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It was shit.
“It’s amazing! Thank you!” the woman cooed.
The man gazed into her eyes. “I’m going to take it to the office so I can stare at you when I’m at work.”
Newlyweds.
The guy pulled out a ten-pound note and handed it to me. “Thanks, man. Great job.”
I juggled my sketchbook and went to shut it when the wind gusted, blowing pages. The guy cocked his head, catching a glimpse of a full-bodied sketch of my demon visitor.
“Holy shit, what is that?”
I fumbled with cold fingers to close the book. “Oh, that. Nothing. I had a weird dream.”
“It’s amazing,” he said, looking disappointed when I finally managed to shut the book. “Like…wow.”
“What was it?” The woman peered over his shoulder.
“It’s like a…whatdoyoucallit? Fallen angel? Can she see?”
“Uh, sure,” I mumbled and opened the book again. I turned it around so they could peruse. With American brazenness, they flipped pages without asking, both ooing and awing over the sketches.
“That’s epic, dude,” the guy said. “How much?”
I blinked. “How much…?”
“For the big one. With the wings and stuff.”
“Oh, it’s not for sale.”
Which was ridiculous. I was as desperately short of money as this guy was to have my sketch. Inexplicably, I wasn’t ready to part with it.
“Maybe that’s for the best. It’s kind of scary.” The woman shivered. “Those black eyes…”
“Yeah, imagine this in full color.” The guy released my sketchbook. “Thanks, again.”
They walked away arm in arm. I hunched on the stool, the sketchbook on my knees, and traced my demon with icy fingers. To put him in color, he’d need oils. Lots of black, white, and that rich, blood red of his coat. The burnished gold of his hair…
The momentary spark of inspiration blew out with the next cold gust of wind. Oils were expensive, and my self-doubt—which grew more ferocious with every setback—told me it would be impossible to capture the image the way it needed to be captured anyway.
“Jesus, feel sorry for yourself much?”
But those words blew away in the wind too. That was the problem with depression—logic had little effect. Past triumphs and good times were starting to feel farther and farther away, as if they’d happened to someone else. The gray flatness of everything settled deeper, sapping the very energy I needed to pull myself out of it and press on. A vicious circle of numb despair that fed on itself until I felt hollowed and empty.
I did a few more portraits, pocketed a few more quid, and called it a day. By the last customer, I could scarcely feel my fingers. I took the bus back to my neighborhood, bought some soup, another hot coffee, and headed back to my flat, wondering if I should talk to someone.
A professional someone.
And tell them what?an insidious voice whispered.You’re sad because the world isn’t falling at your feet for your art? Boo-fucking-hoo.
In my little flat, with Ms. Thomas’s TV droning above me, audible through the thin walls, I opened my laptop, intending to look for more open calls. Commissions. Someone wanting a portrait of their cat. Anything.
Nothing.
Try again tomorrow,I thought as I climbed into bed, though it was hardly seven p.m.Tomorrow is a new day. A chance to start over.
But I fell asleep to that other voice whispering with a terrible confidence that tomorrow would be more of the same. And the day after that. And the day after that…
