Peter the Petrifying Painter
If you were approached by a man with a crazed cackle and horrendous hair in disarray, with a paint brush clutched in the grips of his abnormally strong hand, asking to paint you into a canvas, would you let him?
The glint of insanity glimmered ferociously in the pits of his gloriously green eyes. Your gaze moved down to his bumpy nose, taking note of the possibility of him having it broken numerous times. A deep, long scar traveled across from his right eye to his upper lip, which was stretched out thin as he grinned like a madman. His yellow teeth flashed for your eyes to bask in all its rotting glory, unashamedly and with utmost pride. His stubble stood out his chin like needles, waiting to prick any predators lurking somewhere for the best opportunity to attack him. His wild, dark curls of hair were so unruly and knotted, you wondered when the last time he brushed them was.
They called him Peter, the Petrifying Painter.
Only a few handful of people had the shocking courage to accept Peter’s request to procure a painting of them on a large canvas. Everyone else believed he would eventually stab them to death with his paintbrush and use their blood to finish the painting off. They were strictly convinced he was petrifying, hence his given name.
The few people who accepted the offer, were living proof that Peter was no murderer. Indeed, he was quite the peculiar painter, but he knew nothing of harming others, nor did he intend to hurt any of his targeted people he desired to make paintings of. He was just a rather strange and frightening man, provoking discomfort and paranoia among anyone he approached.
Knowing he was no murderer, you accepted his offer hesitantly, and he howled suddenly, causing you to step back subconsciously in trepidation.
That was one strange laugh.
Peter whipped out his canvas in the middle of the street, propped it up on his stand, and clutched his palette. He whacked dollops of paint onto it, and you awkwardly stood to gaze at him.
He sighed in content, before snapping his wild eyes back onto you, and he hissed, “now, let’s see that smile, hm?”
You shifted your feet uncomfortably, before you grimaced in an attempt to smile. Peter blinked thrice in disbelief at her futile attempt, and he deadpanned, “a little more genuine smile might actually fool me to believe you’re enjoying this.”
You couldn’t help but crack a smile at his remark, finding it amusing in the moment, and Peter grinned in delight. “That’s it! Keep your face like that until you need a break.”
You nodded in acknowledgement of his instructions, and watched the way his hand expertly moved across the canvas, spilling colours and transporting them onto several places on the surface he painted on. Peter was focused deeply on his work of art, regularly glancing back and forth between you and the canvas, and he could slowly see his speed painting coming together.
A while later, Peter dropped his paintbrush to the ground, hearing it clatter and roll to the back as it hit the wall, and he jumped in sheer excitement. “It’s done!” He laughed loudly, his hair bobbing along to his sudden movements. You anxiously waited for him to regard you, and when he finally did, he snatched the canvas and turned it around for you to see.
Your mouth dropped open in shock as your eyes widened, a vast fascination captivating them. All your eyes could see was the large painting of yourself gazing right back at you. Peter portrayed you as a playful person, grinning far too brightly than you actually did, and dressed in flashy colours, contrasting the deep brown and black attire you were currently wearing. Your hair on the canvas was wild and everywhere, which contradicted your pin-straight immaculately in place hair falling down your back.
You suddenly realised that Peter, the Petrifying Painter, was no petrifying person at all. He was simply playful — perhaps a little too playful, but he embraced it with such admirable ferocity.
He drew you in ways you wished you could’ve been, granting you your wishes in the best form he could, and your eyes watered in gratitude.
You looked up at him with your most sincere smile as he handed you the painting, still wet — and you whispered, “thank you.”
Peter’s smile never wavered. He simply dipped his head in response, and gathered his tools, before skipping down the street without a care in the world, searching for another person who would give him the chance to provide them with what they secretly wished for.
First impressions can be quite deceiving, don’t you think?
