For Le Portrait de Petite Cossette, which I don't own.


Remembrance

"Everything is engraved before thee with a pen of remembrance for all the everlasting periods."

Part I of the Thanksgiving Psalms, Dead Sea Scrolls.

The girl sits on the high-backed chair, feet unable to touch the ground because of her young age. She doesn't move; the man across from her is making another portrait, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks up again, taking in the features that are both youthful and mature, then concentrates on the canvas, and she takes advantage of his attention being on the painting to shift to a more comfortable position on the chair. When she does this, he looks up quickly, sharply. "Don't move, Cossette."

"I'm sorry," she says, defeated, and does her best to hold very still, despite the numbness in her legs. However, she is young, and it takes all of her willpower to sit, unmoving, while he finishes.

"Cossette." He looks up from the canvas, and she stands, slowly, hesitantly, as he nods. "It's finished." Her face breaks into a sunny smile, one unlike the ones of the portraits, and she follows his gesturing hand, however slowly, due to the pain of sitting in the same position for such a long time.

She peers over the shoulder of his sitting form at the canvas, still wet, and takes it all in. "It's beautiful," she breathes, and means it. He smiles, basking in the praise of his young lover, though the expression quickly transforms into a look of displeasure. "What's wrong?" she asks innocently, leaning closer to look the portrait over with an untrained, yet somehow appraising, eye.

The artist turns from the painting to look at her, and she has the feeling that he is looking her over, as if she is a work of art herself. And this is not entirely untrue, for who knows when the paintings began to live for Cossette? "You're growing," he says, as if this is not a normal thing, as if it is wrong. "You're getting older, Cossette."

Cossette smiles, hugs him without meeting his eyes (for she is afraid of what she will see), then steps back and says again, "It's beautiful," before turning and leaving the room.

He still sits there, staring at his latest work. Two days later, she is dead.


Unfortunately, this story was not dated, and so I don't know when I wrote it. I do believe that it was written sometime in January, or close to that time. Posted 25 April.