1. Paint
As I watchedhimweave inandoutof sight,Ididn’tmove.
He wasmockingme,that pale,colourlessbodyappearinginglimpsesbetweenthe ordinarypeople.
Theywore clothes;a splashof redin the formof a scarf, a forestgreenjacketdraped overgaunt
shoulders.Theywere human,alive.
But theydidnot see him,anakedman, slitheringinbetweenthe rushof bodies. We were inthe
middle of the city,ona crowdedsidewalk,buthe wassogoodat hidinginplainsight.
A gustof air blewbacka woman’sunboundhairandI saw hishandappear inherdark locks.But she
merelylaughedandbrushedit back;tyingitwitha spare tie she had on herwrist.She didn’tfeel
those nimble fingers,didn’tnotice ashe mergedbackintothe crowd.
In that momenthe wasgone frommy view andmy headjerkedineverydirection,tryingtopinpoint
hislocation.Ididn’tknowwhere he wasandit scaredme. I feltaswiftrushof adrenaline asitcame
to me.
He wasbehindme.
A callousedfingertouchedmycheekbut itwasgone before Icouldturn. I became panicked,
attemptingtoturn aroundto pushhimaway.But I couldn’tmove myfeet. Iglanceddownand
someone fromthe crowdbumpedintomyshoulder,ignoringmystartledyelp.
My shoulderwasachingsomethingfierce andIturnedtoyell afterthe personbuttheyhad
disappearedintothe crowd. The painstartedtoget worse andI feltwarmliquidstartto cascade
downmy forearm,drippingoff the bendof myelbow.Ihadn’tbeenhithardenoughtobleed.
In the secondsbetweenwhenIlookedatmyshoulderandwhenIrealisedwhatwashappening,I
couldhave swornI feltthe tipof a brushagainstmy neck.But mysensitivityto feather-lighttouch
was soonlostas I realisedthatitwasn’tbloodthatwas pouringfrommyshoulder.
It was mybodyliquefying,the verycoloursof myskinandpale blue jacketmeltinginfrontof my
eyes,gravitypullingitdownthe contoursof my flesh.Itwaslike Iblinkedandthenmyhandwas
there,pressingonthe wound.Butwoundsdon’t bleedyourbodylikepaintandthe pressure of my
handwasn’tenoughto stopit.
Insteadmyhand itself startedtomeltandIwatchedwithan everincreasingfeelingof panicas the
pinks,crèmesandwhitesof myfingers,stretchedandthinned.
I screamedbutno one stopped,noone evenflinched.Theycouldn’thearme.Itriedtomove my
feetbuttheywere stuckto the ground,as if there wasa wall betweenwhatthe neuronsinmyhead
saidand the nervesthatcontrolledmylimbs.
Anotherpersonknocked intome,thistime hittingmyotherhip.Idoubledover,reachingwithwhat
was leftof myone hand forthe solidfeel of apelvicbone.Idrew backwithanotherscreamat the
liquidsoakingintomypants,half of myhipalreadygone.

2. It was gettingfasterandanotherpersonsmackedintome,makingme spinandfall tomy knees.
Bentover,the liquidsof mybodyslowlyformingapool underneathme,Isaw the individualsstrands
of mybrownhair,lengthen,shadesof brown,goldandred,droppingdowntomeet the pavement.
It hurt,my bodysofteningandbecomingsomethingthatitwas nevermeanttobecome.Istartedto
cry, tearsthrowingthemselvesoverthe edgesof mylowerlidstofree fall downmycheeks.Two
white,deadfeet,stoppedinfrontof me,seemingtotouchthe pool of coloursbutremaining
untainted.He waslike ablankcanvas andI was all colours.
I lookedupto see himholdaninkstainedfingeruptohismouth. He smiledandmymouthdribbled
downmy chin,the liquidof myearsand nose following.
What was leftof mythroat screamed,highpitchedvibrationsmakingthe colourlessmancockhis
headto the side,asif I wasmerelybeingdifficult.Mostof mybodywas gone and the nakedman
watched,the passing pedestrians payingusnoattention.
