The Hungry Artist

He’s 6’2” but not in the non-thought of slumber. He does not remember this next dream:

Something grips his shoulders and pins him to the wall. This something is invisible. It is an invisible demon – the most terrifying kind. He feels the weight of a body push up against him, but when he pushes back, there’s nothing there; the nothing there swings his arms up in the air so that his chest feels naked and exposed, and then squeezes his crotch so that he yelps. His father who is standing there in the same room doesn’t hear him. He feels his lips frozen in the shape of a smile and his gums sting, and the invisible demon moves his arms up and down like the top half of jumping jacks. His father lets out a loud belch and laugh as he feels a slap to his right cheek, then his left.

In the morning when he wakes up, he breathes in deeply and stretches his arms out. He heads for Sunday morning church, dressed in a pen-striped white shirt and black tie, black slacks and his newest pair of Velcro shoes.

After crossing himself in front of the statue of Christ, he excuses himself to the mens room. He chooses to urinate in the stall, and then takes out a permanent marker from his pocket. He draws a demon with horns on the door and then ex’s it out. He hums a little tune audibly. Someone’s happy, he hears a voice coming from the urinal say. Yes, he answers, as he draws another demon and crosses it out. I never hum in public, he adds, as he listens to the other tinkle. But today I feel so alive.

It starts off small.