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“Nude Death”
By Christine StoddardClaire trudges up the stairs, dragging a stretched canvas with her. Sheis naked, except for the small knapsack covering a patch of her back.At forty years of age, the color in eyes has started to fade frommountaintop azure to a softer, sea level mist. Wrinkles frame the sidesof her mouth. Her fingers are knobbier than they had been. But agealone cannot account for Claire’s melting beauty. Her sister blamesClaire’s chain-smoking but that isn’t it, either. It’s the disappointmentswelling in her chest.Claire is a classically trained artist but for the past year, she has notsold a single painting. When the first month without a check passed,Claire shrugged her shoulders and continued painting. She figured itwas a sign to focus on a new series of hers, one concentrating solelyon dogwood trees. She holed herself up in her apartment and drankinhuman amounts of coffee. After the first week, Claire had alreadybecome a recluse and an insomniac. Her only desire was to paint andoccasionally sneak in a mouthful of chocolate or a bite of a bagel.But as the months droned on and her savings ran dry, Claire soon hadno money for her rent or even food. After starving herself for threedays, she realized she needed to find a steady job to survive. So, goingagainst every will in her body, Claire applied to teach day classes atthe local community center and night classes at the nearestcommunity college. It was the beginning of Claire’s journey to thedepths of her depression.Every minute Claire spent in class meant another minute away fromher work. Every minute she spent critiquing a student’s piece meantone minute fewer for her to reflect upon her own paintings and how toimprove them. It meant less time submitting her paintings tocompetitions and galleries. Claire hated her students for robbing hertime and forcing her to stare at their inferior interpretations of countryside homes and flower gardens. Claire loathed the students’poor forms, their crooked contours, their off-colors, and their shoddilystretched canvases. Everything about their work sickened her. Andsince she spent so many hours teaching to pay her bills, she foundherself feeling sick more often than not. Teaching makes her stomachliterally churn.For the last few months, she has been suffering a serious malady. Inorder to end it, she has to die. She neither sees nor cares for any othersolution.
 
 This evening, Claire has just returned from teaching a lesson onwatercolors. The red wisps and smears of paint one of her studentsused to depict the sunset startled her. They were the same shades sheexpected an innocent bystander to see on the sidewalk only a fewhours from then. The same shades you expect to see when you firstnotice her fall.But you are a stranger and know nothing of Claire yet. You are still athome, preparing for your evening stroll. You can’t find your sneakersand suspect maybe your dog buried them in the yard again. The garage is nearly empty. At most, ten cars are parked in the lotdesigned for 100. It is so hot that Claire wonders if the cars felt likesweating. She puts the canvas down on the ground for a moment andwipes her brow. Anyone looking on who knew Claire planned to commitsuicide within the next few minutes may have assumed she isrethinking her choice. But she does not. Claire just doesn’t want herwet skin to make her any less aerodynamic as she glides through theair. You spot your sneakers peering out from under the kitchen fridge.Apparently your dog discovered a new hiding place for them. You pullout the shoes and slip them on, finally ready to get your exercise of theday.Claire stands against the garage wall and peers down at the street. Allthe people are gummy bears and the people, gumdrops. She whips outher brush and jars of acrylic and paints her last view of the earth.At least you
thought 
you were ready for your walk. Now your dog’sleash has disappeared and you have to look for that, lest a policemanwrite you a ticket for letting your dog run loose. You search the wholehouse.Claire’s strokes come out in dashes. She works speedily. The painting isimpressionistic. Soon all the people and cars emerge from the dashes.Claire wants to finish the painting fast. The leash is right where you left it, hanging on a hook in the coatcloset. Your eyes had jumped right over it. For some reason, you’redistracted, nervous. You sigh, call the dog, leash him up, and head outthe door. The humidity hits you immediately so you roll up the sleevesof your T-shirt. Your shoulders are bare. The painting’s done. Claire scans it and hastily signs it. Then shetosses it over the edge of the garage and watches it flutter down to thesidewalk, which it touches with almost no sound.
 
 You’re downtown with your dog, feet and paws beating the pavement.Up ahead, you catch sight of something rectangular resting on thesidewalk, right at the start of a hill. You ask yourself what the object is.As you come closer, you realize that it’s a painting and you wonderwhere it came from. Naturally, you look up.Claire dangles a leg over the garage wall. She starts humming a tuneshe made up herself but wavers. She pulls her other leg up anddangles it over the wall, too. Claire just sits there and hums likeHumpty-Dumpty. You first note that the woman is nude. That observation stuns you somuch that you almost forget to question why she’s teetering soprecariously from the top of the building. Then it dawns on you. Imagesof splashing blood haunt you, even though they’re only in your mind.“Lady, don’t jump!” you shout, as you frantically wave your armsaround. You hope that she can see and hear you. Your whole mouthgoes dry so you swallow and try shouting again.Claire spreads her arms into a graceful “T” and throws herself forwardbut she only falls about two feet before she begins to float in the air. You squint your eyes until they’re no more than slits. An army of fairiesas delicate as dandelion seeds has seized the woman, illuminating hernaked body with a soft, silver light. Her face grows indescribablyserene, as if she’s reverted to some kind of momentary childhood.Gently, the fairies escort the woman to the ground. They release herthe moment her feet touch the sidewalk but remain next to her,quivering their tiny wings.Claire asks, “Is someone there?” You nod but then see her eyes, milky and blue. She appears to beblind.“I’m here,” you say.“Who are you?”“I…I was walking my dog when I saw you jump. I wanted to help but---”“It’s alright. The fairies rescued me. We made an agreement.”“An agreement?”“I could live if I gave them my sight.” You gulp, not sure how to respond. “Is this your painting?” youeventually ask.
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