How many years had it been since she had been to that museum? It had to have been years, though Ib couldn't be sure exactly how many. Had she come when she was eight, nine, ten, or eleven? Pinning a number was hard, and her parents couldn't remember either.
"Who was the artist that we saw?" Her mother had rubbed her chin that morning. "Oh, honey, I'm too tired to remember."
"I can't say that I remember much of anything." Her father had shrugged, then turned back to his breakfast.
Still, something had drawn her back to the museum. Maybe it was to finally come see the place again and refresh herself. Like her father, she had forgotten just about everything. Still, if someone asked her what had inspired her to become an artist, she would bring up this place.
The museum was clean, the lights just right. It was as if the actual place was a piece of art in and of itself, ever changing and constantly made perfect once more.
Ib's eyes wondered to the pamphlet in her hand. None of her classmates seemed interested in it. Most were chatting among each other of what they wanted to see.
"What do you want to see?"
Sakura, her classmate, asked.
Ib shrugged.
She chuckled. "I can't say that I know yet either. I'm thinking of checking out an entire room on Guertena. Want to come with me? I don't have a partner. Why do they still make us have one, anyway? We're not five year olds anymore."
Ib shrugged.
"Want to come? I've heard Guertena is awesome."
She began to sign, her hands forming an unfamiliar word.
"Guertena? He was this really cool horror artist. His stuff is really, really dark."
Ib nodded. What was the harm?
"Let's go."
It was in the basement, next to a room of classical sculptures. Their footsteps were the only sound in the room as they walked through; no one else seemed interested in coming inside.
There was something about the paintings and sculptures that seemed familiar to her. They depicted her nightmares perfectly.
Was Guertena the creator of the work that we saw? she thought. Was this really what made me want to be an artist?
Some of the paintings were too gruesome for Ib to look at; the way that Guertena had used red paint was incredible, and it looked exactly like real blood. That did nothing to comfort her stomach. There was also something about the dolls around the room; it was as if those red eyes were looking at her.
Recognizing her.
She shook her head. What was she thinking?
"What do you think?" Sakura asked, holding her notebook to her chest.
She quickly signed that he was a master; looking around, she knew that she was not lying.
"His art really has soul."
The two continued to look around, silence returning. There was something about the room that made it seem massive, though it was only one exhibit.
Blue eyes met Ib's own, and she stopped. She hadn't seen this painting yet.
Mary, she thought, looking to the small informational plaque.
Her eyes returned to the little girl's own. Her hair was bright yellow, her dress a dark green. She was just a little girl, what most would consider an amazing painting.
Time stilled, turned back, and they were the same height. Mary was easy to recognize, her friend with the yellow rose. They needed to stay together, and Ib would. Whatever this place was, they would face it together. Mary had promised her that, holding up her palette knife to her.
In her eyes was a wanting, though Ib couldn't place of what. Mary had grabbed her hand, promising to get them out. Ib only nodded in response.
"Ib?"
Ib turned around.
"Wow, you must really like that painting!" Sayaka laughed. "Do you want to stay and look longer or go and see a new exhibit?"
Without even the slightest bit of hesitation, Ib stepped forward.