The Painter of Dreams

Unlike the usual mornings, today Frank came with a more cheerful aura. His smile was noticeable from a mile away, and his strut signaled a delighted daybreak. I felt jealous. He entered through the big wooden doors of my office without giving much thought on the matter of their weight, and walked excitedly towards me. It was the first time one of my employees entered my office with such trust and comfort.

“G’morning, boss!” He said in a rather loud and enthusiastic tone. It didn’t bother me—I was only slightly surprised.

“Frank.” I said, my throat slightly irritated from my morning cigarette. “You seem very…” I snapped my fingers, looking for the word. “Cheery today.” I smiled, hiding my exhaustion from lack of sleep.

“I know!” he answered. “That’s why I came to see you before going to my office.” He released his workbag on one of the leather seats in front of my desk and sat down, his eyes poignantly looking at mine. The silence crept the Gipson-board walls of my office, he was clearly thinking of how to tell me whatever he came to say.

“Everything alright?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Oh…” said Frank. “Everything is more than alright, Victor.” He referred to me on a first name basis, but I did not catch it as a lack of respect. “For the first time in ages…” he added. “I slept like a baby. I found the solution, Victor, and I think it can help you too.”

“Is that so?” I answered, finding a sudden need to caress my eyelids. I had not been able to sleep well for months, the recurring nightmares and vivid, claustrophobic dreams left me sleep-deprived. Frank was the only one of my employees that knew my situation, since he had a less-recurrent, yet almost similar problem. He noticed my hesitant response, and quickly made gestures, point towards himself.

“Look at me Victor, I look brand new. I know what you’re going through and I think this may help. Hell, it helped me.” He smiled, waiting for me to catch the bait.

“Alright.” I said. “I’ll bite, what did you do?” Frank smile broadened.

“I saw the Dream-painter.” My expression fell, my doubt raised, Frank quickly added. “I know, I know. It sounds stupid, but it helps, trust me. Her name’s Veronica, she paints your dreams, the recurring ones, and it helps you get it out of your system.” My face must have shown massive discomfort. “It’s very strange, I know. I don’t believe in that sort of stuff, but there’s something magical about it, it’s like a cleansing process, a way of taking your dreams away from you and locking them up in a painting.” I caressed my chin while leaning back on my chair.

“Where did you hear from her?” I asked, my curiosity slightly captured, but still not convinced.

“My sister.” Frank said. “They studied together in college, Liberal arts degree.”

“I see.” I said. There was a slight silence before I sighed loudly. “I’ll try anything at this point, man. How much does it cost?” Frank smiled broadly.

“Absolutely nothing.” His cheeks turned white from the heavy smiling. “She doesn’t charge anything for the process, she only charges you if you wish to buy the painting afterwards.”

“Did you buy yours?”

“Hell yeah I did, it’s a beautiful piece. I hung it in my living room.”

“That seems, strange.”

“Well…” He raised his shoulders. “It’s part of the process.” I didn’t answer that sentiment, I only shrugged.

“Send me her number, I’ll see if I can go on the weekend.” Frank clapped excitedly, and gave me a black business card with nothing more than a phone number with the name: Veronica Alvarado, Painter of Dreams.

I began to gain an obsession with the study of claustrophobia when my dreams began. There seemed to be a certain impossibility surrounding nightmares inflicting claustrophobic sensations into the dreamer. It was not until my third week of this recurrence that I began to suffer the phobia in the real world. I have attempted to dodge and evade any sort tight space or small environment ever since—a feeble attempt at forgetting the night terrors.

Terrors that returned when I entered Veronica’s art studio.

The studio consisted of a small, dark space with nothing more than a stool, a canvas, and a small, leather sofa for the client. The door was open, and the silence of the room was overwhelming. The aroma of paint, fabric, and wood filled my nostrils. In the middle of the room, between the canvas and the sofa, stood a very white woman with fire-red hair, and a short flower-print dress. This was, to my guess, Veronica.

Her arms were filled with small, black tattoos that formed a patched sleeve from the elbow to the wrist. She read a book, Jane Austen’s Emma. My presence must have been felt rather quickly, for Veronica, without a word, looked at me, smiled, and pointed to the sofa—an invitation to sit. When I sat, I noticed that Veronica was mute. Not a word was released from her lips, but her eyes said a thousand. She sat on her stool and prepared her instruments, her gaze met mine, and without even a whisper she said: speak.

I felt timid at first—opening up about my dreams seemed ridiculous. Veronica’s amber eyes stared at me from time to time, letting me know she was listening, she would smile once or twice—a beautiful smile. I spoke until I no longer felt I was talking, my dreams and incidences flowed from my mouth, to her ears, to her hands, to the canvas. The room’s smell seemed to change, the aroma of the paint shifted through my nose and my eyes watered at the profoundness of the tale. My nightmares had taken enough from me, the memory of the claustrophobia and the consequence of my subconscious fear had taken over my life, and now I was being exorcised of the danger.

I felt it, I felt the brush gently stroke the canvas, the rough edges being filled with dark and grim colors. In a way I felt my dreams materialize, and the room slowly amplify, the fear leaving my body and my mind slowly being reborn.

I cried.

The click of the brush falling against the canvas’ stand woke me from my slight trance, and Veronica’s smile suddenly meant the world to me. I smiled back, feeling ten pounds lighter, more brave, ready to rest. I quickly moved beside her, and admired the painting. My heart skipped a beat, and my face could not contain the smile. Just as I have felt the experience, she had captured it on paper. The painting bared an Indigo blue base, with shadows of unknown nature taking the space, and in fluid motion creating the vortex of nightmarish, dark green landscapes, which suffocated me in my dreams and creating the claustrophobic proceedings.

I moved my gaze towards the center of the painting, tracing the terrifying landscape and the shadows of the strange creators of trepidation—there I was. I was surprised to find that Veronica had drawn me as a child, a helpless child looking for his mother, his father, his comfort. I was holding on to what seemed like a dead Pear tree—hopeless within the darkness. I looked that Veronica, slightly stunned at her choice, she was already looking at me, a slight smile puckered her lips, and her hand slowly grabbed mine. The message was clear, I understood why she drew me that way, I was more content than I ever thought possible.

We stood for what seemed like hours, looking at my nightmares, holding hands, breathing the same air. She didn’t charge me for the painting, she wrote in a piece of paper her personal love for my dreams and the way she felt identified with the claustrophobic horrors, and my growth from within. She told me through writing that she would find some other way for me to repay her, and smiled broadly. I arrived home to hang the painting in my main corridor, next to the guest bathroom and right before entering the main hall; that way I would see it every morning before leaving, and every night when I arrived.

I slept like a king, my eyes fell as heavy as rocks and I dreamt nothing but good things. The first night of my dreams, I realized I was still a child in my consciousness, but this time there were no evil landscapes, no claustrophobia, no need for maternity or company; only peace. I walked the vast nature, this time presenting itself in wild and vivid colors, my hands touching the glades, and looking up at the sun—the Pear tree was flourishing and filled with its beautiful fruit. From afar, a figure stood, waiting for me at the end, as I reached the top of the massive dream hill, Veronica stood there. A younger version of the painter waited for me, and we held hands at the peak of paradise.