I fell ontomyside,onlyhalf of myface still solid,the otherhalf,warmwetliquidunderneathme. I
was hiscaptive audience andIcoulddonothingas a longpaintbrush,heldinstainedfingers,came
towardsme.He didn’ttouchwhatwas solid, no;he wasmore intentonthe liquid,onall the colours
that had once beenmyskin,myclothes,myinsides.
The brush wasdippedintothe liquidandthenhe startedtodraw,usingthe lightcoloursto start
painting.Istaredinforcedsilence asthe outline of myarm andthe base coastingwaspaintedonto
the pavement,extendingoutfromwhere myshoulderusedtobe. Thenhe coatedhisbrush inall
the othershades,slowlyrecreatingmybody,exceptnow Iwasbeingtrapped,the colourlessman
paintingmybodyintothe ground.
Black pantswere drawn,a lightblue shirtaswell,creasinginall the rightplacessothat itlooked
exactlyasit had before thishadall started. He was makingme intosomethingthathe wantedandI
had no choice butto lethim.
My throatwas now gone,I couldn’tscream,andmy legswere simplytwodimensional shapes,
frozeninposition.
A toddlerwithshort,bouncyhair,steppedonmyfoot,smudgingthe liquidsandcausingpainto
ricochetup mybody.It hurt,but my captor shooedthe youngboyawayand intothe arms of his
mother,quicklygettingtoworkandfixingthe messhe made.Iwatchedthe little boy,noticingthat
he ignoredhismother’sscolding,toointentonme,hiscuriousgaze makingme feel,forafleeting
moment,thatmaybe he couldsee me.But theybothdisappearedintothe crowdandI wasleft
alone.
My legsnowfixed,the sharpache gone,the pale manfinishedpaintingmybodyontothe dirty,
cementfloorthatall these people walkedover.
What was leftof myface,melted,butIcouldstill see.Yetitwaslike I stoodonthe otherside of a
mirror,and I coulddo nothingashe washedthe paintbrushinacup of waterI hadn’t seenuntil now.
Thenhe waspaintingmyface onto the floor, mouldingmyexpressionintoone of serenity,mylips
intoa satisfiedsmile.

3. I didn’tfeel thatbutI hadno choice,notanymore.
He drewthe dark arch of myeyebrows,the shine of myhair,andeveryone justwalkedonby.I
wasn’tbeingignored,Iwasjustinvisible,mybodynow the liquidsforthisnakedmantopaintwith.
He lockedgazeswithme,blackstaringintoblue andhe shookhishead,frustratedwithsomething.
An inkstainedfingerwasbitten,animpatientfootstartedtotapand I waitedinfeartosee what he
woulddonext.
On the otherside of the road, an agedman trippedover,hislegscollapsingoutfromunderneath
him. Noone paid attention,toobusywiththeirlives. Hisskinwaswitheredandoldbuthe fought.
He foughtevenashe turnedintoliquid,hisbrittlebonesgleamingasthe tendonsandmuscleswere
strippedaway.
Helpless,stuckinmyownpain,Isaw hisface droop andhe meltedintothe ground,the darkcolours
of pantsand shirtspreadingout.Oblivious,the pedestrianswalkedaround,notevenrealisingthat
theywere doingso. AndthenI sawhim,anothercolourless,naked human.He heldapaintbrushand
hisverymannerwas seriousandintent.
The old man had stopped struggling.He couldn’t,notwithonlyhisnose toforeheadstill solid.
A paintbrushwasdippedintodarkblue andhiscaptorstarted todraw, sealingthe oldman’sbody
intothe pavement,unable tomove.Unable to everescape.
Nimble butsure fingerstouchedmychin,drawingmyattentionbacktothe nakedman.He rubbed
at my body,smudgingthe coloursof myskin,fixingupwhateverimperfectionitwasthathe saw. I
wouldhave pleaded,beggedhimtoletme gobut I couldn’tmove mymouth,I didn’tevenknow
howI was breathing.
But it didn’tmatteranymore.
Because he wasthe painter.
AndI was justthe painting.