I don't care if you use my characters. In fact, I'd be delighted to have you use them. Just let me know, and give me the link to the story or something.
Reviews are welcome, as is constructive criticism, flames are NOT. If you want me to let you know when I update, you can leave your email in your review and tell me so!
And if you thought that Jason and Kathleen were distantly related to Sirius Black (who I also do not own), you'd be right. Hee.
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I'm a painting. I'm about 200 years old, and in excellent condition. This is my story.
My setting is a beautiful Victorian sitting room, with a brown table on the left, an elaborate stone-carved and brick fireplace in the background, with black and white family photographs on the mantle. There is a maroon and black patterned rug on the dark-grained floor. There is a window to the right of the fireplace, and what little you can see through it is dark, a deciduous forest. There is a small spherical glass crystal hanging by the window, that appears clear mostly, but at the right angle, it holds all the colors of the spectrum. I am sitting on a deep red couch, apholstered with worn velvet, fraying in places, but very soft and quite nice.
I am a woman, with long black hair, light skin, dark blue eyes, and a cheerful expression. My nose is short and impish-looking, my cheekbones high and rounded, causing me to look cute when I smile, but elegant when I do not. My dark pink lips are full and pouty, a part of me I'm particularly fond of. A modest black taffeta dress with long velveteen sleeves frames my plump figure. I am not thin, but I am not fat. I feel that I am very attractive. On my finger I wear a shiny gold wedding band, brand new, proof that I'm not the only one who thinks I'm beautiful. My name is Kathleen Ellen Black.
This painting was created when I was 23, three days after my wedding and birthday. I was married August 13th, to a man named Jason Michael Black, aged 30. Attractive, loving, and prideful can all be used to describe my husband. When we had this painting made, I had no idea. No idea what was soon about to happen. Had I known, perhaps I would not have looked so cheerful.
It was August 21st, and Jason was in town, bartering for food and provisions for the fall and winter. Jason always believed in packing up needful things early in the season, the dear. I was sewing up a jacket my Jason had torn, when came a rapping at our old mahogany door. Wary of strangers, as I had always been, I opened the door a crack and peered through. Standing outside was a young man of about fifteen, he was wearing a round cap with a tiny brim, and a dour expression. He handed me a telegram. I shut the door, and, eager to see what had been written, opened the telegram. It read:
"Dear Mrs Black stop It is my duty to inform you that your husband has been taken ill stop He is being kept at the Horse head Hospital stop He wishes to see you immediately stop"
So, naturally, I took the first coach into town, which was four days later. I rushed to the hospital, and to my husband's side. He looked up at me with sad, drained eyes. He told me he loved me very much, and that he was dying. I was riddled with pain and sorrow. I spent the next week by his side, never leaving, keeping him well-fed, and well-medicated, in the hopes that he would stay as long as he could.
Through the days, I began to grow more and more tired, due to my sitting up until the wee hours of the morning, watching my Jason sleep. I ate less, also, and began to feel sick with fear of losing him. I was sick with many things, fear, loss, hunger, sleep-deprivation...I was not treating myself well. But, I said to myself, I am not the one who is dying.
After a week of good treatment, and lots of love, it seemed his time was almost spent. The doctor ushered me out of the room for his daily check-up. I was sitting in the waiting room, inconsolably depressed. When the doctor returned, he looked no better than I. He stood me up and looked into my eyes. The deep sadness I saw in his face told me what I'd been dreading more than anything. I burst into tears, and I rushed into the room, to find my husband lying there, resting peacefully. Frantically, I hoped he was only sleeping, but as I shook him, there was no sign of him awakening. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I threw my arms around him. I wept and I wept, refusing to let go of him. But soon my sadness was dulled by the fatigue of sitting up of nights, watching over him, speaking to him, trying to get every last second with him. I fell asleep.
I woke up to the sudden touching of a hand to my cheek. MY eyes shot open and I sat up. Sitting before me, in white hospital robes, was Jason. He smiled at me, his tan flesh full, his ebony hair clean, his brown eyes twinkling. I screamed with joy, new tears creating trails through the old dried ones on my cheeks. I hugged him, kissed him again and again, full of love and relief. He held me to him, and told me that he was all right, and so was I.
It wasn't until days afterwards, when we had returned home together, that I noticed something was amiss. I felt rather like Jason was keeping something from me, and I finally inquired as to what it might be. He sighed and looked me in the eye, as we sat on the very couch I'd been sitting on when the picture was painted. He spoke:
"Kathleen, you know how much I love you, yes?" I nodded. "I don't want to scare you."
At this point, I was getting worried. Was he still sick? What was wrong?
"Kathleen, in the nights you spent watching over me, conversing with me, you felt sick, didn't you?"
I began to get an inkling of what he was about to tell me, I'm not unintelligent. But I was afraid I was right, so I feigned innocence.
"Yes, Jason, I wasn't taking very good care of myself, you're right."
