The Man Who Painted Himself

It was still a couple of hours before dawn when Schapiro stumbled through the front door to his studio. The effects of a day and a half of overindulgence had taken its toll. He fell onto the floor, the front door still slightly ajar.

Lying face up Schapiro looked at the moon as it hung above the overhead windows of his studio loft. It was huge and luminous in his sight. A shadow crept across its surface. In close-up Schapiro saw a man in an old overcoat carrying in one hand a pitchfork, in the other a bundle of branches tied together. At the man's feet a dog sullen faced and flea infested skulked.

Rubbing his eyes Schapiro tried to erase the man in the moon. When he opened them, clouds covered the moon in grey waves. The floor started to rotate underneath Schapiro and his ears buzzed with such intensity that they hurt. As nausea set in Schapiro blacked out.

In a street that disappeared into the horizon Schapiro found himself walking. He could see people pass by without paying any attention to him, not even a sidewards glance. One or two bumped into him but merely resumed their journey oblivious to Schapiro's protestations. Standing still he could see the street continued into the distance.

The people who travelled on it were all unknown to Schapiro. Yet there was something in the faces of a few people that he recognised. The eyes of his long deceased grandmother, the smile of the first girl he had kissed, the hairstyle of his father. He couldn't make out a complete face, only snippets. And when he tried to speak to them the people looked in his direction but failed to notice him. They merely shook their heads as if they had imagined hearing someone.

Anguish gripped Schapiro. He felt that he didn't exist. In his chest he could feel a scream building. Straining to keep it in check his mind reeled. Turning around on the spot he noticed no matter where he looked the street zoomed beyond into a vast black unknown. The people went about their business, ignoring Schapiro now whirling and screaming uncontrollably. It echoed in his ears, the sound of his own fear fuelling his exertions. Then he stopped but the world spun on.

Collapsing to the ground Schapiro curled himself up into a tight ball. Whimpering to himself, tears rolling down his cheeks. Something tapped his foot. Raising his head slightly he saw the sullen faced and flea infested dog nudging him with its nose. Schapiro startled, trembled as the street and its ethereal denizens vanished.

'Schapiro you alright man?' the face of Vance Norstrom hovered in front of Schapiro's own. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes Schapiro knelt on the floor.

'You okay man?' reiterated Norstrom.

'Yeah...yeah I'm okay, just a bit...shaky', said Schapiro the words grating in his dry throat.

'Must have been one hell of a bender,' Norstrom helped Schapiro to his feet and onto an old leather chair. 'Heard you screaming so I came to see what was up. Found your door open and you curled up like a cat, screaming your lings out.'

'Night...mare,' whispered Schapiro, a hint of fear in his voice.

'Must have been one hell of a nightmare.'

'They...always are,' Schapiro leaned back into the leather chair; closing his eyes he wasn't sure if he really was awake. When he opened his eyes Norstrom was still there.

'You do not look good man.'

'I don't feel too good either,' said Schapiro.

'You should lay off the pills and booze Schapiro.