"Ib, come take a look at this one."
A familiar woman's voice called out to the girl, who was admiring a sculpture of a rose decorated with thorns. She turned her head in the direction of the voice before her body followed suit and her shoes clip-clop'd against the marble floor as she stepped towards her mother.
The girl's parents were standing in front of a painting, admiring its delicate strokes and carefully chosen palette.
"This is really quite something, isn't it? You could almost guess it were a real person," her father began. "Of course, upon closer inspection you can obviously see the brush strokes."
Ib's eyes glanced up at the painting. She froze.
In this painting was a man lost in a deep, peaceful slumber, his body guarded by roses and thorns. He was in his own little world - a world of his dreams.
"All of the other paintings in this style are of women, though. Isn't that strange?" her mother inquired.
"Maybe Guertena wanted to try out something new. After all, always painting likenesses of women whom had used you for your money is sure to get tiresome after a while. It's not too far of a stretch to assume he simply desired a change of pace."
As her parents discussed all of the possible reasons the artist had chosen to paint a man in such a manner, Ib stared intently at his sleeping face.
He had not a single care in the world. His expression was blank, yet at the same time held some other faint, almost nonexistent emotion. It was as though he were dreaming, and in his dream, he was experiencing pain and that pain had revealed itself ever so slightly to the outside world.
Pressed against his chest, he gingerly clutched a rose. Unlike those surrounding his form, his rose was wilted and had surely died long ago. Why he still seemed to cherish it, Ib did not know. However, it must had been held dearly to him. She'd guessed, judging from how he held it so carefully, it might have been a very beautiful rose.
Her attention was brought back to his face. Her parents were right; he almost could have been mistaken for a real person. Why this, of all the other intricate pieces of art in the museum, bothered her, she, again, did not know. The longer she stared at him, the more her chest began to ache. She was sure she could feel this man's pain.
How could she have described him in just one word?
Beautiful?
Tragic?
Lonely?
Sad?
No...familiar.
She couldn't quite place her finger on it, but something about this man... She could've sworn she'd met him before. But that was impossible; he was nothing more than a painting.
"Ib? What's wrong?"
Her father's voice brought her back, and after a few blinks, she realized what he had meant.
A tear had managed to escape her lid and trail down her cheek. She brought a hand up to her face to quickly wipe away the tear. When did she...?
"Oh, my! Is it that late already? We should be going to dinner now." Her mother glanced at the watch around her wrist.
"Very well. Ib, where would you like to go?" Her father took her hand and began to lead her away from the painting.
Ib took one last look at the plaque below the portrait. It was a word she'd never seen before, yet somehow, she knew what it meant, deep inside.
"Can we get some macaroons?" the girl asked, turning away from the painting as the distance between them grew.
A Forgotten Portrait
Author's Note:
Hey, guys! Golly, it's been so long since I've uploaded anything of relevance here. Well, I just watched a walkthrough of Ib and, oh my goodness, it's terrifying. This, along with The Witch's House, is a game I'd really love to see animated. I'm sorry for it being so half-assed, but meh. I wanted this much out there and I'm quite tired from life. Future works will be better, I promise.
I will do my very best to try and write more like the good ol' days. ^-^
Ib, Garry, and all other characters in this belong to the original owner. This is not for profit.