text: “This is unbelievable!” Francis exclaimed as he held my self-portrait in his hands, “It looks just like you!” Francis “Franky” Cullins is my best friend, and he holds in his hands what I hoped to be the beginning of my illustrious career as an artist. I smile at him - a humble, gentle smile - as I contain the bubbling anxiety within the pit of my stomach. “Do you really think so?” I asked in what I hoped to be a tone that indicated only mild curiosity, and not that of a child seeking validation. Franky looked from the painting and up to me with blazed excitement in his eyes. “This is no joke, Mort; what I have in my hands here is pure, uncut talent!” He lightly shook the painting in his hands as he said so, but abruptly stopped when he realized he was doing so, as if worrying he could ruin it. “As a matter of fact,” Franky continued, “I’d like to post this on your page and talk about the process of how you painted this if you’re all right with that.” Honestly, I was taken aback by this offer. “What, like you want to be my manager or something?” I sarcastically asked him this as I chuckled, but Franky’s face remained sincere. His response to me felt so genuine, so lacking in the raillery I expected, that it took me some time to register it. “Why not? I’ve always believed in your work, Mort, even when no one else did. But with this...” he trailed off as he looked back down at my painting. Finally, he continued, “This was seriously all freehand?” I nodded, “Yes, it really was. But, Franky, would you really want to be my manager? I don’t even know what that job would involve.” He waved his hand dismissively at me and smirked. “Exactly why you need one! Let me handle all the details, but this - you just need to worry about making more of this!” His smirk had grown into a wide grin as his eyes welled with moisturized droplets. I was stupefied at my friend's eagerness to want to work for me after seeing this latest piece of my work. I knew of course that this painting, and all others that followed, would be different, but to have this sort of hypnotic effect was entirely unexpected. “Yeah, okay,” I hesitantly agreed, “Go ahead and post it, then.” Franky’s eyes widened in a somewhat disturbing display of ecstasy. “Perfect! I’ll get on that right now, and you do what you gotta do for your process and you get another painting out A-S-A-P! I promise you, Mort, this is going to be huge!” Before I could even open my mouth to respond Franky had already darted out of my studio - which was just my room in our shared apartment - and into his room across the hall as I heard his door slam behind him in an eager swing. I stood silently amidst the canvases on easels which all displayed different degrees of blankness to what had the appearance of being worked on for several minutes of brush strokes, then forgotten. They stood around the room in a way that formed a labyrinth to the bed, one which only I knew the right way through. I looked at all of these unfinished and unbegun paintings and vowed they would not stay this way for long. Things were different now. I got most of the way through a new painting I was working on, I believe I will title “Green Singers,” when I noticed I was at it for almost ten hours straight - no food, water, or bathroom breaks. I got myself into bed. I lay there for an unknowable amount of time as sleep eluded me, and I found myself thinking back to a conversation I’d had with an alluring stranger. It was last week on a Thursday when I was at my favorite art exhibition in town which thankfully had a small coffee shop near the entrance. As I sipped at my caramel macchiato I was scrolling through the reactions (or lack thereof) one of my paintings received. It had been posted for approximately 72 hours and had garnered seven likes, while most of the comments were uninspired at best and rude at worst. One of them even said something along the lines of, “This is motel art at best. You look too scared to put any real expression into your work. Don’t quit your day job for this. Hope this helps.” What the hell was that even supposed to mean? I dropped my phone on the table in such a frustrated way that my coffee trembled and nearly spilled. Not that I cared. I threw my hands over my face and exhaled in an admittedly overdramatic, defeated way. There I buried my face as I gathered myself when I heard someone sit down in the chair across from me. I looked up, expecting to see Franky. Instead, it was a man who I had never seen before - I recall little from his physical appearance, but I remember he was wearing an expensive-looking suit. And his eyes, those piercing emerald-green eyes with an intense and aged sheen the likes of which I had never seen before. “Can I help you?” I asked, making sure the irritated tone hinting at please-go-away was noticeable in my inflection. The stranger gave me a smile that was warm and comforting, and I felt my disappointment in myself, and the world melt away from my chest. I know it’s weird to say, but I instantly felt comfortable with this man here. “I’m a fan of your work,” he said to me. His voice was velvety and sweet, “I wanted to meet you in person. But I have to say, there is room for improvement.” Of course, I thought to myself, another critic who thinks they can tell me how to paint. “Oh, yeah?” I said with the irritation back in force. I took another sip from my coffee. “Oh, yes,” the man said, “but that’s not a bad thing - every