VICE GRIP [HR]

The weathered brass door handle rattled as Roger entered the building of his studio. His fingertips stung as they brushed against the solid wood of the door. They were red, the skin around his nails torn and raw. The nails themselves stubby and jagged.

It was an impressive brick building with arched entryways and high ceilings located in the southwest of Montreal overlooking the Lachine Canal. An old building, repurposed over and over again. Built some point during the industrial revolution to service the railroad that ran along the canal all the way through centre-ville. Roger didn’t know. He didn’t care to know. Now (much like the many other buildings like it) it was an environment where lots of young ambitious professionals gathered to house their start-ups and niche enterprises. All Roger knew was that he liked the view, it inspired him, and he couldn’t work unless he was inspired.

He envied the work ethic of other commercial artists, the ones who could work whether they felt like it or not. Although he tried throughout his career, that wasn’t how he was wired. Roger would have been destined to fail if it hadn’t been for that sizeable mass of natural talent burrowed in some corner of his wiry frame. Talent, however, makes people lazy.

Insecurities like these weren’t the concerns occupying Roger’s thoughts. He was preoccupied with the large white capsule he was thumbing in the pocket of his tattered MEC jacket from the late nineties. His sister, Gen, had given it to him that morning. The capsule was given to her by a friend from her work-out classes. An addiction specialist, Cooper. When Gen had mentioned in passing her brother’s compulsion for biting his nails, the stocky, enthusiastic young woman immediately perked up like a dog reacting to the TV being turned on, before slipping back into her professional persona and prodding for details.

“When did this start?” “Does he bite them all the time?” “How has it affected his day-to day life?”

Gen was reluctant to talk in depth, she felt it wasn’t her place to discuss her brother’s personal struggles without his knowledge, especially something he was self-conscious about like this. However Cooper wouldn’t back down in her interrogation. She didn’t appear the type who couldn’t take a hint, and Gen’s ultimate submission was made more inevitable by the fact that she was the type who could be easily pushed around by people like Cooper. It didn’t take many more questions before Gen was willing to talk about her brother in detail, despite being confused at Cooper’s interest in an addiction as dull and commonplace as nail-biting.

Gen had explained the pill to Roger as nothing short of a miracle drug, which understandably made him more skeptical than he already was. He didn’t feel he was the kind of gullible Dr. Oz viewer that would normally fall for a scam like this, but he was frustrated. He’d tried meditation, therapy, and any and all home-remedy a nosy acquaintance or co-worker had annoyingly suggested to him in the past, but this was his first time trying something so “medical”, as he simply put it.

Roger’s studio was exactly like the one he had envisioned since his early interest in becoming a successful artist. High ceilings with the walls adjacent to the large windows decorated with dozens of prints, and a few original pieces, from the rock-star artists of his childhood. Burne Hogarth, Barry Windsor Smith, Drew Struzan. The exposed brickwork made it more hip. As did the ancient brown pipes that ran along the ceiling off into other rooms, like veins, somehow still pumping, barely keeping this old building going. Roger kept his studio relatively presentable at all times, though his organizational skills rarely exceeded making separate piles of related work for his different projects. With his large-windowed wall facing south, he was sure to get a fairly steady natural light throughout the day, a feature he looked for specifically due to his frustration with the way most artificial lights reflected on his paintings.

Roger felt his heart rate speed up as his subconscious noted that it was almost time to take the pill. He had decided on today to begin his treatment. He was starting a work marathon. Two days of straight painting, stopping briefly every eight hours or so to scarf down some instant-noodles and burn through an old Twilight Zone episode or two. He had been hired to design a mural for a new nearby business. An organic food store very aware of people’s hostility towards fancy new establishments raising the price of rent, and desperately trying to gain favour by having a local artist spice-up one of their bare walls with some scribble that represented the neighbourhood.

If you had asked Roger he would describe his feeling as anxious, but he was scared. It was 8:58 am on a Saturday morning. In two minutes he would take this drug and over the next 48 hours it would work in the back of his mind, chipping away at his negative impulses. Ideally it would be totally unnoticeable, but he was scared anyway.

