that food on the wall?” It was a rhetorical question. Obviously, it was food on the wall.

  My head dropped in shame. It wasn’t a work of art. For Christ’s sake, it was an edible finger-painting. Unable to avoid him, I approached with caution and my head bowed. The condemnation I was certain would mar his brow deterred me from making eye contact. But the longer I stood there, staring at his unmoving feet, the quieter it became. I finally lifted my gaze to find Nate with his cell phone in hand, snapping pictures.

  It was then that I got my first glimpse of the work as a whole, not submerged in its pieces. I expected a rudimentary mess to catch my eye; instead, I received the reward of colors that stole my breath as the light of the afternoon highlighted them.

  “Bastian, what the hell happened between last night and today?” He talked more to himself than to me, and his unanswered questions filled the air. “You swore off art years ago. Have you seen this?” Wonder danced in his eyes.

  This had always been my favorite part of being an artist—someone taking in a piece I’d slaved over and having that person see what my heart had attempted to put out.

  He dropped his phone to his side and stared at me, waiting for an answer. “Seriously, what happened?”

  I ran my hand through my dark hair that needed a cut weeks ago, leaving a creamy mess like gel in the waves. “I don’t have any paint.” That was my brilliant response. Fuck, I was poetic.

  He appeared as confused as I felt dumb. “You don’t have any paint?”

  I couldn’t tell if he mocked me or didn’t understand. “No. No brushes or canvases…” I shrugged. “So, I improvised.” This was a huge step for me. The wrong words from my best friend could send me chasing Alice down the rabbit hole of depression.

  “You improvised…” The words hung in the air as though he hadn’t understood their literal meaning. “Have you seen this, Bastian?”

  “Look, Nate, I know it sucks, and it’s stupid to paint in food. I just had a moment mixed with a need and—”

  “This is brilliant, man.” His eyes returned to the wall, and he moved the way he’d seen me do thousands of times to get a different perspective. “I’ve never seen you do anything other than nudes. This is…fuck. I don’t even have a word for this. I’m not an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but this is amazing. Truly.”

  I recognized the sincerity in his eyes and his tone. He only held my stare for a second before returning to my work.

  “I don’t know how the hell you’re going to capture this to sell it, but seriously, man, it’s out of this world.”

  When I stopped focusing on Nate’s reaction and redirected my attention, I had to conc
ede that it was the most intricate piece I’d ever done. The colors were astounding, and somehow, it captured an emotion I didn’t remember ever feeling. The abstract nature, the happenstance of it all, was a bit overwhelming. The painting still needed work. It demanded more of my time, but, so far, I was in awe.

  And just like that, Nate clapped his hands and switched gears. “Wash your hands, and change your clothes. Hell, better yet, go take a damn shower. You reek of peanut butter.”

  When I didn’t move, he raised his brows.

  “I’ll wait for you. Let’s go get a pint and a slice, and you can tell me where you found your inspiration again.” Nate stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room where he plopped his six-foot-four-inch frame onto my couch. He was a fucking mammoth. It was no wonder women wouldn’t keep his ass around. My guess was they were afraid of what having his child might do to their poor body.

  “I’m gonna pass.”

  He grunted his disapproval. “Nope. You’re not. You never leave this place, and I want to know what got into you. On our way home, we’ll stop at the supply warehouse to buy paints, brushes, and canvases, so you can put your hand to use, creating art again instead of jacking off. I’m not arguing or leaving, so just go do it. It’ll save us both time.”

  I debated silently. The lesser of two evils was to go. Two hours tops and I could be back home. But if I left and Sera messaged me, I wouldn’t get it until I returned. For the first time in my life, I regretted my decision not to carry or even own a cell phone. I made a mental note to purchase one if I heard from Sera again.

  I wasn’t a huge fan of pizza or beer for that matter, but I had to admit that Harley’s Tap Room had the best pies I’d ever put in my mouth and seventy-something beers on draft. It was relatively low-key, located off Main Street, and the staff was as eclectic as the beer—overall, a friendly hang out, although it was more Nate’s kind of place than mine.

  The hostess seated us at a high-top near the back. I stood six three to Nate’s inch-taller stature, so higher tables were a godsend. While I looked forward to the free beer and pizza, I wasn’t interested in the interrogation or my attempt at an explanation to Nate. Not even the cute waitress made the situation any better.

  Tall and thin, she was easy on the eyes. And while I appreciated her figure and the angles her lack of weight created, Nate preferred women with a little meat on their bones—minus all the ink this girl was covered in. She was sweet, and he entertained her flirting long enough to place an order. Then he promptly dismissed her and any inclination of his interest. He wasn’t an ass, but he had a way of letting someone know when he was done, even if they weren’t.

  Nate didn’t beat around the bush. “So, what gives?”

  “With what?” I played coy.

  “I’m not some bitch that doesn’t know you, Bastian. You’ve done nothing other than barely exist in that house for years. Today I come in, and somehow, Stella got her groove back. What happened? You didn’t just wake up and decide, ‘Fuck, it’s been a long time. I think I’ll create a masterpiece.’ You work from inspiration, always have. So, what is it?”

  “I’d love to explain it, but you’ll think I’m crazy if you even believed me, so let it go. Just be happy I threw food on my wall and got out of my ‘funk.’” I used air quotes to piss him off.

  He glared at me, hating when I used my hands for emphasis. “Try me.”

  The waitress brought us two glasses, and I waited for her to exit. This wasn’t going to go well, but I couldn’t come up with anything other than the truth to pacify him.

