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“I’m going to immortalize you,” the painter said with dramatic flair, spreading his arms out wide while holding the door open for Mary to enter. “Go on ahead inside and get comfortable. I’ll be with you shortly.” 

Mary passed by the painter without another word to him, still trying to piece together how she even got herself into this predicament. One moment they were exchanging pleasantries as strangers passing by each other on the street, the next she was being ushered into a private room within his home, a home which was otherwise barren, at least from the portions he guided her through. It more so resembled a house being prepared for sale rather than a place in which anyone actively did their daily living. This room, however, stood in stark opposition to that sentiment. It was lavishly decorated with an abundance of portraits on the walls, packed together so densely that they may as well have been the walls themselves. 

The furthest wall bucked the trend, but if she had to guess, it was for good reason. In the very center of the wall was a larger canvas upon which was depicted a beautiful, dark-haired woman, smiling sweetly while holding a baby girl in her lap. Beside the woman was a younger boy in a baseball cap who leaned his head on her shoulder. He also wore a warm smile, though it revealed that he was missing a couple of his bottom teeth. 

The entire room was brilliantly lit by a chandelier suspended overhead, branching out in all directions like a luminous crystalline spider’s web, bathing the paintings in a warm glow that accentuated a glossy finish in each subject’s eyes. Directly beneath the chandelier was a white sofa poised before an easel that currently lacked a canvas, and surrounding both of those, lined up beneath the paintings, were tables draped in white cloth laden with various garments and pieces of jewelry. Looking between the tables and the paintings, it was clear that the garments and jewelry were once worn by the subjects in the portraits. Payment of some kind, she wondered. The man had insisted before bringing her here that no payment was expected, that he painted for the love of the craft and nothing more. But if he did secretly expect a payment, whether of money, jewels, the clothes off her back, or something else entirely, she would have to leave him disappointed.

When the rattling of the door handle emanated from the entryway, she abandoned her observation of the room, removed her coat, draped it on one arm of the couch, and sat herself down at the opposite end. Uncertain of what position to take, she opted to cross one leg over the other while resting her hands in her lap. 

The painter entered the room carrying a fresh canvas, palette, and a basket filled with bottles, paintbrushes, and paints. “Apologies for the wait.” His voice was raspy and his breathing was loud with a slight wheeze. The telltale signs of age were there for certain, and it appeared his physicality bore those burdens as well. His silvery hair was held up behind his head in a neat ponytail, though a few errant strands brushed against his cheek. Mary began to rise from the sofa in an attempt to help, stopping as he began to protest. “No, dear, it’s quite alright. The day I  require assistance to paint is the day I take a hint and give up the craft altogether. Until then, allow me to push on.”

“It looks like you’ve been doing this for a long time,” Mary said, settling back down onto the couch.

The painter looked toward her and smiled softly. “Thousands of years,” he said with a light chuckle. He switched around how he was carrying some of the items, creating a precarious stack that he expertly balanced while dragging a small side table with him over to the easel. “Normally I’m a bit more prepared, but you caught me on an off day.”

“I should say the same. I’ve barely been offered to be photographed, much less…” she trailed off, then raised an eyebrow. “Immortalized, is how you put it?”

“For all of human history, one of the grandest pursuits has been that of eternal life, whether that be literally through promises made in religion, or perhaps the fool’s errand of finding a so-called ‘fountain of youth,’ or metaphorically in leaving a legacy behind for all to see. In this old man’s opinion, the only way to truly be immortalized is in the latter. What better way to keep your memory alive forever than to have your visage embossed on a canvas?”

“That’s very kind of you, but why me? I’m no queen, no artist, no writer, no historical figure, no one of great import. Surely your efforts would be best spent on someone more substantial.”

In the midst of organizing his table, the painter stopped and looked toward Mary with a half-frown. “My dear, everyone is substantial. Every last person who has ever or will ever walk this Earth is important in some capacity. Whatever personal beliefs you may hold, you are here; you’re part of the universe’s plan and it will miss you when you’re gone. Same for those whose lives you’ve touched in some way–they’ll miss you as well. Why not give them, and the universe, something to remember you by for generations to come?”

Each word the man spoke served to hasten her heartbeat a little bit more and her face became hotter by the moment. It wasn’t what he said, but the passion with which he said it that threatened to flip her perceptions of herself on its head. When he looked at her, she wondered if he saw how small and insignificant she believed herself to be. Maybe that was the reason he was so adamant about giving her this opportunity. Perhaps that was the motif surrounding all of his paintings. “What about yourself?” she asked after some consideration. “Have you been immortalized?”

“In a way. My art is what I’ll leave behind when I’m rotting in the ground. Or maybe when I’m sat on a mantle in an urn. I haven’t decided which yet.” He shrugged and grinned at her. “It worked for Da Vinci, anyway. Died, what, five centuries ago? Yet his name is still fresh in everyone’s minds.” 

“But you have no paintings of yourself?”

“None. I haven’t the eye nor the confidence for self portraits.” 

