Okay, so my first one-shot.
Review if you want, and above all, enjoy.
It was Saturday, a normal day, and I was out doing the one thing that made me feel…anything. The art gallery was the same one I visited every few months, but they were having an exclusive themed gallery for this month;
The artist Guertena.
I vaguely remembered visiting a gallery showcasing his pieces when I was younger. I didn't remember much, as I was fairly young and we left relatively early.
Even in this familiar world, my business habits stuck with me. My hair was pulled back in a tight bun; I wore a button-up white blouse, a red knee-length skirt and red heels.
But the usually familiar and comfortable world was somehow eerie this time. The paintings were fascinating and riveting, but… increasingly frightening. Two almost identical paintings of a woman and red and one in blue particularly unnerved me, and I made a specific route around the gallery in an attempt to avoid them.
As I walked fairly quickly through the gallery, I almost missed a very intriguing piece.
It was a sculpture of a red rose. The stem had sharp looking thorns, and I felt that they didn't suit it; that the rose should be vulnerable and fragile. Even though the sculpture was solid, and not likely to break within the next few hundred years, to me the petals seemed as though they might fall off from the slightest touch.
After standing there for a few moments, intently staring at the rose sculpture, I shook my head and continued walking down the hall.
I quickly took in each of the paintings on the wall, my speed quickening as each one I looked at brought a kind of fear.
Then, at the end of the hall, hanging amongst the other paintings was another. It was seemingly ordinary, and overlooked by most of the other patrons.
As I neared it, my sense of dread and fear vanished. The figure was familiar and comforting, like an old blanket you had when you were a baby.
But it was also very depressing. And it wasn't nostalgia or anything of the sort. All of the sudden, I was stricken with a powerful sense of sadness, my heart aching in my chest as I looked up at this painting.
"Forgotten Portrait"
The man in the picture was what made it seem so familiar. His ragged, almost purple hair with its streaks, the fur that lined the color of his jacket, everything down to the bright blue rose he held in his hand. I felt like I was in front of family, instead of paint on a canvas.
And yet, amidst my melancholy, I was comforted. His face was calm, and I could almost hear a voice saying "Be cheery! Anything else is a disservice to your cute face!"
I was taken aback. Had my mind come up with that on its own? But how could I possibly smile when this painting made me feel so irrevocably sad?
Looking away, I start walking back towards the entrance, my mind scrambled as I dealt with all of these sudden emotions. Was it a sense of nostalgia? Was it because of previous memories bubbling up to the surface from the first time I had visited a Guertena showcase? Why else would I be so grief-stricken and frightened by a gallery of artworks?
Before I went to the door, something clicked in me. I headed to the reception desk and asked for Ben, the owner of the museum.
"Ib, why, it's been a while since you asked to see me!" He said, his arms opening up to hug me. I accept the hug, but don't really return it. "Does this mean you're thinking of buying another piece?"
Art had become my obsession the past few years, ever since I had the money to actually afford some of the pieces.
"Yes, but you're not going to be too keen, I think." I say. "I want one of the Guertena pieces."
"Ah…" he says, pondering it.
"I realize the set just came in a few days ago and it's an increasingly rare set, but this piece, I don't know how to describe it." I tell him, not making my case very well.
"Well, which piece is it?" he asks, putting a hand to his chin.
"I don't know why it would make a difference, but it's the 'Forgotten Portrait.'" I tell him, as we start walking back into the gallery.
"Interesting story, that piece has got."
My interest piqued. "How so?"
"It's not registered as a Guertena and there's not any paper-work for it from when he would have made it." Ben tells me, as we continue walking through the eerie gallery.
"But it has papers?" I asked, my face scrunching up in confusion.
"Yes," He continues "But only from a decade or so ago, when they did a showcase at another art gallery. They hadn't bought the piece, and no one had ever seen it before, but there it was amongst all the other Guertena pieces, with his exact signature and seal on the back. Believe me, they checked thoroughly."
"Hmm." I look down at the floor. The exact piece that I had a fascination with was the one with a back-story? Was it coincidence?
We had reached the end of the C Hall, where the picture hung on the wall.
All the emotions flooded through me again, and I attempted to hide them, but my eyes welled over as I looked back up at the familiar man in the painting.
"Ib?" Ben asked. "Are you okay? Is this what you were trying to say earlier?"
I nod, fearing that if I said anything my voice would crack and I wouldn't be able to hold it back anymore.
"Tell you what; since it's you, I'll let you have it. Of course, you'll have to pay me the amount it cost and all that, but that's the most I can do." He says, calling over one of the security guards.
I manage to mutter out a 'thanks' as the man pulls the piece off the wall, and we walk away.
After taking care of all the paper work and writing Ben the check, I took the piece home to my flat. I was glad they had covered it, since I wouldn't have been able to drive well with the painting in my backseat.
I hung it in my living room, with the other four pieces of art I had. Somehow it didn't seem right hanging there, but I had nowhere else I could put it.
When night came, my dreams were filled with visions of the painting. The man in it was moving, his voice calling out to me, saying my name, reassuring me about something.
And while it should have been frightening, all I felt was that same sadness, coupled with the comfort and a frustration. A frustration because this painting was so fascinating and familiar and all I wanted to do was find some way for the man in it to come to life and hold my hand.
I woke up from the dreams with a jolt. The painting and the emotions still filled my head, and I got out of bed and headed for the living room. Before I had turned the light on, it seemed as though the rose petals on the man's rose were slowly falling off, one by one. But it must have been the darkness and my sleep-deprivation, because when I turned the light on, the painting was still and the rose had all of its petals still intact.
Not knowing what I was planning to accomplish by it, I walked over to the painting and touched the man's face, before slowly crumbling to the floor. I looked back up at it as I sat on the carpet, my eyes welling up again.
"Who are you?"
I ask, to no response.
Was I expecting one?
Was he suddenly going to climb out of the painting, pat my on the back, and tuck me into my bed?
Who was he?
Why couldn't I remember?