great artist knows there is always room for improvement; it’s the knowledge that one would never achieve perfection, yet their pursuit for it is endless.” I rolled my eyes at him, though I guessed he did have a point. “Maybe you’re right. And I’m guessing you have the solution for that?” This was obviously a rhetorical question, yet the man kept his gaze locked in mine and he said, “It so happens, I do. What would you say if your paintings would become the epitome of perfection? That through your great works, your name would be immortalized, etched into the framework of history alongside Monet, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, and so many others.” I laughed dryly at him, “For that -,” I paused, peering searchingly into my cup of coffee, now at room temperature. “For that - I would give everything.” That statement came out of me so much more sincerely than I would have expected from myself. Realizing this, I laughed at myself, raised my coffee, and gulped the rest of it down. I was feeling this odd sense of anticipation I could not explain, like the feeling a kid at a theme park gets when they are near the end of the line for a ride on one of the attractions. The man with the green eyes raised an eyebrow at me as he said, “While I admire the enthusiasm, I wouldn’t ask you for everything. If I were to perfect your art, I would ask for very little in return, in fact.” Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows, but in a more incredulous, disbelieving sort of way. “Wait you’re... Are you serious right now?” the man said nothing. He only kept that cool, soothing smile. I pressed on. “So, you could make me one of the greatest artists of all time and you would want, what, my soul? That’s what this is, right? Some low-budget Twilight Zone episode where you grant me my biggest dream, and all I give in return is my soul?” Now the man leaned forward in his chair, closer to me. I could smell him now; it was a scent that felt so refreshing as it ignited nostalgic feelings for events of my life that I could not recall ever happening. It soon dawned on me that the feelings of nostalgia his scent gave me were not like smelling freshly mowed grass and remembering a magical summer from childhood; this was a sense of longing for events in my life I had not yet lived. “No, you don’t have to worry about that,” he said in a reserved timbre. “Despite what certain media would tell you, I don’t barter for souls.” I considered this, then asked him, “Well, then what do you want from me?” “Two things,” he said, “If I immortalize you and your art, I need you to paint something for me - I will tell you what at a time of my choosing. Second, I need you, Jack Mortimer, to say five little words to me to endorse our contract.” I was practically vibrating in my seat now with anticipation as if a colony of butterflies had birthed within me all at once. He didn’t need to tell me what those five words were that he needed as I could feel them on the tip of my tongue, ready to burst. I stood up and eagerly reached my hand out to shake his. He did the same. I fervently told him what he needed to hear, “I see you, Mr. Green.” *** Three months had passed since I painted that self-portrait, which I allowed Franky to keep. He keeps it proudly hung in his new office where he works around the clock to get me new exhibits for my paintings. “Green Singers” had been a phenomenal success, and there had been twelve others so far after. He even got me a spot to talk on the Late-Night Show, which to be fair, didn’t seem too hard as they had reached out to him and practically begged for me to make an appearance. But what I found most astonishing from this whole experience was that the scenes I painted seemed to come to life not long after they were finished. When I painted my hometown with a clearly visible view of the Andromeda Galaxy in the night sky, the next evening the miraculous anomaly was reported across the states which led astronomers stumped as to how it had suddenly become so bright to make it so visible to the naked eye. I painted snow in southern California, and the next day there was a blanket of almost twelve inches in Los Angeles. That’s what made it exceptionally convenient when, out of the millions of supporters and admirers across the globe, I discovered one truly bitter, ignorant critic. His name was Elijah Quill, better known by his Reddit username as ElQt69 - a truly tasteless name to choose for one such as him. It didn’t take long for me to find a picture of him, as people like him are always so self-absorbed that their photos are aplenty and public to pair with their highly opinionated views. But Eli should’ve thought to be more careful which what he does with photos of himself on the internet. After I had memorized his face, his body type, and what style he wears, it was almost too easy to paint his liking as I saw fit. Elijah Quill, in my depiction, was seen in a dark alley somewhere, having been beaten to death - the folds inside his pocket turned out to indicate he had been robbed after the fact. I kept this painting to myself, of course, but couldn’t resist the urge to google the news in the city I found that he lived in. There he was, the egotistical bastard, making the top headline. Good for him. A few days after the oh-so-tragic passing of ElQt69, Franky came to see me. We no longer lived in that small apartment together as I had found a nice condo in the city. I