Disclaimer: Bridge to Terabithia is not mine.
There is a fine line between genius and insanity.
– Oscar Levant
The first time you go to an art exhibition, it's because your parents can't find a sitter at such short notice and drag you along with them. You go reluctantly, convinced that you will be bored to tears by the end of an hour.
You step into the hall, holding on tightly to your mother's dress, the only eleven year old in a sea of adults. You look up, your eyes meeting the first picture.
You fall in love.
Your fingers unclench themselves, and your hand falls by your side. Your parents move away, but you don't notice them – your eyes remain trained on the picture and your mind remains in the magical world portrayed by the image.
For it is a magical world. Look at that gnome peeping out from under the bushes, look at the tiny silhouette of the castle hidden among the shadows of the mountains. Look at the bridge connecting the land to your world, vines of gold curving around it. And look at its Queen, a blond girl not much older than yourself, the glint of silver in her hair the only thing which gives away the presence of the crown on her head.
You somehow manage to drag yourself away from the picture, only to stop in front of the next. Again, it is an image of the same world, this time a picture of the mountains that were in the background of the first. You see oddly menacing birds flying around one of the peaks, a troll hidden in the darkness of the shadows... and the girl. Again. The Queen leans into a tree, her petite frame almost disappearing into the knobbly wood.
It is the same with all the rest. You see her in every painting drawn by the artist Jesse Aarons.
On the way home, you chatter on non-stop about the fantastic world in the images you have just seen. Your parents nod and smile indulgently, but you can tell that they don't quite believe you; this hardens into fact when you overhear them talking about your 'wild imagination' – all they have seen are some landscapes of high calibre.
But you know that they are there, those giants, trolls, pixies, the strange birds; they are there... and so is the Queen.
The first thing you do when you get home is Google 'Jesse Aarons'. You find, to your surprise, that he is only fifteen, a mere four years older than you are. You marvel at his genius, and resolve to go back to the exhibition again tomorrow.
You continue to return until the event is over, and even later, you faithfully follow his every move on the news and make sure that you attend his every exhibition. And you can't help but notice that in every single creation of Jesse Aarons – even in a portrait of the Duchess of Gloucester – that same twelve year old girl, the 'Queen' of his world, is always present, cleverly hidden in the background.
His obsession with her slowly makes its way into your own mind until it feels like your own. Who is she? Or more importantly, what does she mean to him?
Over the next six years, you notice his paintings becoming darker in tone and timbre. The sun that shone so brightly in his earlier works is overshadowed by dark rainclouds, the landscapes are starker, the hidden fairies and gnomes are replaced by darker beings. The Queen – you cannot always get close enough to see, but you can practically feel the despair and loneliness in her posture. And the shadow – there is always a dark, irregular shape shadowing the Queen and though you know it is irrational to feel this way – you can't help but feel the urge to cry out "Watch out!" to her.
And finally, one painting which is so dark, which practically screams pain and a deep underlying madness, a painting that makes you feel sick to the stomach just imagining what the painter must have been thinking, such a painting appears.
And somehow you know, deep inside you, that this signifies some sort of end. And you are right. A month later, the starved and emaciated body of the 23-year-old genius is found collapsed at the foot of a wall length canvas. The room in which he is found is filled with dozens more of paintings, photos of which are splashed across every newspaper and magazine you see. Experts say that he must have gone without sustenance for weeks, completing the paintings with a madman's frenzy.
It's her. They are all her. Though it is mostly a grown-up, adult version of the Queen, you would recognize her anywhere. The final painting features her standing sideways, her head turning forward, dressed in full imperial regalia. And for the first time in years, there is an impish smile on her face and the background is light and hopeful; and even though you mourn the dead artist, you cannot help but feel your heart lightening. Because you know that wherever he is, he is with her.
You take one more look at the picture of the painting, intending to put it away after that. But there is one tiny detail that catches your eye.
Isn't that the tip of a sneaker poking out from under the Queen's gown?
Your infamous imagination must finally be playing you up. You shrug, and put away the cutting carefully in box already overflowing with bits and pieces of paper.
Then you shut the lid of the box and push it under your bed. That's another chapter of your life closed.
My first BtT fanfic! Not too sure about how this one turned out... I'd love your feedback. So if you read this, review, please?