The Painter

Jack stared into the huge bucket of paint as he dipped his brush into it.

“There’s shit in there,” the old man yelled at him.

Jack looked. There was no shit in there, literal or otherwise. The shit to which the old man was referring was probably only some small particles of dust anyway. Who cared?

“It’ll ruin the finish.” The old man cared.

Jack pretended not to hear him as he slapped paint on to the wall.

“You should be using a roller for that,” the old man barked.

Jack rolled his eyes as far back in his head as they would go. He worked the brush along the top of the wall where it met the ceiling, being careful to keep in a straight line.

“Don’t be getting any of that on the ceiling or you’ll have to do it again.”

The sudden outburst shocked Jack and his hand slipped, causing a very small amount of the green paint he was using to infiltrate the bright white he’d applied to the ceiling the previous day.

“For Christ’s sake!” exclaimed the old man.

Jack reached for a cloth and wiped the green paint from the ceiling.

“That won’t get rid of it. That ceiling will need painting again now.”

It was day 67 of painting. The whole of the old man’s house had been painted once and now Jack was starting again. His vu was thoroughly deja-ed. The old man clearly thought his house was like the Forth Bridge and he was going to keep Jack painting forever. He was a perfectionist and sat in his wheelchair watching Jack work whilst shouting a combination of instructions and abuse at him.

Jack just ignored him. He’d long since realised that it was the best way.

“The colour looks wrong. Did you give the paint a good stir before you started?”

Jack turned and scowled at the old man.

“What? Why have you stopped working?”

Jack threw his brush to the floor and took a step towards the old man.

The old man squirmed in his chair, sensing he’d pushed Jack over the edge.

Jack grabbed him, lifted him from the chair by his shirt and pushed him to the floor.

“Wait! Don’t.”

Jack ignored him and dragged him across the carpet.

He held the old man’s head over the paint bucket.

“Any last words?” he asked.

The old man was lost for something to say for once.

Jack plunged the old man’s head into the bucket. His body thrashed and muffled gurgles rose through the green paint. He struggled for maybe a minute and then was limp.

Jack finished painting the room in blissful silence.