When they came to, they were back in the gallery.
And it was confusing. What were they doing before this? Who was this strangely familiar stranger standing by them? There was something that made them want to reach out for the other's hand, seeking warmth and comfort and safety but that made no sense because they didn't know each other, and really grasping a stranger's hand when one was more or less twice the other's age would be inappropriate.
And then the memory came back in a rush for him when he saw her handkerchief, while it came in shy, unwilling trickle for her. When she got back home and saw his lighter it hit her like bricks and she found herself pleased and relieved knowing they would sometime meet again. They both found a companion in each other. Neither was willing to talk about the gallery that nearly took their lives, not yet, and that was okay.
They understood.
He found himself cringing whenever he saw a blue doll now. Sometimes he would find himself back in the dark room, with lines of blue-skinned dolls with raggy black hair and piercing red eyes staring at him. He would come face to face with the huge painting of one of such dolls, and shudder at its painted features and the feeling of being stared and scrutinized by the huge red eyes. He would hear their hollowly childish laughter and not for the first time wondered if it had been all in his head. He would understand their taunts and demands and realized in horror that he needed to rip them apart to get what he needed.
He remembered the sound of fabric tearing. He remembered the feeling of their stuffing, so much like flesh, spilling. He remembered the one doll that spilled out hair instead, and how his stomach churned as bile rose up his throat with fear and disgust. He remembered ripping yet another and finally finding the key, and the urgent joy that pushed him to get out, get out, flee, before something even worse happened to him.
He remembered the feeling of gigantic hands reaching for him even as he dashed out of the room.
He would find himself retching as something clawed from within him, and he knew the fear would never go away.
She found herself unable to go to any place that had headless statues - even more so when said statues were mannequins. Which, of course, made it hard for her to shop for clothes, and her mother was understandably confused by this.
"They're motionless statues, Honey," she would coax. "They can't hurt you."
Black headless bodies, sculpted perfectly in shape, dressed in skimpy dresses and high heels rushed. Their hands reached out. They had no eyes, they shouldn't be able to see, so why were they rushing towards her?
She turned and ran, and ran, and ran. There was no way out. Their hands reached for her still, and the loud clacks of their heels sent a jolt of terror down her spine,and she just wanted to get out.
Her eyes found her mother's and she shook firmly, not willing to get close to the mannequins dressed primly in the boutique.
He remembered when things were so simple. Wake up in the morning. Get dressed. Get breakfast. Go to school. Take a brush; paint.
Now he found himself unwilling to get out of his house.
No, that would be incorrect. He was fine with getting out of his house. It was his school that was the problem. It smelled of oil and acrylic and clay. It was splattered with all shades and hues and everything in between. He would see artworks wherever he went, and he found himself feeling trapped again. He would find himself inching away, itching to flee, and what once felt like a safe haven now felt like a trapping cage.
As he sat in front of a canvas, he found himself unwilling to pick a brush. He had wondered if he, too, was able to breathe life into his creations, just like Guertena, because deep down he believed any artist would have that ability, though perhaps not as strong.
Considering what Guertena had in the living gallery, he didn't really want to create anything at all.
There was once a time when she loved drawing. She had some of her works hung in her room. Her parents put some they really loved on the fridge. She would often turn the dining table into her personal work desk, with papers and crayons and coloring pencils scattered on the polished wood as she recreated reality in the sheets.
Now she stared at them and found herself hating them. She would remember the sketchbook world and how everything smelt like crayons in there, and how the ground felt slightly soft and oily and how she had to walk carefully or she'd slip and fall. She could still recall the toy box and its particularly strong smell and the dolls and statues scattered there. She could still see the drawn train tracks, pink blotches, cat, fish...
She remembered walking into her room and flinching back harshly upon the smell and wondering if she was still in the doodly sketchbook world. That night, she ripped every drawing she put up on her walls and crumpled them, as well as the drawings on the fridge. She threw her box of crayons into the trash, though she kept her pencils.
The next morning, their parents would find her asleep by the fireplace, in which they found smoldering remains of what their daughter once proudly declared her masterpiece.
He didn't understand why, but he found himself drawn to the gallery despite all the horrors he had faced. In fact, their meetings would always, always, be there.
If anything, her presence soothed his worries that it was all his hallucinations, that he was going insane. He suspected him being there provided the same comfort for her.
They would meet in the garden in front of the gallery, in which bushes of roses grew. They came in all colors - pink, white, green... red, yellow. A shade of violet that could perhaps be called blue. They were trimmed to perfection, shaped like some of the artworks that were displayed in the gallery. He admired them for their beauty, but resented them for what they represented in the living gallery.
