Alfonso used the end of the paint brush to scratch his head as he stared at the still wet canvas that contained his latest work in progress. 

It's not good enough, the words echoed in his ear.

Something was off. Was it in the sky? Maybe the trees. He couldn't tell, he just knew it wasn't right. It wouldn't be right. It would never sell.

"Not good enough," he murmured.

He slammed the paint pallet down on the table, old cups of microwave ramen shaking and falling over, rolling around before they clattered to the ground.

Maybe a night skyline of the city. That could be the answer. Alfonso picked up the canvas and tossed it to the side. It landed on a pile of discarded, complete and half-finished works. None of them had been good enough. 

You're just not good enough. You'll never make a name for yourself, it was that voice again. The one that had been in his ear for weeks. At every turn it was there to let Alfonso know that what he did was never enough. 

He ran his hands through his ragged hair, his fingers wrapping around the strands and pulling. He couldn't get the voice out of his head. it had plagued him for weeks. No matter what he did, it was right there in his ear. 

Pacing the room, trash creaked, squeaked, and squished under his feet. 

No time had been spent on cleaning. The trash can in the corner had overflown, so he had started collecting it on the tables, and it had gone to the floor. He didn't care. The only thing he cared about was his artwork. The artwork that never seemed good enough. 

The next big thing. That was what he needed. He'd tried every tactic out there. 

His phone rang and he thought about ignoring it. On the third ring, he pressed the talk button.

"Hello."

"Hey, Fons. Trish and I are going out to a movie tonight. You should join us." 

"I can't AJ. I'm working on a project."

"You've been working on your project for the past month straight. When was the last time you got out of there? When was the last time you slept?"

Alfonso tried calculating the hours, days, weeks. He wasn't sure of the answer to either question. Not that AJ was expecting a response anyway. 

"Maybe some other time, man."

"Whatever dude. If you don't leave there soon, we're going to come in there and pull you out."

"Yeah, yeah. I need to get back to work."

"Whatever dude. Talk to you later."

"Later."

Alfonso opened the box that contained his paint tubes. Empty tubes littered the ground. He picked out the colors, squeezing them onto a fresh pallet. Black, yellow, white, they oozed out into the dips in the pallet. 

He grabbed a clean set of brushes and a fresh canvas and set to work coating the surface with black paint.

Yes. That's it. Good.

Alfonso smiled as finished. Mixing the white with the black, he created a dark grey that would be the outline of the buildings. 

Starting from the center and working his way out, Alfonso constructed the New York skyline.

Lights. That was the next task. He used the yellow to create the lights in the city that never sleeps. 

Good, good. Don't ruin it this time.

Maybe some stars? No, stars were not a common thing in the city.

But it would be from outside the city looking in, so maybe...

No.

No stars.

More yellow there, and some white in that corner. Fixing the shape of that building there. 

And it was done.

Alfonso wiped his brow with the back of his hand and took a step back. 

Trash, the voice said again. 

"Shut up," he snapped. 

But it was right. The painting was no good, just like the rest of them. It wasn't right. 

He paced the room again. Looking at all the completed failures lying on the ground. Central Park, the skyline, people walking the city. Black and white, filled with color, minimalistic, busy, none of it was right. None of it was good enough. 

You're just going to have to live with the fact that you're a failure. 

"I'm a failure."

You can't even make your breakout piece.

"My breakout piece."

Nothing in here is good enough.

It was right. Nothing was good enough. Nothing captured that much needed element. The one that didn't have a name, but you knew it when you saw it. The oomph. 

Alfonso picked up the last blank canvas, tossing his previous painting to the side. 

You better not mess up now. It's your last chance. You know you don't have the money to buy anymore canvases.

He hadn't had the money to buy the ones that littered the ground, but that hadn't stopped him any.

Alfonso squeezed more paints onto the pallet. He gave everything over to instinct, colors, brush selection, everything. He stood in front of the black white canvas and let his hand work on its own. 

He started sketching with a pencil. The outline of a woman. A dancer. His hand filled in the rest, adding the color after the sketch was complete.

That's it. Yes.

"Yes," he whispered. 

The curves of the knee and elbow, the bend of the back, the hand delicately draped over the forehead. Each stroke of the brown hair gentle, pulled into a tight bun. 

That's it. Almost. Add your personal touch. You must make it personal. Give yourself to the work, that's how you create a masterpiece.

"Give myself." Alfonso stared at the nearly complete work. All that was left was the dress she wore.

Red. It was going to be a red dress.

He began swirling his brush in the paint. 

Not the right color. Too bright.

Yes, it was too bright of a red. Maybe mixing in a dash of black to darken it up. 

He mixed the colors.

It's still not right. 

"Not right."

Give yourself. The words echoed over and over. He couldn't shake them. 

"Give myself."

Alfonso looked at the paint pallet in his hands, then up at his bare arms. 

Yes, that was what he needed to do. 

He found a knife and went back to the canvas. Alfonso pressed the blade to his arm until it bit the skin, slicing through, allowing blood to well to the surface. 

Tilting his arm, the blood ran into an empty space on the pallet, filling the oval indent. 

That's the color.

Alfonso smiled at the satisfaction he heard in the voice. Yes, he was finally going to create the piece.

Grabbing a new brush, he dipped the bristles into the pool of red and carefully stroked the brush across the canvas. He filled in the dress, painted the tutu, and watched as the red dripped down as if the dancer's fabric were crying.

Alfonso fell to the chair beside him, looking up at the completed work. 

You've finally done it, the voice said to him. 

"I've done it."

Alfonso Riviera had finally completed his masterpiece.