"Paint on Canvas"

by Blackjack Gabbiani

No one else seemed to notice it, but it was the first thing I saw. The painting had to have been done by someone who was there. Even the video footage of it could not inspire something like this. It was perfect, absolutely perfect, and could only have been accomplished by someone who was in the center of it.

I stared at it for so long, drinking in every detail like a fine champaigne, until my senses were equally as impared. Truly, this painting was flawless.

And then I saw it. Right there in the corner, the last detail to observe, in the reflection of the sky.

My ship.

It was unmistakeable; the familiar form and design, reflected on the ocean and cloaked by the approaching dark clouds. Unconciously, I raised my hand to trace the image, but a young man grabbed my wrist.

"Um...please don't touch the painting...it'll be up for auction later and I--" He cut off, tilting his head oddly. He looked very familiar, black hair framing his face, and large, inquisitive eyes staring back at me. "Aren't you--"

And that's when it hit me. This boy had been one of the children accidently brought on board. He was one to curse me, to bring about my downfall.

But...he wasn't reacting like I thought he would. He continued to stare at me, leaning in closer with bright black eyes studying me as closely as I had studied his painting. "...You are..." he concluded at last. "I'm sure of it, you're him..."

I nodded slowly. "Yes..."

"...I knew you survived. You had to..."

"And why's that?"

He smiled mysteriously, something that looked most pecular on a face accustomed to honesty. "Because I knew I had to paint you."

It was the artist's way, really. To a true artist, they will know they are destined to capture something in their art, and he had targeted me.

There was such a dedication in his eyes, something I had to admire. So I had to accept his offer.

We met many times over the next few months, but we never really spoke during the painting sessions. He was focused, intent on making this the greatest portrait of his career. I never saw the progress of his work, nor did I ask to, as he had said he would show me when it was completed.

I saw him once outside of the studio during that time. I was walking along the boardwalk and noticed him at the end of the pier, staring out at the ocean. I watched him for a while, but he did not move, so I approached him.

He remained still, his distant gaze seeming to view another world. I was about to leave when he spoke softly.

"If you've already been forgotten, what chance do I have?"

I paused, trying to think of what he could mean by that, but he continued.

"I mean...you caused such a disaster...but no one seems to remember that."

"It would be a terrible thing to be remembered for, doll," I whispered.

"I know..." He sighed deeply. "But you know what I mean...I only have paint on canvas--what hope do I have of being remembered?"

I was unable to answer that, hoping instead that I could assuage his worries with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He rested his hand on mine, but never once turned to face me. Even when he left, after what seemed like hours, he turned the other way.

"Art endures," I told him at our next session.

He looked up briefly, only for a glance.

"What you said on the pier, about being remembered. Even if your name is forgotten, what you create will live on forever."

"...Hold still," was all he said, so I was silent.