buzzed him in, and he came in with that adoring, eager grin. That suck-up smile was starting to get on my nerves. “Hey, Mort!” he said cheerfully. My God, he’s practically skipping towards me, I thought exasperatedly. “Listen, I got a new opening for you downtown. And if you’re okay with it, I’m thinking somewhere around five we can -” I held a hand to stop him, which he did instantly. “Hang on a second, Franky. There’s something I got to tell you.” Something I should’ve told you a long time ago. He cocked his head to the side as he asked me, “Sure, what’s up?” I looked him into those weirdly adoring eyes as he waited. “I’m going to have to let you go, Franky.” The look Franky gave me was as if I had just kicked a puppy across the room. “W-what?” he stammered. I blinked, and said, “You’re fired, Franky. I’m sorry but, the truth is I don’t need you anymore. You can expect your last check in the mail.” Franky backed away, his legs trembling. His eyes darted about the room in disbelief. “I can’t believe this... I thought we was friends, Mort?” tears had already begun to roll down his face. “We were, but let’s face it Franky - I’ve outgrown you. I'm sure you understand.” Franky’s face turned beet-red as he exclaimed, “You can’t do this - we were a team!” I watched him begin to storm away and back to my front door, as he yelled over his shoulder, “You’ll regret this, Mort! It was both of us - together!” the door slammed. “Well, that was dramatic,” I said to no one. *** That night, I awoke with a start. I was having some horrendous dreams, though I can’t remember the details. Now awake, I found that I was standing in my new studio, painting. The unfinished work before me showed horrid images that were difficult for the human mind to comprehend; hulking beasts of otherworldly proportions as they crowded and swarmed an unnamed city. People stacked haphazardly on pyres as they burned in a green, hellish inferno. The more I looked into this accursed piece, the more I felt my sanity quickly escaping me. I thought I heard voices chanting around me in some long-forgotten tongue, whispering names I had not heard nor possessed the power to pronounce. Summoning every ounce of my mental fortitude and strength, I managed to tear my gaze from the canvas as I knocked it to the floor. That’s when I saw behind it was another easel, and displayed on it was my painting of the murdered Elijah Quill, whose disproportionately crooked neck had upturned his face to look directly into my eyes. That one should not be there, I thought incredulously, it was hidden away. “Come now, Mr. Mortimer. Such a beauty should never be kept hidden.” That voice, behind me. It was his voice. I spun around and saw the man - this Mr. Green - smiling at me. “You,” I said as I pointed an accusing finger at him, “You’re what made me paint that... that nightmare, aren’t you?!” Mr. Green looked at the unfinished painting on the floor, then back to me. “That was our deal, Mort. One painting of my choosing, when I wish it. It would be in your best interest to uphold your end, and finish it.” “No,” I muttered, “No. I will not bring that hell into being. The deal is off! You can take away this power - I've already gotten enough out of it anyway.” Mr. Green sighed at me, but coolly said, “I would have to agree. Thanks to your admirable work with Mr. Quill.” I was taken aback by this. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded. Mr. Green’s smile vanished. He sneered at me as he explained, “I told you when we first met that I do not barter for souls. I don’t have to, as your kind are always so eager to place it in the palm of my hand. For just the smallest taste of power and ultimate adoration, you burned yourself on the very pyre that you built.” My jaw dropped open. “I... No...” But what could I say? What could I do? “I go now,” Mr. Green continued with a returning smile - now sinister as a dealer in a rigged game of poker, “to prepare a place for you.” And with those parting words, he faded from view until all that was left were two floating orbs of emerald glaring at me until they, too, were gone. alone again in the darkness of my condo, I began to see visions - things that were not of my home - of a similar layout to the one I used to live, in the apartment with Franky. On a table, I saw a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I turned and saw on the edge of the bed was Franky. He still lived in that tiny apartment, and here he was, drunk beyond all reason with tears flooding his face and snot oozing from a sniffling nose. I saw in his hands he held that self-portrait, the first of my paintings after that deal. “Damn you, Mort,” he whimpered. He produced a pocket lighter and set the flame to the bottom corner of my self-portrait. “No, Franky, wait!” I screamed at him, but he didn’t appear to hear me. The flames ate up the canvas as they crept from the torso to the painted face. “Damn you to Hell, Mort,” Franky began to sob. The images of Franky's room vanished, and my own dwellings had returned. “This is unbelievable!” I cried as the last image of Franky disappeared. Standing here in the dark of my own vanity, I felt the effects of Franky’s actions with that damned painting. The fire started at my feet and quickly licked and raced up my legs, soon engulfing my body. I yelled, swatting at the flames, yet the inferno continued to spread all around me, and only me, as I raised my hands to my face and screamed.