This was the one, he was
SURE of it this time. The man cackled quietly to himself, continuously muttering under his breath as he dragged the brush across the canvas in front of him. Almost done, almost done! He was positively
quivering with glee at this point, throbbing with the thought of his finished portrait.
Suddenly, he jerked his arm back. He held is breath, staring down at the last brush stroke he had placed upon the canvas. After a moment of complete stillness, a tortured scream tore itself from his throat. He threw down his brush in a fit of rage and began tearing at his head, fingers pulling out clumps of his own hair. Spinning and pacing around the small room, he knocked over several books, glasses, and paint bottles. He barely noticed the shattering of glass and the spattering of paint as he raked his nails over his face, shrieking hoarsely.
He abruptly whirled to the canvas, teeth bared in disgust.
The man ran to the easel and tackled it to the floor, landing on the still wet portrait. He began to brutally throw his fists down onto the figure in the painting, tearing the canvas and blurring the still wet paint. It wasn't until his knuckles were cracked and bleeding, and the floorboards below had been slightly splintered, that he fell back, panting with exhaustion.
Then, just as quickly as he had started screaming, his eyes filled with tears. He curled onto his side as his body was wracked with sobs of agony and defeat. What had gone
wrong, why couldn't he get it right?! He asked himself these questions over and over, sobbing and wailing in despair, the canvas laying in the corner, damaged beyond recognition - or salvation.
Elliot didn't leave that spot for the rest of the night.