"Well, to be blunt, in the week you spent with me, all that time, you caught my illness. When you fell asleep on my body, you fell asleep in the same way I had."
I was right. I shook my head in sadness, though I wasn't sure why. I still had my Jason, we still had our home, things were fine.
"Why were you hiding this from me?" I asked, fearing the answer.
"Well, I wasn't sure if you'd appreciate the...arrangements I made for us," he replied, taking my hands in his. I gave him a quizzical look, and he added, "I suppose you wonder why life has continued as normal?"
"In fact, my love, I was wondering exactly that."
"We're in a painting," he explained, with a tiny embarrassed smile, "I arranged it so we can exist together in a painting."
"How come I've not noticed it? Where is our painting? Shouldn't I be able to see out of the painting?"
"So many questions," he laughed and kissed me, "You've not noticed it because I asked that you not notice anything until you were ready to accept the situation. You've always been rather sensitive to change, and I didn't want to rush this on you. And our painting is currently hanging in our drawing room, above my desk."
"You mean the one you had commission three days after...?"
"The very same. Look," he said, and gestured to the wall. I saw nothing, and told him this. "No, look through the wall," and I tried. After a few seconds, the wall vanished. I saw, instead, our drawing room, from the point of view of my painting. I blinked a few times, and then looked back at Jason. He looked hopeful.
"Is this all right?" he ventured, "You see, we'd had so little time together, and now we have an eternity to be together, forever and ever, to death do us part..."
I was grateful that he did this for me, for us. I was amazed he'd been able to. I was angry at him for not telling me. I was speechless for a long time. Then, something he'd said sunk in. To death do us part...
"Jason, can we die? You know...in here?"
Jason looked as if he'd been struck. He gave me the most hopeless look I'd ever seen on him.
"That, my love, I cannot tell you yet. Please, forget about it," he implored me, and kissed me deeply.
I did forget about it, mostly, except for the occasional time when I would wonder idly about it, but I never let it bother me. Jason and I lived many happy years together before I noticed something... He and I had finished making love, and were lying naked in one another's arms, when he said something that jarred me.
"Kathleen, my only love, you are just as beautiful today as on the day of our wedding..."
And it was true. Jason was getting visibly older, his hairs were greying, and his face was becoming slightly creased with the marks of years and years of smiles. And yet I was the same as I had been. At first I assumed it was because I was so much younger than he, but it had been too long for it just to be a coincidence. This had been nagging at the back of my mind for a while, and now it came to the front of my consciousness, and it disturbed me greatly.
"You know, Jason," I began firmly, but lovingly, "You're absolutely correct. I haven't changed a bit. Why?"
The look of helplessness that I hadn't seen in so many years returned to my loving mate's face. He buried his face in my chest, his hot sigh searing across my breasts. When he spoke, it was the slightly muffled sound of speaking into flesh.
"I had hoped we could avoid that...But yes, it seems we've avoided it long enough. My sweet Kathleen," he whispered, lifting his head and torso to look me in the eye, "The painting was of you alone. You are immortalized forever within its frame. While I can exist within the painting with you, I am not immortal," his deep voice began to waver, "I will continue to age," his voice broke, and a tear ran down his handsome face, "Until I fade away. You will live on."
I stared at him in horror at the words he'd just spoken to me. Gradually, my horror and sense of loss turned to anger. I gave a cry of emotion, and stood.
"You mean, you'll just go away? And I'll be left here, forever? Stuck within the confines of this painting, this house, without you? Jason, how could you be so selfish?!"
He said nothing, only took his clothing and left the room. I sat back down on the bed, bristling with rage. How could he do this to me? What a stupid, cruel trick to play on me!
But my anger soon waned to incredible sadness, flaring into anger again. Jason slept on the couch that night, and the next. Things continued this way for a month. I wouldn't speak to him, I wouldn't look at him, except to shoot him an angry or hurt glance. I was confused. I loved Jason very much, but I didn't want to deal with such a burden.
One evening, I emerged from the bedroom, wearing a robe, and I saw Jason sitting on the couch, writing in a notebook. He shut it and looked up at me, though I had made no noise while approaching him. He stood, and closed the space between us. He wrapped me in his arms, as if reading exactly what I wanted him to do. I leaned my head on his chest and cried. I cried more than I ever remembered. I cried harder than I had when he'd been taken ill, so many years ago. And he just held me and kissed my head, saying nothing.
From then on, things got better. While I never really totally forgave him, I knew that the time I had with him was scarce and precious, and I wanted to make the best of it. Jason and I never had children, because I felt that it was hard enough to watch my lover grow old and die, I didn't think I could bear to watch my children do so, too.
Years and years and years later, an old and wizened Jason rolled over to face me one bright morning. He smiled, his twinkling eyes creasing at the corners.
"Sweet, sweet woman. All I ever wanted was to be with you. All I can ever think of is you. I adore you, I cherish you, I treasure you. There is nothing in the universe more important to me than you. I would sacrifice everything I own to make sure you felt no pain. If there were anything in my power to help you, how I would love to do it. But my dear...My loving, devoted wife of so many years, it's time for me to go."
