The Painter

A bright white canvas sat ready to be used, the painter slowly pulled up a stool to the object while taking a drag of a cigarette. Once the stool was in place she took the cigarette from her mouth, and placed it in a rather used ash try. Ash was forced to the floor, but the woman didn't seem all that bothered by it, after all she had painting to paint.

The walls surrounding her were covered in various paintings of her design, some were quite detailed, while others were very plain, and ordinary looking. Each, painting however had it's own eerie feel to it. They not only seemed alive, but each of the subjects inside were suffering. An observer would be perplexed by this thought, seeing as a small handful of paintings seemed jolly and bright. She collected the paints she was going to use; blues and browns were her colors of choice, she wanted to paint a beach scene, darkened with a grey sky. 

Once she was satisfied with the image she had in her head, she grabbed a brush, and dipped it into the paints. Every painting never took the same amount of time to complete, some took a few hours,  and some took years, but each one was created with the utter most care and attention, the painter kept in mind of the customer's tastes. The woman smirked as the beach scene was coming to life on the canvas.

The ocean was a dark blue, waves crested with a grayish white. The sky was a depressive, dead grey, it was about to rain, but the clouds refused to give up it's water. A faded red boat was the only speck of color on the canvas, draped on the boat was a simple black trench coat. She added a couple more small details before she placed her brush down. The painter smiled at her work, and stood up from the canvas, she walked over to a sink located at the far end of the room, which had a small bar of soap and a rag that used to be white.

As she cleaned her hands a knocked came at the door. "It's opened." she called not even looking up from the sink. Stepping into the room was a young man, he looked quite sad, and lost. "I was told to come here." He muttered. He had a voice as quiet as ever. The painter looked over at him, and smiled. "Yes, welcome. Right on time, too." She commented as she dried her hands. The man shoved his hands into his pockets, and shrugged without saying a word. "Do you have any questions?" She asked walking over to the painting. The man looked at her hesitantly, but before he could open his mouth, she spoke. "I am indeed Lucifer." His response was a whimper, and he shrunk back a bit. "You aren't going to burn for all eternity, or carry rocks that get heavier and heavier. No." She chuckled, and shook her head. "That was gonna be Dante's hell. This is yours." She motioned to the beach scene, and the man shuttered. "Let's get going, I have other people to attend to." Lucifer stated growing slightly impatient. The man sighed, and slowly walked over to the painting. He gave Lucifer one last look before reaching out his hands, and touched the object.

Once the man was inside the painting, she picked up the canvas, and placed it on a blank space on the wall. She took one last look at it as she lit a cigarette, the man was now inside, and he was depicted sitting in the boat with a gun in his hands. He shot himself that day, but he didn't die instantly, instead he ended up bleeding to death, regretting his decision as he did so.