Coffee

The best buyers were those who wore coats. That is what he had learnt through his years of bartering the alleys of this insipid place he had come to call home.

It wasn't a normal home; not how it used to be. But one of disfunction; of chaos and looting and violence, all at the hands of those on the very precipice of insanity. The end will do that to you.

Still, amidst the rubble and fractured edges of a town once bustling with life and sheer naivety of what was to come, he found a solace in something completely unchanging. Its very own legacy through the end of humanity itself - painting. Of course he no longer had the privilege of acrylics or oils to satisfy his talents, but instead now had to settle for coffee or charcoal, and if he was really lucky, ink.

His portraits were still ever captivating. Except they were no longer of pretty faces, with flushed cheeks and wry smiles, but of those lost and tormented, living on the streets, struggling to breathe as the toxins that still pervaded the air fixated upon them, bringing them ever closer to death.

It was a grim world, but it was the world nonetheless. One that he had resigned himself to long ago. And if by some small grace of fortune, someone might walk past his meagre stall, with his portraits hanging limply by cloth and string, be drawn to their mesmeric gaze and ask to purchase one, they were almost always wearing a coat.

"How much?" the stranger asked, his voice muffled by the gas mask.

"Fifty" He responded curtly.

"That's a bit much don't you think? For something painted with mud?"

He didn't reply. Oftentimes the fortunate, the rich, who could afford the essentials to survive such a horrific existence, who in some way were accountable for the current state of the world, questioned the worth of his paintings. They never questioned the content - the portrait of the child crying, with blood on its cheek. The man with his head in his hands, next to the body of his dead wife. Oh no - they never questioned the unmitigated pain wreaked on this world that he had now come to document. Just how much it would cost to display in their perfect and polished dining room.

"Alright then" the man expressed, digging into his pocket and pulling out the money.

He pointed to a painting of two children, now orphans, hugging. A brief moment witnessed, but a jarring and damning memory for those two little souls. The transaction was complete, and the stranger was on his way.

His aim was to always paint the beauty in the faces of the survivors surrounding him. Every portrait a story or glimpse into the shared reality that they had all become accustomed to. To think a short time ago he was revered at gallery openings, and drinking to disrepair. And then the gas spread from the city, and only those who had the money to either escape, or purchase safety equipment were spared. And then the bombing started; a feeble attempt from the government to contain those already infected by the gas from escaping further. It worked to a degree. But those that did survive chose to stay, out of fear of being executed.

So here he was - trapped and waiting to die.

He packed up his stall for the day, and began the walk to his hollowed out home, catching glimpses of those dead and dying as he passed.

Climbing over a beaten down wall, his leg caught on something, and he tripped; his paintings flailing to the ground. Brushing himself off, he turned to see what he had tripped on. A little girl, hunched in the corner.

"Are you alright?" He asked, thankful he hadn't cursed when he fell, and gathering up his paintings.

"Shhh!" She hushed him.

She wore no mask. Her life would barely meet its teenage years.

"I'm sorry" He apologised.

She hushed him again.

"I'm playing hide and seek and my mother is looking for me. You'll get me caught!" She scolded.

He smiled.

"It's getting late - I think your mother will be quite worried if you stay out here past dark."

"She doesn't know I'm outside. That's why it's such a good hiding spot."

His brow furrowed in concern. Her clothing was immaculate; not dirty or torn from the elements. Her hair neatly tied up, and not a single speck of dirt on her face.

"I think you should be getting home little one." He suggested.

A muffled yell was heard nearby.

"Lily! Lily!" It cried. The gas mask could not contain the anxiety in the voice.

He looked down at the little girl - she was one of the fortunate ones. Embedded with wealth and connections to keep her safe and away from the ferociousness of a world lost to corporate and immoral control. And here she was, outside, in the grips of the toxins.

"I don't want to go inside" she whispered to him "All they do is talk, talk, talk about how bad it is here, but they never help. I like it outside. The people out here; the people are nice. And they need help."

"Lily!" echoed once more.

"One day I'm going to run away from her and them, and live out here, with everybody. And I'm really going to help them."

He stared quizzically at the girl, before offering his hand to help her up.

"I'm not stupid you know." She began again, sensing his lack of conviction "I know everyone is sick. And when I grow up, I'm going to cure them, you'll see. And I'm going to stop the people who've done this."

"I have no doubt." He answered, as the two began walking towards the voice.

"I hate my home. It's all pretty and perfect. It's not real. They all stand around in silly suits, laughing and drinking and ignoring it all. And when I ask them questions they buy me pretty things so I stop asking. But I don't want pretty things. I want to help the people outside who I hear crying at night. And I am going to help. They pretend it's all fine. But I know it's not fine. They just want to play pretend like everybody else."

"You seem to be very observant for someone your age."

"It's evil," she huffed, "and I don't want to forget."

The sun had almost set, and with it bringing the cool night air seemingly tasked with making breathing more difficult for those already infected with the gas. He began wheezing. Soon all anybody would hear would be the aggressive coughs of those already dying.

The calls of her name grew louder. They were evidently close to her home. Sensing a possible confrontation, given a grown man wandering the streets with her daughter, he stopped and passed her one of his paintings. Deeply resembling her, of a child, standing alone on the street, staring at her bombed out home.

"Here little one" he said "Now don't forget."

The little girl smiled, before removing a small necklace from around her neck, a heart shaped locket, with the name 'Lily' inscribed on it.

"You either." She said, before rounding the corner, followed by the squeals of relief from her mother at having her back home and safe.

He began to make his way home once more. Locket pressed firmly in his hand; a newfound warmth from such a spry spirit.

One invested in fixing the world, of acknowledgement to those who corrupted it, living it from the inside in a way that he and other survivors could not.

Perhaps she would grow up to help people like him, who had been discarded and abandoned by the very government assigned to protect them. Perhaps she would admonish the wealth and luxury and unethical compass of her family. Perhaps she would wake up tomorrow forgetting this entire exchange had even occurred.

Regardless, it was a pleasant feeling as he sat down later, with a jar of coffee and a glass of dirty water, and began painting a new portrait; a new life, of a stranger amongst this ruptured and forgotten town, where bodies lay dead and food gone rotten, and the air corroded with virulence. But in this instance, just this once - it would be a portrait with a smiling face.