A scoff escaped Mary and her voice came out more shrill than intended as she began to protest. “These paintings are gorgeous, though!” Her words reverberated off of the canvases and she covered her mouth out of embarrassment for the outburst. 

The painter paused and looked at the paintings on the walls, his lips curling into a wide smile. “For fear of sounding vain, yes they are. However, you’re familiar with the phrase ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder?’”

“I am.” 

“When I look at you, as I’ve looked upon all other subjects depicted in my pieces, I see the vibrant beauty of life as perceived by one so young as yourself. Potential yet untapped, a spirit yet to be crushed by the cruelties ever present in this world. In a singular word, it’s beautiful. When I turn those same eyes upon myself, I see quite the opposite. That’s not something I wish to remind myself of, nor is it something I wish to leave behind.” Through all of his words, he maintained a warm smile, not once showing a hint of sadness, like he’d given this serious thought in the past and now regurgitated the same conclusion he’d come to many years ago. 

Still, a singular tear appeared in Mary’s eye that she blinked away. After clearing her throat, she said, “Then maybe you need someone else to paint you.”

The painter wheezed out a laugh, and Mary could have sworn she saw a blush on his face. “Maybe.” He began to uncap his paints and squeeze small dollops onto his palette. “It’s not often I get to have these talks. Most people hungrily accept the free portrait and barely utter a word in return. Understandable, I suppose. You’re different, Mary.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end with the compliment and her heart fluttered in her chest. As much as she wanted to keep the conversation alive, her mind hit a mental roadblock and she blurted out the first thing that came to her. “Do you have any family?”

He nodded his head toward the larger canvas on the back wall that overlooked the couch, and when his hands were free, he pointed at the woman in the center. “My wife, Pearl.” Then, he pointed at the boy who so lovingly leaned against the woman. “Our son, Atticus.” And then he pointed at the baby girl in Pearl’s lap. “Our daughter, Noelle.” His hand hovered in the air while he looked at the painting. After a moment, he cleared his throat and turned away from Mary briefly to wipe away at the corner of his eye, and Mary’s heart sank in her chest.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered while clasping her hands back over her mouth. 

The painter turned back toward her and held up a hand to stop her from uttering any further apologies. “It’s alright. There’s no way you could have possibly known. Besides,” he let out a sigh and a soft smile returned to his face. “They’re not gone. They’ve been…”

Mary cut in, “Immortalized.” 

“Exactly.” The soft smile morphed into a wide, toothy grin. “You get it,” he said with a wink. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes!” Mary nearly shouted the word. 

“Get comfortable. This process takes quite a while.” He withdrew a brush from the basket and held his palette out in front of him while studying the young woman. When he spoke again, Mary couldn’t be sure if it was something he said intentionally or if it was a thought that manifested itself into speech. “I’m going to miss you when this is over.” It came out as a mumble, and her hairs stood on end once again.

She sat more upright. “This doesn’t have to be the end of our interactions.” 

“Hm?” It appeared that he was fully immersed in the process and his utterance was indeed a thought that forced its way into the open. “Try to hold still, dear.” Mary obliged, taking up a much more comfortable position on the couch than she had originally, tucking her legs beside her as she half-laid on the sofa with her chin resting atop her fist. Their eyes met as he continued to study her every feature, and within those icy blue eyes, she could just barely make out her reflection, seeing herself as the painter did– a creature full of life’s beauty. A wide smile overtook her face, and at that moment, the painter took a step back and returned a smile of his own. “Perfect,” he muttered while selecting a paintbrush from his basket. After dipping the tip of his paintbrush into one of the paints on his palette and running it across the canvas, he whispered, “I’m going to immortalize you.” The rhythmic scraping of the brush against the canvas seemed to set the painter into a trance. With each stroke, he mouthed the phrase over and over again, sometimes audibly, sometimes as nothing more than a light exhale, and sometimes with no sound escaping his lips at all.

Perhaps it was part of his creative process, she told herself, trying to alleviate some of the unease that built up within her. Without thinking, she shifted slightly on the couch, just a minor budge of her hip, but it was enough to draw the ire of the painter. 

“You must stay still,” he snapped. “This doesn’t work if you wiggle all about.” 

“Sorry,” she said reflexively, making certain her lips didn’t move with the utterance. 

The room fell silent once again, broken only by the sound of the paintbrush on the canvas followed by the repeated whispering of, “I’m going to immortalize you.” 

When the room wasn’t filled with the scratching of brush against canvas or the mutterings of the painter, the pounding of Mary’s heart occupied the silence. It was too fast to keep up with shallow, measured breaths, but breathing too deeply or too quickly could invoke the wrath of the man once more. What began as a pleasant experience was soured all at once. Tears formed in her eyes that she tried to blink back while chewing on the inside of her cheek. Only a minute ago, she didn’t want her time with the painter to end, and now being done with this was the only desire she had. 