As he expected, the pill went down hard with his lukewarm coffee. He had never managed to force down even an ibuprofen without a sip of water, and this was about four times the size. Roger sat down at his drafting table. For some reason he anticipated an instantaneous signal that the drug was doing its thing, lightheadedness, slightly blurred vision. But the only notable sensation was his heartbeat reverting back to its usual canter as relief set in. He let out an amused sigh, almost laughing at himself. However the disappointing realization now crept into his mind that it will most likely do nothing and he will come out of this weekend unchanged. Roger picked up his pencil and began sketching away, as the thought of the intimidatingly large pill drifted farther away until it was gone.

Roger had been working for two hours when he realized he had the remaining bite-able area of his unoccupied thumb-nail currently lodged under his left canine. His bottom teeth scraping, mining away at it, trying to get the last few thin strips of nail before it became too painful to continue. He pulled away quickly, taking one final piece with him, revealing a thin line of sensitive pink flesh as blood began to fill it in. He stuck the tip of his thumb in his mouth. A familiar brief feeling of regret swept over him. Always the same thought when he bites too much.

“Jesus Christ, this has been going on for too long now. I’m an adult, I can’t be having my fingers constantly in my mouth, I feel like a seven year old.”

But the sudden moment of self-discipline felt forced. He knew that in probably no more than an hour he would find himself back in his usual one-handed state. Anyway, Gen had told him that for the best effect he should bite as he does usually, and just let the drug work for itself. Roger didn’t really have a choice either way. The temptation was too good, and he enjoyed the pain.

It was 5pm. Roger hadn’t eaten anything since he’d stuffed a cold bagel down his throat that morning on his way out the door. His hunger was beginning to distract him. Giving in to the expanding hollowness in his stomach, he strode over to his backpack leaning against one of his filing cabinets. After digging around for a few seconds through long forgotten receipts and scrapped sketches he retrieved one of the instant noodle bowls he had packed.

The aroma of long-preserved powdered seasoning filled the room as Roger brought his paper bowl from the kettle plugged into the north facing wall to his side table. All in-progress works had been moved far away as to make sure no stray drops of the rust-coloured broth found its way to the middle of some shirtless, iron-helmeted hero’s pale chest.

Roger started up an episode of The Twilight Zone while he waited the standard five minutes for the noodles to be cool enough to not leave the feeling of lightly seared, wrinkly skin on the roof of his mouth. Impatient, he dove in prematurely. The taste was comforting and depressing. It reminded him of the days spent in the corner of his one-bedroom apartment, sat at his desk, trying to emulate the emotions he was struck with when he looked over the cover of Conan the Usurper or the Book of Paradox. It also reminded him that every obsession he ever had in his life always managed to outshine his interest in learning to cook. These thoughts weren’t quite what they usually were though, it was as if he was looking at them through a viewfinder in which he couldn’t quite get the right focus. Because today his lunch tasted different. It was the first sign that the drug was beginning to affect him. Some side effect he figured he hadn’t been told about (he cared little about the consequences of the drug other than its effect on his nail-biting, and didn’t think to question about possible additional results). The taste of the noodles made Roger feel sick, he managed to suck down a third of it before leaving the rest in the sink. At least now he knew this pill was doing something, if that meant not eating for the next two days, so be it.

The work was beginning to turn out. The sketch phase neared completion and Roger had surprised himself. For once he was completely happy with what he'd done so far. It’s a well known curse among all artists to not be able to enjoy one’s own work, a curse that every artist thinks they’ll overcome. Always striving to look down at a finished piece and feel the same satisfaction and wonder they have when admiring the works of their heroes. All the while knowing in the back of their mind that the closest they’ll ever come is an unsure: Well, it’s definitely my best work yet. Roger generally didn’t make it that far and usually settled for: Well, shit’s good enough. He hadn’t come to that feeling of frustrated indifference yet. He had managed to work out a composition he was fairly proud of on his first try. Huh. If I keep up this pace I may even finish by early afternoon tomorrow.

