A story behind every painting
It was silent, aside from the dull ticking of a clock nearby. The black eyes flicked to its face, the hands pointing at five and four. Whether it was nigh to five thirty in the morning or evening, he didn't know. Day and night were irrelevant within these walls, and time itself as well, if it were not for the clocks keeping vigilant time in the Underground. V felt he should be tired yet he wasn't. The activities that used to give him solace, comfort, something to do, seemed to have outlasted their usefulness and he now sat, with solitude at his side, upon a cushioned bench as he gazed upon one of the many paintings that adorned the museum like walls of his abode. He had many paintings and tapestries hung and strung from the ceiling and walls with great care and reverence, displayed as they were as they were meant to be seen, never diminishing their worth.
The works of Shakespeare had been one of the first pieces of literature to be banned in Sutler's time. Probably because of the symbolic and chilling nature that some stories could, often times, materialize into reality without warning -- as were tragedies' wont to do in such violent and virulent times. Sutler had tried with all of his might not to be succumbed to such assassinations. Perhaps not as shocking as the death of Polonius or as violently vehement as the death of King Claudius, but a bullet to the brain would verily suffice and all the players were well justified in their ends. So, it was only natural that any and all paintings depicting such famous scenes from Shakespeare's plays would be black listed as well. And V now stared at one of most remarkable and exquisite beauty.
It looked real, as if photographed instead of painted but the fine brushwork upon the canvas proved well that it was crafted by a delicate and gifted hand than a well trained eye of living composition. Her skin was lily white, her hair an auburn brown as it cascaded over the woman's shoulders and down her back in rivulet curls. Her equally pale, white dress hugged her body and the ruffles of ornamental quality added a noble and aristocracy flair. Cradled in her left arm, she held a bouquet of an assortment of handpicked flowers.
Her right arm was raised up, as if in farewell or a beckoning gesture on her way to merriment and mirth. Her body was in profile as she looked over her shoulder towards the viewer, her expression reserved or maybe it was contentment. It was clearly springtime as deep green grass grew at her feet and the great old tree behind her was in full leaf. And the sun -- oh how the sun shown down upon her form, highlighting her hair in gold and alighting her dress and skin in a warm glow. To anyone that wasn't familiar with the story behind the painting, would assume that she were a bride or a woman of noble blood, having an innocent walk through the woods. But the truth was dark indeed. This was no ordinary woman -- but the tragic Ophelia on her way to her watery grave.
With that fact, everything seemed to be overcast at once. The sun was not as warm or loving, her expression that of silent mourning -- the loss of an already broken mind, having no where else to go or anyone to turn to.
V couldn't deny the striking resemblance to Ophelia and his Eve -- before he had unremorsefully shaved such beautiful locks from her head. Sometimes, he would envision her in that dress and marvel in his mind how radiant she would look; but not today. It wasn't clear what had made Ophelia go mad, but V knew well what nearly drove Evey over the edge. In the small corner of his mind, he wondered if she would forever hate him for what he had done. Either way, things were not as well as they could be. She spent more and more time away from the Gallery and when they were together, there was a strange ambience in the air, a sliver of dark familiarity that crept up his spine. There was nothing he could do. Nothing, except sit and gaze upon beautiful misery as memories drifted in and out amidst his mind.
In a strange way, he felt like Laertes, denying the insanity of his sister -- denying this moment was happening again and that life -- fate wouldn't ruin all that he had cultivated, all that he had made right.
V bowed his head, closing his eyes as the silence wrapped around him, blocking out even the incessant ticking of the nearby clock. There was something else that was nagging him, something that didn't have to do with the crumbling of a foundation -- but with the very place he called home. He felt compelled to deny that as well. For only the ignorant live in innocent bliss. No, he thought to himself. He would merely be aware and take heed of such an under current and hope he wouldn't be swept away with it. But clinging to the rocks felt like such a futile effort, but it was the only choice he had for the moment. He would weather out the storm again, as he had done so many times before. The one thing he wouldn't deny, was how hard it was swiftly becoming to remain stead fast and resolute.
The chime of the grandfather clock in the main chamber cut through his thoughts. Three times, it rang. And thrice more after until silence finally seized it by the throat and killed it.