Forget-me-not

Jon was sure he was losing his mind.

He stared at his canvas, sitting just where he’d left it on the easel.  A nearly completed painting, an almost perfect piece.  A commission, fetching a rather impressive sum.

And across his lovely painting, in a messy, uncoordinated scrawl, was one word:

“Sophie.”

The large, indigo letters were more invasive than previous affronts – these covered the entire painting.

This had been going on for weeks now – he’d complete a piece, and when he woke the next morning, or returned form a quick lunch, he’d find that name across his painting, marring it, often beyond repair.

At first, he’d thought one of the bratty neighbor children had snuck into his apartment and done it as a prank.  He’d added two more locks to his door, but it had happened again with his next painting.  He’d nailed the windows shut, but still “Sophie” left her mark.

Now, he didn’t leave the apartment at all.  Not that he’d ever gone out much – Paris had long since lost its appeal.  He slept in a chair in front of his easel, stationed as a guard against this “Sophie.”

When he’d woken up that morning, another painting had been ruined.

Jon tapped his cane against the floor in irritation.  His head ached.  He rubbed the scar that ran across his right temple and shifted his weight, leaning on his cane.  Insanity wasn’t such a far-fetched notion – maybe he was simply going mad.

Unless someone was trying to make him crazy.

He smirked.  “Paranoia – another symptom of instability.”

Yeah, right up there with talking to yourself.

The amusement left his face as soon as his eyes fell on his painting again.  He glared at it for a few more seconds before draping the tarp over it and hobbling into the kitchen for his morning scotch.  The bottle by his easel was empty.

As he searched for a clean glass, he heard a knock on the door.

“Jean?  Jean, are you in?”

Jon groaned.  He selected the least dirty glass from the growing collection on his counter and poured himself a drink.  He downed it and poured another before making his way to the door.

“What do you want, Andre?” he grumbled as he undid the many locks that kept the world out.

“Jean, good morning,” Andre said pleasantly, his English tinged with a thick French accent.  His eyes flicked to the glass of scotch before focusing back on Jon’s face.

Jon gave no reply.

“Jean…”

“It’s Jon, Andre.  I don’t call you Andy, do I?” Jon interrupted.  He wasn’t entirely sure why, but it rubbed him the wrong way when Andre called him “Jean,” even though it was technically just his name in French.

“No.  Pardon.  It’s just that your rent is due…for this month…and last month…”

Jon shook his head.  “I told you, I’m not paying until you fix this issue with my damn apartment.”

Andre sighed.  “Jean, I cannot help you with…whatever it is you’re having trouble with, it’s –”

“It’s a security issue, is what it is.”

“The building is secure.  Jean, if you would just tell me what’s going on, I might…”

He trailed off and Jon glared down at his glass, then up at his landlord.