  “Fine.” My chest rose when I took a deep breath, hoping to gain courage as I inhaled, but defeat consumed me when I release the air. “I met someone.”

  His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “That’s fucking awesome! Where’d you meet her?” Nate hesitated, and then his excitement morphed into confusion. “It is her, right?”

  “Yes. Jesus. Look, you aren’t going to understand. Can’t we just leave it at that for now?”

  “Ahh fuck. Is it more of this Facebook bullshit?”

  I didn’t respond and dropped my line of sight to the table. Nate had hit the nail on the head.

  “Why, man? Women would drool all over you if you’d just get the hell out of that coffin you call a house. Why do you insist on existing in social media as if it’s reality?”

  I searched the crowd as if I were interested in something when in actuality, I was just uncomfortable. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Have you actually met her?”

  The opening at the gallery didn’t count since I didn’t remember her. I shook my head. I couldn’t stand his disappointment.

  “Okay. For once, I’m going to put my opinion aside and hear what you have to say. Tell me about her.” Nate normally wasn’t a bullshitter. He called a spade a spade, and he didn’t sugarcoat anything.

  “Why?”

  “Because when I walked into your house today, I saw a glimpse of Bastian in your eyes again, and any woman who can bring you back is worth hearing about, regardless of how you know her.”

  I hesitated, knowing my approach was crucial. “Her name is Sera Martin. She’s a sculptor. She’s twenty-five—”

  He held up his hand. “Quit ticking off items like she’s a grocery list. What is it about her?”

  I tried to keep my emotions in check. I wasn’t a fucking pussy, but I couldn’t. My eyes filled with tears. “She looks just like Sylvie. Carbon fucking copy.”

  “No shit?”

  I wiped away the remnants of my weakness as I nodded, confirming what I’d already told him. “Just like her. Could be her twin.”

  “Wow. I don’t know what to say. It’s been a long time, Bastian. Maybe she just resembles her, or what you want to remember of her in your mind. When was the last time you even saw a picture of Sylvie?”

  My brow furrowed when I glared at Nate across the table. “I’m an artist, dickhead. I don’t have to have a photograph to remember every detail of my wife’s face, the color of her hair, her eyes, the way she looked at me. That’s all etched into my brain. I see her every fucking day of my life, in every room of my house, in my dreams. She’s always with me.”

  “I get that. I’m just saying that our memories tend to take on a shape of their own, remembering only the good and wiping away the bad.” He took a long drink of his beer, and when he set down the glass, he wasn’t done. “Maybe she’s all the good you remember in Sylvie but doesn’t really resemble her all that much in reality.”

  I shook my head, denying his accusation. “Exact replica.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and touched the screen before handing it to me. “I want to see.”

  Facebook glowed in front of me. I searched her name, and that gorgeous face filled the screen. I stared at it, probably too long, but I couldn’t get enough. I handed it to him, waiting for his reaction.

  There was no denying the resemblance. “Fuck.” One word confirmed that Nate saw it, too.

  “Sylvie?” I asked.

  “Sylvie.”

  Neither of us uttered a word, not knowing what to say. There were tons of people milling about in a crowded bar behind us, yet our table was shrouded in silence.

  Nate spoke first. “So, what are you going to do?” He acted as if there were anything I could do.

  “Well, I’m hoping to have the chance to get to know her. Maybe spend time with her.”

  He ran his hand through his hair and leaned against the wall. “Are you going to get to know her for her, or in an attempt to make her Sylvie?”

  “I’m not trying to recreate Sylvie, Nate.”

  “Then what’s the fascination with this woman? How did she become your inspiration to paint?”

  “Look, I talked to her on instant messenger for all of three minutes. I smiled for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. When she signed off, my hand burned. I’m not thinking about any of this. I’m just going with it.”

&
nbsp; He leaned forward and lifted his glass. “Be careful, man. Don’t hurt her, trying to find yourself.”

  3

  Chapter Three

  True to his word, Nate took me by the supply warehouse on our way back to my house. Either the price of oils and brushes had skyrocketed in the last five years, or I’d forgotten how much this stuff cost. For a long time, I had received supplies from different companies that wanted me to try their products: paints, brushes, canvases, etc., but I had always been pretty particular about what I would work with.

  At one point, I had been rather successful, and with my income and Sylvie’s, money was never a concern. Unfortunately, between funeral costs and me essentially becoming an unemployed hermit, our cumulative savings had significantly been depleted. I wasn’t quite at financial ruin, but I was hanging out on the sideline about to jump into the game.

  Nate knew this.

  We’d never talked about it, but he couldn’t watch his best friend not work for years—while continuing to spend money—and still not know I was on the verge of bankruptcy. Add to that, that Nate had handled my finances since we'd graduated from college and there really were no secrets. All I could say was, thank God, Sylvie had paid off the house with her first big record deal. Otherwise, I’d be up shit creek without a paddle…or living on Nate’s couch.

  A few hundred dollars later, and I was back in the artist business with enough supplies to keep me going for a while. And at least for now, I had Nate’s support.

  However, supplies were a total waste. Instead of coming home and getting out a canvas to work, I went right back to the wall. Something about the piece sucked me in, and I wouldn’t be able to recreate it on canvas. Hell, I doubted I could ever recreate it in any form. Once I had walked Nate out, I took inventory of my food supply and decided to run to the store for cream cheese, fruits, and vegetables.