Author Note:

Please please please comment on my fanfic! Anything really, I take criticism as well as I can. Don't get TOO mean though (please ^.^). Oh, Also, I would like feedback as to whether or not the chapters seem long enough. I'm going to try and make them between 1,000 and 2,000 words, please tell me if they get too short or too long!

Chapter 1:

Ib lay on her bed at home, reading a book about nothing in particular. It was a cold, rainy day in central New York, the familiar gray overcast stared down at her, peeking in through her windows. She looked around the room, closing her book absentmindedly. She wasn't really in the mood to read, and hadn't been very enthousiastic about much lately. She didn't have a clue why. It had started about a week ago, when Ib had watched a program on TV about Guertena the world-famous painter. Something had shifted on her insides. Something that made her want to throw up. In the end she had, thrown up that is. With each hack, cough, and spit, she had felt a piece of herself disappear. The Forgotten Portrait, one of Guertena's last works, though it is impossible to figure out exactly when it was started and completed due to extreme damage... The TV had continued on. The Forgotten Portrait... Ib had started having trouble eating soon after that. She was getting visibly thinner. She didn't understand why she was so upset, it had been fifteen years ago, when she was only eight years old. She remembered the day with a strange clarity...

In the early afternoon, under a gray sky... Ib and her parents were on their way to an art gallery. "Did you remember everything Ib? Oh! Do you have your handkerchief? You know, the one you got for your birthday? Keep it safe in your pocket, okay? Don't lose it!"

She had wandered around for a while, getting ahead of her parents like all children tended to do. She didn't remember any of the paintings, well... any except for one. The Forgotten Portrait. Even when she was little she had had a strange sort of adoration of the picture. The man depicted in it was tall, lean, with purple hair and a long dark coat. He looked so...sad. Desolate. Alone. Forgotten. Dozens of pictures of it were scattered around the room. In the past, she had been obsessed, drawing silly cartoon caricatures of her with the man from the painting, strolling hand in hand through a horrificly surreal other world. That had been when she was young. When she was stupid. Ib was now twenty-two years old, a sharp young woman preparing to go to law school. She picked up the book again, but closed it several seconds later. What to do? She stood, shakily. It was time to eat. She would force herself if she had to. Ib wasn't the kind of girl to die of anorexia, or to even become anorexic. She walked downstairs clumsily. She lived alone now, she had for a while now; she was in that awkward phase between high school and college, working two jobs to earn the money she needed to get into Harvard. Even with her scholarship, the tuition was wicked expensive. She opened the fridge, leaning against the open door. Oh, that's right. I must've forgotten to pick up the groceries this morning... She closed the door, with a heavy sigh. I don't really feel like going out, but I have to. I haven't eaten in too long. This isn't healthy. She clamored over to the coat rack, donning a black jacket over her blouse and jeans. Let's get this over with. She thought as she stepped out into the drizzle, car keys in hand.

/\-*~*-*~*-*~*-/\

Garry opened his eyes slowly, immediately noticing the sharp, stinging pain that seemed to be ripping into his left hand. He unclenched his fist, looking down at the object in his fingers. My... my rose? It was soft and velvety, the blue petals healthy and glowing. He blinked twice. Ib. Where was she? Hadn't he told her he would catch up to her?! He tried to stand, but failed miserably. Still weak, eh? He looked the corridor up and down. It was dark, not dark enough to disable his vision, but enough to make him squint. He recognized the faint smell of crayons and the haunting music that seemed to play in every hall in the galleries, like a personal soundtrack. The Sketchbook... I wonder where Ib has run off to now. How long was I asleep? He tried to move again, his aching muscles immediately screamed in protest. He shivered slightly, and snuggled backwards against his soft coat. I'm in no condition to leave, I can barely even shift my arms around. He reached into his pocket, partly testing his claim, and partially just for the comfort of having his lighter back in his palm, a bit of light to push back the darkness never hurt; did it? His fingers groped the cloth of his pocket, searching. "What the- where is it?" But there was nothing there, nothing but the soft velvety material. He rested his head back against the wall. Now the winning question of the night. Who took it? Mary, or Ib? Garry pondered the answer to the question restlessly. Eventually his body forced his mind into submission, willing it to shut down. Garry sighed as he once again fell into the soft arms of sleep.

/\-*~*-*~*-*~*-/\

If Garry had been awake, he would have heard it. Glass, crunching, smashing, ripping. The Lady in Red crawled off of the wall, sprawling out across the floor in exhaustion. Headless mannequins were wandering through the hallways, looking for any signs of things to play with. Dolls talked to each other about nothing in particular, playing their games as usual. The Juggling Man talked to Worry as he practiced his routine. mannequin heads rolled across the floor, pushed by the dark hands that reached out from the walls. Statues looked at each other with an eerie sort of importance, while paintbrushes swirled across canvases, led by invisible hands. The Ladies were having a gathering, everyone but Red was there, 'standing' in front of a picture frame. It wasn't exactly burnt, it was more... torn, cut, wounded. They would soon get to work.

The gallery was waking up.

They were expecting company soon, after all.