The Curse of Todd Ryan

Every morning, Todd Ryan rose before the sun, supernaturally confident that the day would bring a respite from his failure. He walked to the kitchen, naked feet suction cups on tiled flooring. The smell of coffee slowly dominated, and Todd sat down at his table, feeling extremely well. In his mind, a patient, caring voice (his father’s?) spoke. Don’t start it, Todd. You’ll be disappointed. Best to leave it be. Todd ignored it. He dipped his brush, once, twice into freshly squeezed paint. Today was going to be the day it all changed. His arm would work, his mind would go blank, and he’d create the most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen. He thought: It’ll bring tears to their eyes. He sipped his coffee and let his arm loose. Wild tangles of color chased each other across the masonite, and hours passed. His mind was gone, basking somewhere in the cheerful knowledge that yes, he was doing it. Finally, Todd Ryan, darling of the art world, was back.

And then the knocking of his bladder forced him out of his chair and as he stood, in front of the yellowing bowl, a familiar sense of foreboding washed into him. He walked back into his studio, looking hopefully at his table, at the work he’d left there, and his stomach dropped. It had happened again.

Like every day, Todd Ryan closed his eyes and pretended he was killing himself. A knife this time, something sharp. Hot pain, then the world would turn away, dumping him into a lake of nothingness. It always seemed to calm him, this thought. Is that strange? I don’t know anymore. When he opened his eyes again it was still there, no longer the masterpiece that had been living in his subconscious. Smudges of color that had mixed to mud, the image now so ugly it forced him to look away as soon as his eyes had focused in. And, like every day, Todd sighed and covered it up. He walked toward the kitchen again, aimlessly, muttering about the injustice of it all. He had fooled himself again. No, it wouldn’t be today. If he took any stock from that cold lump in his stomach, it wouldn’t be any day soon.