The Water Color Lake.

A man learns what happens when one tries to achieve perfection.

The Water Color Lake.

A short story by Kim Mathews.

         Richard had been working on the painting for ten years now. It was quite beautiful, depicting a lovely young woman carefully pouring over some unknown novel underneath a willow tree, which had been planted aside the chief beauty of the art work: a pristine, glass-like lake. To look at the young woman next to it, she seemed very content simply sitting in the springtime Richard had painted for her.
         Another ten years went by, and the painting grew ever more angelic. Every day following work, Richard would come home and retire to his study to labor over it, only breaking to use the restroom or eat. He wanted nothing less than perfection, no matter how long it would take him. The painting, though, was a little less patient than Richard was. The woman beneath the willow had reread the unknown novel several times now, and she found the plot line had become very dull. The painting longed simply to be finished, to sit upon some mantel and be admired for years to come; for the moment, however, it was happy to wait. Perfection was worth it, after all.
         Ten more years passed by, and the painting was still not completed. It was more beauteous than ever, each brush stroke being a breath of absolute radiance, so beautiful as to make the Sistine Chapel look rudimentary. However, the painting failed to see this in its frustration at Richard. Each day it grew ever more displeased, wanting its creator to simply put down his brush and look upon it with a sign of contented finality. No, every look it received from its maker was one full of criticism and imperfections. It made the painting feel ugly, and hideous. Surely thirty years was long enough for perfection? Surely, if after thirty years and Richard was still not satisfied, then there was nothing more he could do? The painting pondered this…
         The next day when Richard went to his study with brush in hand, the woman beneath the willow stood up, grabbed him by his smock, and pulled him down into the painting before he could do so much as blink. After several moments of darkened dizziness, Richard opened his eyes against the blackness and beheld a gorgeous sky of robin’s egg blue, streaked with the most delicately feathered clouds. He sat up to see an exquisitely wrought willow tree, surrounded by an array of wild flowers of every hue in the spectrum; from colors like sapphire, jade, scarlet and violet to a white so pure it would make the firmament itself look soiled. There seemed to be something missing from this Eden, though; there was a place just under the tree, an ugly bald spot that was worn down and bare as if someone had sat there for a rather extensive amount of time. He spied the spot’s occupant some paces away, a white void in the emerald grass.
         She was glowing and radiant in the early morning sun; she had hair the color of purest gold, and satiny pale skin any oyster’s pearl would have envied, touched with the faintest hint of rose on her cheeks. She held out a tiny gloved hand and said, in a voice like pealing bells, “Come see thy work, master.” He took her hand as she smiled at him, such a sincere, innocent gesture. She proceeded to show him the fragile wild flowers he had spent so many years on that kept her company, the sturdy willow he had strove so hard to perfect which she leaned on when wearied, and finally that lake of such superb artistry that Aphrodite herself would have wept from sheer beauty.
         “Go ahead,” she whispered in his ear, “touch the water.” He kneeled down, hands centimeters from the crystal depths when he saw her reflection in the water which showed her true nature: her thick, gilded locks were withered and brittle, her soft velvet skin was pock marked and stretched taught over skeletal features. Her tattered, now grey dress clung loosely to her emaciated frame as her sunken eyes clouded over white, filling with an insatiable rage. With a scream, he quickly turned around only to flail backwards into the water as the frighteningly grotesque figure surged towards him, and with surprising strength grabbed him and held him under the water color lake, screeching all the while. “You did this to me! You did this to me!” until the waves were quite still and Richard’s struggles ceased.
         Her immaculately white dress sopping wet, the radiant young woman returned to her post beneath the willow tree, and resumed her book; she had just gotten to the good part.