DISCLAIMER: This story may include descriptive and intense gore, read at your own risk~!
Author Note:
Well, here we are! The sequel to 'Forgotten Portrait'! I really hope you all like it~! Feedback is ABSOLUTELY welcome. Please review and tell me your opinions! It was actually after a long conversation with someone who had posted a review on Forgotten Portrait that I decided to continue this!
YOUR OPINIONS ARE VALUED!
I take them all into consideration! Just try to not be... too mean *.^
Prologue:
It felt like waking up from a one hundred year dream. Her body ached with the old cuts and bruises, but she couldn't see any of them. W-where...? She asked herself, staring up at the ceiling, too tired to think straight. I'm alive? It wouldn't hurt this bad if I wasn't. She sighed, shifting in her battered greenish dress, her blood-stained blond hair curling in fat ringlets down to her stomach. The darkness was stifling, almost as though it clung to her in some strange way. Cold. In that moment she realized how cold she was. She also realized that she was in some kind of dark house, which smelled of rotting wood and creaked with the wind. Nothing like a museum. Nothing like an art gallery. Suddenly, she was worried. She had hoped for some kind of light to appear, but no such illumination occured, and so she decided to wander (the brisk air had woken her up by now). The house seemed to be multiple stories tall, but she couldn't see anything when she looked out the windows.
The room she was in was covered with red. A small bed lay in the middle, the rest of the room was simply furnished, with a mirror, a cabinet, and a few stuffed animals.
She spotted a diary on the desk.
"My sickness was going to kill me. So... I took her body from her. I lived on in her body. That's fine, right? Because we're 'friends.' She gave me her body... because we're 'friends.' So... today we should play some more. Right, Viola?"
The last word was crossed out with a reddish looking substance. She vaguely wondered if it was paint.
Viola?
She had never heard the name before. She was fairly sure her name was 'Mary' it was what everyone else had called her; so why did this book challenge that? She looked down at her shoes, past her tattered skirt, and frowned slightly.
The wood was real. Not painted, but real.
And suddenly, Mary was rather scared.
Because she wasn't in a Guertana painting anymore. She was somewhere else entirely.
Sorry about the shortness of this one, but it IS a prologue. Also, hope all of my viewers like The Witch's House, because that's where I'm taking this plot! I might not be able to update very frequently, sorry for any inconvenience...
Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)
~Scar