I expected tears. I expected overwhelming loss. But with the sun shining through the window, turning the bed sheets a brilliant gold, glinting off Jason's long, white hair, and sparkling in his eyes - his eyes that were as youthful as the day I'd met him - it was just impossible to conjure up the droplets of salty pain. I nodded silently, biting my lip. A hot lump formed in my throat, despite my dry eyes. Jason kissed my cheeks sadly and lovingly. He reached over to the bedside table and retrieved a notebook, his journal, that I had seen him writing in nearly every night. He pressed the worn leather book into my hands and looked me squarely in the eye.
"Kathleen, this is all I can give you. This is the best I can offer you, and I hope you can accept my deepest apology, thought I know you can never forgive me. I am so sorry, Kathleen, so so sorry..." he trailed off, and he kissed me a final time.
Then he faded away. No sparkling lights, no lingering echoes of comforting words, just a quick fading of my entire reason to live. And he was gone.
The tears I'd been expecting came. And came and came and wouldn't stop. I cried for days and days, sitting around the house morosely, bursting into tears whenever I saw a tea kettle he'd poured water out of, the rug he'd wiped his feet on, the shirt he'd worn on our wedding night.
One unremarkable day, when the tears had failed to come when I'd called for them, I opened the notebook. Jason's handwriting comforted me, reassured me of his love for me. I could hear his voice in my head, speaking to me. It would echo in my head at night, as I read the book before going to sleep.
Only a week later, I reached the end of the book. I was sad to have it end. I was more depressed than ever, and lay on my bed sadly. But suddenly, without reason, my spirits lifted. I turned to the picture of Jason that stood on my nightstand. I smiled at him and sighed, releasing the tension in my heart and mind.
"Jason," I breathed, "I do forgive you. I love you."
And I could have sworn I heard a tearful laugh, just on the cusp of audibility.
I opened the book again, on a whim, to the last page. My eyes fell on the last passage in the book, which I hadn't seen before.: "Kathleen, I love you. This is my last wish, my final message to you, go look out of the painting."
It was something I hadn't done in a long time, and I couldn't understand why Jason wanted me to do so. Still, I rose, and went into our sitting room. I focused past the appropriate wall, and instead of the normal view of our drawing room, it was a stone staircase and hallway. Across the hallway were other paintings, dozens of them! They just coated the walls. I was shocked, where was I?
Suddenly there was something I hadn't noticed before, right where our card table had been, it was another room! I walked slowly into it, and bumped into a well-dressed man with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a knife. He turned on my threateningly, and I squeaked in fear. He laughed, and backed off.
"Sorry, never can be too careful. Say, are you new here?" he asked me, in a slightly German accent. I nodded feebly, and he gave me a comforting smile, "It's always a bit strange, being moved, but you get used to it. My name's Hans, what's yours?"
"Kathleen," I said, regaining my voice, "Where am I?"
"My painting. Old Germany, forget which year. But if you mean where's your painting, it's in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
I looked confused, thanked my new neighbor, and walked back into the safety of my own painting. I walked dazedly into my room, and I lay down. Did Jason arrange this, too? I knew, suddenly, and with great conviction, that he had. Almost at once I heard loud footsteps, and I immediately ran to the sitting room. I looked out past the wall, and lots of children, school-aged children ran past. One stopped and looked in at me.
"Hey, Sarah, Ginny, Erik, look! A new painting!" a blonde girl cried, and then turned to me, "What's your name?"
"I'm Kathleen. Who are you?" I asked, as her friends stopped and looked in at me. I realize, now, that I must have looked a mess, with my hair unbrushed, standing there in my bathrobe. But I didn't care at the moment.
"I'm Silvia! And these are my friends, Ginny, Erik, and, oh, Sarah didn't stop. She much not have heard me. Oh well. These are Ginny and Erik!" Silvia informed me. Erik was tall and gangly, appearing about age fourteen, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. Ginny looked very young, younger than Erik, and had flaming red hair, blue eyes, and lots of freckles. Silvia herself had flyaway, platinum blonde hair, and light blue eyes, making her look like something out of a sci-fi movie (though I didn't know what that was back then).
These were my first new friends, as well as Hans, and I was visited often by both. I learned about all of the many paintings in Hogwarts, and began visiting them, too. Life wasn't so bad, here at Hogwarts.
I met a new boy, only four years older than me, who was strawberry blonde with green eyes and pale skin. His name was Leutian, and we became very close. In fact, before not too long, he was my boyfriend. His painting was of a kitchen (he was a cook somewhere, and was new as a painting), and so he soon moved in with me. He still lives here.
I still love Jason, and I think of him sometimes, lovingly. I'm no longer the least bit angry with him for what he did. In fact, I'm grateful. I keep his journal close to me, but I rarely read it anymore. But sometimes, I hold it to my chest, and I thank Jason sincerely and fervently, and I can feel him smile.