Roger hadn’t done any thumbnail sketches for his piece, yet it was far more impressive than his usual first attempts. It featured an idyllic version of the neighbourhood’s main street, winding diagonally through the page, branching off to present images of statues, fountains and other landmarks beautifully rendered and incredibly accurate in detail. He was recreating the real-life locations with photographic accuracy despite not using any reference images, he hadn’t even taken his eyes off of the page since his lunch break two hours before and they were beginning to become strained and irritated.

It was almost 10pm when Roger heard a clattering from behind him. He’d been going for almost ten hours straight, and he was working faster than ever before. His eyes looked and felt as if somebody had been rubbing salt in them and they had been completely drained of any fluid, and he was sweating all over his board. For the past couple hours he looked like a statue, completely still except for his right hand making the most subtle of strokes, working on details nobody would ever notice. But his hand had just then become still as well. He was staring into the eyes of an old man he had been working on, holding his breath and tensing every muscle he could. He was more afraid than he’d been in years. The kind of terror that consumes you when you wake up in the middle of the night from a dream so horrific you can’t bring yourself to even speak of it, and you convince yourself that any slight movement will surely bring you notice from the entity that dwelled in it, so you remain still, eyes wide, and sweat-soaked until dawn comes or pure exhaustion sends you back to sleep. This is how Roger felt as he listened to the clattering coming from the back of the room. It was the kind of noise your joints start to make as you get older, a chaotic orchestra of snaps and hollow pops. It continued for about fifteen seconds before the silences between each noise began getting longer until it faded completely. For another three minutes Roger stood hunched over his desk the same way he’d been all day, unmoving. He was still staring into the old man’s eyes, but instead of the dream-like joy that appeared in them before, all Roger saw was pure fear. He straightened himself and stepped a pace backwards from his drawing board to look at the full painting.

It was mesmerizing. There was a golden glow that shone through the composition, not overpowering, but a glow that enhanced every element of the painting and made it seem so real that Roger felt as if he could fall into his art board that very moment. The warmth, nostalgia, and overwhelming sense of welcoming was the exact feeling Roger strived for. It was a feeling he previously thought could not possibly be transmitted. It lived in the deepest crevices of a person’s mind, like your first memory, obscured by thousands of filters that made it seem more like an amazing dream than an event that really occurred (that is, if your first memory is at all positive). Roger completely forgot about the noise that so terrified him a few minutes before, he was too impressed with himself to worry about anything else. Except for that old man’s eyes, that still bore the same look of fear when he glanced over them again. Well, there’s no such thing as a perfect work of art Roger thought to himself as he went back to work, taking only subconscious notice of the figure now occupying the corner of his vision, still as a statue with eyes blacker than anything you could conceive.

It was 2am and the pain in Roger’s hands was unimaginable. They were so tense it felt as if somebody had crushed them in some industrial press. They appeared completely fine, however, and though Roger had been biting the nails on both of his hands continuously for the past three hours or so, they appeared to be in the same shape they were in that morning. Roger questioned whether he had even been biting them at all. Yes, his nails had been in his mouth, and yes, he felt his teeth scraping against them, he even thought he remembered tearing off a few solid pieces and crushing them to a fine dust under his molars. But the evidence staring him in the face proved otherwise. This moment of discovery would have been more sweet had it not been for the severe aching and stinging sensations he felt in his hands, and the realisation that he could no longer get a solid grip on his paintbrush. It had been approximately the seventh time Roger was reaching down to retrieve it off the floor in the past ten minutes. Each time it proved more difficult to pick up than the last. Not only had Roger’s manual motor ability significantly decreased, but it now felt to him like his paintbrush was coated in a thin lubricant. He turned it clumsily around until he’d oriented an entirely new grip that he figured solid enough to keep it in his hand for longer than a few minutes at a time. It made it much harder to pull off the finer details in the piece, but after a few frustrated sighs and grunts, Roger continued without paying it any mind. After all, he was almost done.

