The Eye

Richard liked to paint. It’s all he did.

Francesca, his attendant, suspected it was all he could do. He never spoke to anyone that she knew of, as long as she knew him.

Regardless, she did her job bringing him food, changing his linens and checking his vitals.

Francesca always wondered what Richard did before coming to the hospital. Since he didn’t speak, she could only speculate.

But his painting said it all.

His images were so vivid, fanciful, deep, engaging, and touching.

He once painted a picture of a shipwreck at night. Francesca saw the bobbing heads amidst the breaking waves. She could almost hear the siren’s song above the wind.

Had he been a professional? Was he a known talent? Collected and displayed in museums? Would she discover, one day, that she had cared for an artist celebrated the world over? Or was he an undiscovered talent who deserved but never got the accolades due him?

She would never know. How could she? All she knew about him was his name.

Another painting of Richard’s depicted an ice-cold pitcher and glass of lemonade. They were slick with condensation streaming down their sides. Slices of lemon floated in the ice.

Richard could make the mundane spectacular. Francesca wanted to take a sip then and there.

Her favorite of Richard’s paintings was the pair of hands, deep in shadow, clasped in prayer. The gleaming beads of a rosary draped over the delicate fingers. She wished she could have kept that one.

Francesca bought him canvases until the convalescent home administrators stopped her. They didn’t have a budget, or wall space for his prolific habit. So, she kept him in oil paint and linseed oil. And he painted his ever-changing vision each day on the same canvas.

Frustrated at the daily loss of his genius output, Francesca protested. But her employers were deaf to her entreaties.

She suggested auctioning his collected works to raise money for the facility. They didn’t care.

They couldn’t see his potential. They only cared that he occupied a bed for a monthly stipend from the state. They felt raising money, would conflict with the facility’s funding sources. That was something they could not afford. They defended the status quo above all.

Having only one canvas didn’t stop Richard. Each painting evolved over his day sitting before the window. Each day revealed how his kaleidoscopic mind worked. He might start with a mountain-scape which could become a beach scene with sand dunes. From there the image might morph into a gull riding undulating waves. Finally, the snow-capped mountain ended being the graceful hip of a woman lying on an unmade bed.

A detail, the woman’s navel, could become the focus around which the day’s paintings would revolve.

When the sun set, he’d scrape it all off and begin the next day, fresh.

Francesca loved Richard’s paintings. They reminded her of when she saw painters on the banks of the Seine. Tourists flocked. Boats floated by. She imagined the river of paint which had covered canvases over the centuries. And now she had Richard all to herself.

She couldn’t believe he could sit at the same window and paint something different each day. But he did.

Sometimes a flash of red became a bird about to take flight. A tree branch became a road or a river. Every time she looked, the image had morphed into something new. She was astounded.

No one else at the hospital gave Richard a thought. The administration saw Francesca’s incessant promotion of his artistic talents as unwanted distraction. They found it suspicious and a symptom of her own problems.

Francesca loved Richard’s ever-changing paintings. She sometimes stole a photo with her phone’s camera. She wished she could set up a permanent installment to capture his day’s work in time lapse.

Francesca entered Richard’s room one afternoon and stopped. She was startled at the frightening image staring from the canvas. What had been a flowering tree, was now an enraged man’s face glaring from the shadow of a broad brimmed hat. Streaks of red on his clothing suggested recent violence.

The glowing eye, staring from the shadowed face was most startling. Its pupil, but a pinpoint, stared at her like a laser from a colorless iris. Chilling, it appeared to follow her every move.

Hideous, it wasn’t human.

From what dark corner of Richard’s mind did this emerge?

Francesca looked out the window and saw a body lying on the lawn.

She shrieked and ran out. She called for help.

Richard continued at his easel.

The police arrived. They sealed off the crime scene. Witnesses were sought. No one saw a thing.

Except Richard.

In her statement to the police, Francesca described what Richard’s canvas depicted. She remembered it vividly, the clothing, the hat and especially the grotesque eye.

The detective was skeptical that a painting could provide evidence on any crime.

She knew Richard had seen everything. If only he could be induced to talk.

She led the detective to Richard’s room to show him his painting. But after rushing into the room, she stopped short. She turned to the detective in desperation.

He stepped up to the canvas. Continuing to paint, Richard paid him no mind.

The canvas now held the image of a dog. Any hint of that monstrous face was now obscured. Replacing it was the face of a border collie with a ball in its mouth. It looked nothing like the murderer.

Except for the eye.

The dog’s eye was identical to that which Richard had captured of the murderer. Despite the engaging face of the dog, the eye still looked creepy to Francesca.

She pointed to the eye in triumph. The detective was not impressed.

He wanted to question Richard. It took Francesca time to convince the detective that Richard was mute. That his only communication was through his paintings.

The administrator from the main floor office confirmed that Richard had never spoken. Part of his reason for being in the hospital was his inability to care for himself. Others, who came in to observe, concurred.

Francesca pulled out her phone and pulled up several examples of Richard’s paintings. The administrator frowned.

The detective looked at them and shrugged. They added nothing to the current situation. He even considered charging Richard with destruction of evidence.

Richard was not used to having so much company. He began to display anxiety and became agitated.

No one who knew him had ever seen Richard react as he did at that moment. Richard had always ignored everyone. He calmly painted regardless of who came and went.

But when Richard saw Francesca showing photos of his paintings on her phone, he began to moan.

People stood back. Was he going to become violent?

Richard stood, stepped to the table and opened the drawer. On guard, the detective touched his holster.

Richard pulled a cell phone from the drawer and held it up. Everyone strained to look. There on the screen was Richard’s painting of the murderer.

Mouth agape, the detective pointed at the image. He ran from the room with a triumphant shout.

The administrator signaled to Francesca. Followed by the onlookers, they exited the room.

Richard was alone. He took a picture of the dog painting with his phone and sat down to paint.