But did not all individuals have their quirks, peculiarities that make them who they are? He took his art seriously, that was for certain. And to take something so seriously that one is willing to abandon all pretense in its pursuit must mean something, mustn’t it? If she remained perfectly still throughout this process, then the man she met not long ago would surely return and be just as pleasant as before. Better yet, she’d only ever have to be the subject of one painting and then, perhaps, she would never have to witness this side of him ever again. 

With those thoughts, her heartbeat soon returned to normal and her breaths were slow. Just get through the session and everything would be fine. That became the mantra she internally repeated in a similar manner to the painter’s own. “I’m going to immortalize you.” Just get through the session. “I’m going to immortalize you.” Just get through the session. “I’m going to immortalize you.” Just get through…

Her vision began to blur, but just in her left eye, which she attributed to having not blinked for a while. When she did finally blink, not only was her vision out of that eye still blurred, it was blurrier than before. A panic attack, she told herself. That was all it was. They were common for her. As long as she focused her mind anywhere else, she could get through it. Just get through the session… Just get through the session…

Vision disappeared from her left eye entirely. She quickly shook her head and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not feeling well at the moment. I think I’m…” she swung her legs off of the couch and attempted to stand as she spoke. Only her feet didn’t hit the floor. The couch wasn’t particularly tall. Nonetheless, she scooted forward a little to try and stand up, looking down in confusion and opening her mouth to scream when she saw that her legs, up to her knees, were gone, erased like that never existed in the first place. The shriek that filled the room was quickly silenced with another stroke of the painter’s brush, locked away in her throat. When she reached up to feel for her mouth, her hand passed straight through where it should be.

“I’m going to immortalize you,” the painter continued to whisper while making broad strokes on the canvas. Those eyes that bore her reflection moments ago now held nothing within them. Not even light rebounded off of them. They were as blank as the canvas had been before the painting began. 

Mary’s attempt at vocalizing a plea for the man to stop caught in her throat the same way her scream did. Out of desperation, she rocketed herself forward off of the couch and flopped to the floor, expecting to catch herself on two arms rather than the singular one that now existed. With her only limb, she struggled to crawl along the floor toward the man, reaching up to grab his brush hand while continuing to beg without a voice. Before her eye, she watched helplessly as her right hand disintegrated, followed by the remainder of her arm up to her shoulder. A tear flowed down her cheek, and had the painter not erased her remaining eye as well, more would have followed.

Little by little, her perceptions of the world around her faded. The smell of paint dissipated. The sensation of the cold hardwood floor beneath her body withered away. The last words she heard before everything fell to a quiet nothingness was “I’m going to immortalize you,” punctuated by one last brush stroke. All that remained to her were her thoughts, and soon, even those were robbed from her as she felt herself cease to be. 

And then, like nothing happened at all, her vision was restored. She sat on the couch, legs tucked up beside her with her chin resting on her fist. The painter was standing much closer to her than before with a satisfied smile on his face. “Perfect,” he said while taking a step back. Paint was splattered all over him, and he chuckled as he looked at his arms and shirt. “I appear to have made a complete mess again, but it’s done.” His jovial nature seemed to have returned, as did the light in his eyes. “You, my dear Mary, have been immortalized.”

While the painter’s voice had been clear to her before, if not a little raspy, it now came to her as though someone were trying to speak while underwater. Though she wanted to ask him to repeat himself, she couldn’t produce any words, nor could she make any movements from her position on the couch. All she could do was look forward and stare at the man who immortalized her and so many others. The painter collected his belongings into his basket and carried it out of the room, dragging the side table back into position on his way out. 

The amount of time that passed between him leaving and returning was immeasurable. Nothing existed within the room to mark the passage of time, and perhaps purposefully so. Mary was left with nothing but her thoughts and the company of all the other paintings that were pointed directly at her, all well aware of the fate that befell yet another victim of the painter while reality was still sinking in for her. She wanted to scream, to shout, to move even the slightest bit, but here she was, confined to a canvas upon which she would exist until…

Until when? How long could a painting realistically last? Not like she could look up the answer now. But maybe it wouldn’t be that long. Paintings fade over time; surely immortalization didn’t have to mean forever.

“Thousands of years,” she remembered his answer to her question before as to how long he’d been painting. It was brushed off as hyperbole at the time; now she suspected there was truth to his words. After all, not once had he lied to her during their entire exchange. Why lie about that? 

Eventually, the painter reentered the room. However long he was gone, it was long enough to clean the paint off of his skin and change into fresh clothes. His hair was no longer held up in a ponytail and now glistened from the light overhead. Carrying a hammer and nail, he walked past Mary to the backmost wall. She could hear muffled shuffling before there were a few loud bangs, and then the painter reappeared before her. He grabbed the canvas at either end, lifted it, and carried Mary to her new residence. After placing her upon the wall and making small adjustments to ensure she was level, he went back to the couch to retrieve her coat. He folded it up neatly and placed it on the table beneath her, then took a short step back to admire his work. Satisfied, the painter sauntered out of the room while whistling to himself, flicking the lights off and shutting the door behind him.

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