He turned around and faced the wall. The spray can in his hand seemed to have a life of its own, transforming the time worn concrete into a work of art. Spray after spray, layer upon layer, colors bloomed and abstract shapes started to take form.
He never knew what would appear, he just knew when. His brain would get foggy, it would be hard to focus and he felt like someone was watching him. He could take it for a while but he always gave in, getting the spray can, searching out a blank canvas, shaking it and letting the paint fly.
This time seemed different, the urge was the strongest ever but the timing was off. He never painted at sunset, always sunrise, letting the warmth wash over him as he worked. But today he started at sunset. That was the first mistake.
As the street darkened, he could barely see what he was painting. Not that it mattered that much, the can always knew what to do. But something felt wrong. No, not wrong…evil. Dark, too dark, not just the wall or the street, but inside him. He felt as though he was filled, not with air, but despair.
But he continued painting, not slowing or taking a break. Hours passed without people or cars. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning he fell asleep with the empty can in his hand. His work was done. For the first time he couldn’t see the outcome but he knew he’d wake at sunrise and feel the joy.
The sounds of morning woke him. He struggled to wake out of the deep sleep that had overtaken him. He kept his eyes closed while the sun warmed him, seeped deep into his bones. Finally he opened his eyes, anxiously waiting to see his newest work.
A black wall…that was all he saw. He didn’t understand. Where were the colors? What had happened last night? He turned away from the wall. More black, everywhere he looked was black. All the color was painted out of him. He was blind.