She would always arrive first. She always sat in the same bench, surrounded by bushes of roses that came in reds, yellows, and blues. Sometimes, she brought a book with her. Sometimes she simply stared at the roses. When asked why, she shrugged, and declared she didn't ever want to forget, even as the light in her crimson eyes dimmed with remembrance.
That day, he found her with a single rose as red as her eyes, thumbing the petals, before slowly plucking them off.
"He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, ..."
He rushed and snatched the rose away, watching the petals drop to the ground in horror, already wondering where he could find a vase with water, when he realized they weren't in the gallery anymore. The anger that surged in his veins receded, replaced with an unsettling feeling when for a split second the rose was a brilliant blue and pain was wracking him.
"Why?" he asked her, his voice shaking.
"Maybe I can understand why they like to play it if I do," she explained, taking the rose back. She resumed plucking away. "He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, ..."
The urge to snatch the rose away bubbled again, but he kept still. He stared at her eyes instead, and what was left of his cracking heart with the damage he brought from the gallery shattered when he realized her eyes no longer sparkled with life.
There was no need to take the rose. You can't kill someone already dead.
After months of meetings in the gallery, she was finally invited to visit his house. Of course her parents wasn't willing to let her go, at first. Meeting a young man in a public space was one thing, but seeing him in the house in which he lived alone was another thing entirely.
They both resolved it by simply extending the invitation to her parents. They had, after all, come to know and get close to him as well.
When they arrived, he opened the door for them, dressed in only a singlet and baggy pants, splattered with paint in random places, both clothes and skin.
"I'm sorry for the mess," he apologized as he let them in, clearly referring to both his person and his house. "I haven't had the chance to clean up. I just finished an assignment for school."
"Oh, it's okay," her father waved good-naturedly. "We understand how busy a student can be."
"Ah, you're an art student, right?" her mother asked in delight. "Can we see the assignment you just made?"
His eyes shifted to her for a split second, seemingly to hesitate, but then he nodded. "Ah, sure! The paint is still wet though so the smell would be strong."
"It's alright," was her mother's response. They soon entered the room he used as his workshop, and she froze when she realized what he had painted.
"It's very pretty," her mother commented. "You have to know that you're extremely talented, Garry."
He smiled proudly, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Thank you, Ma'am."
"What do you call this piece?" her father asked in curiosity.
His eyes bore into the painted eyes of his creation. "Yellow Rose," he answered distantly.
"I would call it A Girl Aflame," her father commented. "Why would you call it Yellow Rose?"
"The assignment is to make a personal piece," he explained, "and a yellow rose has a very significant meaning for me." The for us in his sentence went unspoken, but she understood anyway.
She stared at the painting and turned to him, meeting his eyes. "Can she live?"
"I doubt so," he admitted grimly. "In the end this is nothing but a replica, and it holds no life compared to the real thing."
"I miss her," she admitted sadly.
"I do too," he smiled bitterly. "Even after everything, in the end she is the saddest part of the gallery."
She stared at the girl in the painting. Her blonde hair was blown back, flying with the force of the heat and unseen wind of flames. Her blue eyes stared ahead sorrowfully, tears brimming on the edges. Her lips were pursed in a desperate line. Her hands were clasped on her chest, gripping two roses -one red and one blue - like a lifeline, even though their thorns dug into her skin and drew blood. Her green dress flowed down elegantly, with fire dancing on its edges, slowly burning the girl to oblivion. Around her, thorny yellow roses wound like ropes. Flames burned ablaze behind her, hugging her from behind, promising death with a kiss of devastation.
"Mary," she whispered softly as tears ran down her cheeks. From the edge of her vision, he could see him rubbing his eyes, most likely crying as well. Her parents quickly came and fussed over her, asking What's wrong, Ib, why are you crying?
She dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, wallowing in guilt for having left a girl so desperate for a life for dead, and knew he too had forced himself to live with the guilt of setting a girl with fear of fire in flames and killing her in the process.
They survived. They survived. The gallery could hurt them no more. They were fine, and alive, and breathing, and living.
But at what cost?
A/N: *looks at genre tag* More like Hurt/Hurt am I right
Anyway. First Ib fanfic here, hope this does the game justice. I'm taking the Promise of Reunion take for this. I don't think either Garry nor Ib would be able to live a normal life after all they experienced in the gallery. And I always thought that they'd feel at least a little bit guilty over what happened to Mary. She just wanted to live in the real world, after all...
Well, I hope you enjoyed this. A review would be so very much appreciated. Have a great day!