The following four hours had felt like a dream, not quite a nightmare, but something in between. The dream you wake up from the next morning feeling a strange sadness and confusion. Roger could no longer feel his hands gripping his brush, and each movement he made felt like the product of a jumble of mismatched gears, chugging along. His eyes felt like they were being held wide by some medical instruments, and his mind was racing. His thoughts flew by like cars heading the opposite way down the highway, a hundred at a time, only allowing him to register each one for a nanosecond before moving on to the next. The page had come alive. The main street was spilling out onto the floor and the statues and fountains were rising up from his board like scale models. The people inhabiting the painting were walking through and off the page, going about their business window shopping or walking their dogs before cycling back around in a loop. The hardest part of creating a work of art is knowing when to stop, but Roger had no problem deciding he was done. He knew each part was done when it came to life, it started with a couple birds fluttering from the gutter of a florist shop to perch in a tree, then a kid on a scooter making a left turn at the main intersection. Now the entire page was pulsing and breathing, more real than the neighbourhood itself.

Roger leaned back in his chair and let his arms drop to his side as if there were two fifty pound weights tied to his wrists, his brush rolled under his desk leaving a trail of muddy-green gouache behind it. His heartbeat began to slow down and he watched the red hot glow of the sunrise spread across the sky like a drop of blood settling in a glass of water. He felt warm sunlight on his chest and relief. The last twenty-one hours since taking his pill had been a nightmare, one he felt he could only escape by finishing his work; and now it was over.

Gen made her way up the warped, creaky steps to Roger’s studio clutching a steaming Tim Hortons bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. She didn’t usually check up on her brother like this, but she felt semi-responsible for him (being his drug dealer of sorts) and sufficiently worried. She’d been reluctant to give the drug to him in the first place, and the brief run-down she gave him of how it was meant to work had perhaps been lacking. Cooper had not even explained it to Gen that clearly, but she remembered being told of the psychoactive ingredients in the drug, a microscopic amount, but supposedly enough to essentially scare the patient out of their addiction. Gen tucked the Tim Hortons bag under her arm and fished the spare key out of her coat pocket. Despite her worry she knew what she would find behind the door, a sleeping (or at the very least sleep deprived) Roger at his desk with his work barely past its sketch phase. Gen closed her eyes in mock-anticipation, opened the door, and felt hot coffee splash her shins as the Tim Hortons cup fell onto the hardwood.

She did find Roger behind the door, and he was sleep deprived, but the accuracy of her expectations ended there. Roger sat slumped behind his desk with his arms to his side, watching the sunrise, a dark red syrup was dripping from all edges of his desk and chair into a growing puddle on the floor. Gen stood still in the door frame as Roger turned his head towards her; a blissful smile on his face.

“Gen, this drug is crazy. I don’t know how it worked, I’ve been biting all night but look at my nails!” Roger displayed his hands like a new fiancee showing off her ring. Gen’s face remained emotionless as she stared. His hands were dyed a blotchy reddish-brown. The flesh on each of his fingers had been stripped away with all the precision of an angry grizzly. All that remained down to the second knuckle were dented bones and a few strips of pulsing red muscle tissue. Gen stared on, still emotionless except for her wide eyes that began glazing over with tears of horror and confusion. It didn’t take her long to figure out what had happened, what the drug had done to her brother’s state of mind, and despite the dire circumstances she couldn’t help but realize the morbid humour of the situation. That in the strangest way, her brother had been cured.

Gen inched towards Roger with her hands held out in front of her, shaking.

“We have to go, Roger” she managed to squeeze out of her tensed throat

“Why? What’s wrong? Look at what I’ve done!” Gen looked down onto the drawing board. Whatever work Roger had done before the drug took hold of him was now covered in layer upon layer of dried paint and blood. Now it appeared a hellscape; deeply saturated, swirling clouds of brown, and red, populated by hundreds of ghostly figures, staring back at Gen with eyes blacker than anything you could conceive.

Submitted October 03, 2019 at 04:00AM by xuaevsed https://ift.tt/2py0PGT