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Her Portrait


Janus

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FOR SCIENCE! (6)

 

Yep, new story time. This one's a single story, though at times while writing it I wondered it would be or not. It may stretch a bit and for that I'm sorry. This has gone through the usual editing process of mine (That being a quick read through) as I hear from most professional writers that you should wait a day before trying to edit your work--and I don't have that luxury.

 

Oh, and my 'editor' went AWOL.

 

Enjoy!

 

 

 

Her Portrait

 

Fire raged all about him, the flames flickering brightly in the enclosed room. He was trapped now, trapped with his back to it, to her, to his precious thing. she was the only thing that had drawn him to this place.

 

The flames drew closer, their immense heat washing over him as the fire spread its tendrils, seeming like some sort of ancient monstrosity. Still he stood facing it with his back pressed against the rough fabric of his lovely thing. He would protect her with his very life if need be.

 

There was something like an explosion in the distance, and the fire seemed to gain sustenance from this, seeming to suck in a large breath and grow content; it swarmed forwards—leaving him with scant more than a few feet between him and the death he knew awaited.

 

Where once was fear in his eyes, now there was a hard edge. He stared at the raging inferno, hardly seeing it. Then, straightening his back and holding his body composure, he turned to face that what he had been protecting.

 

She was as beautiful as she had always been.

 

One hand lay abreast of her, leaning languidly on the chair in which she rested. The other hand, delicate, like a dolls; cupped her perfect face. Her eyes, even the painting were a brilliant sapphirite blue seeming to gleam with the beauty of the ocean, her lips were small and curved up in a smile. Even her nose was somehow elegant, the lines of it complimenting the rest of her already perfect face. But what most attracted him was her beautiful hair. From the very tips of her roots, spilling down her shoulders was blazing red hair, beautiful and intense.

 

For a moment these thoughts consumed him, seeming to distance him from reality. Then a stray ember from the mad blaze landed on the canvas, just above her left shoulder. He uttered a guttural scream and lightly smacked the flame with his hand, wincing as the fire licked his skin—but still, she was safe.

 

Then another ember singed the painting, this one below, on the chair where she rested. His arm acted of its own accord, lunging for the merrily burning flame and smiting it righteously. He hardly even felt the heat burn his skin.

 

He gazed lovingly at the painting, then sideways at the intensely raging fire, his face hardening and his eyes going grim. He knew that they would die together, but he would die protecting her. He smiled a soft smile before once again facing her, and the new embers that burned merrily on the canvas and danced in patterns across his skin. He thought of how it had all begun that morning, of how this had all come to be.

 

He stood in the garden of his mind, seeing the events of that morning as if they were real once more. There he was, his lithe body relaxed against the metal post of the city bus stop. All around him others were milling all about, going about their business in a desperate attempt at living.

 

He watched them all, his eyes taking note of each person, seeing their own unique struggle. He watched men, women, children, everyone fell under his gaze. He saw the pain and effort straining their face…saw the way they walked as though there was a huge weight on their shoulders. He felt moisture on his face and reached up to brush away a tear—but there was none there. A moment later the heavens split and a deafening downpour descended on the unsuspecting people below.

 

He curled inwards, his body going tense and his neck seeming to retract into his shoulders. Desperately he pulled his warm coat closer to his body and waited for the downpour to stop.

 

There was a mechanical screech and a hiss of pressurized air behind him, and the rain now had a different sound, faintly metallic, a deeper “plunk” sound than what he had heard before.

 

Allowing himself a small smile he turned and boarded the waiting bus, his eyes hooded as he gazed out into the rain.

 

The trip didn’t take long, an hour at most. Yet all the while the driving rain assaulted the vehicle, the rivulets of water streaming across its body.

 

He sat in the rear of the bus, his eyes averted from the rain and focused on the few remaining passengers. From their conversation he was able to tell that they were—or had been at one time, lovers. He smiled a thin smile.

 

At last the bus was empty, leaving him with no buffer against the driving rain. He closed his eyes and sighed, allowing his body to relax. He’d be there soon.

 

A high-pitched shriek woke him from his reverie, and opening his eyes he found that the driver was gesturing to the door—this was the last stop. He muttered a silent curse under his breath; he’d been so caught up in his thoughts that he had missed his stop. Thanking the driver he stepped out onto the wet pavement of the city. He knew where he was, and his destination wasn’t so far.

 

If only it wasn’t for the rain.

 

He sighed and began his tromp, the rain impeding his vision and dampening his clothes, which now hung on him like so much dead weight. A young girl on the sidewalk offered him company and an umbrella, but he waved her off with a smile and a thank you. He would be fine.

 

He walked down the sidewalk, listening to the wet thud of his footsteps on the concrete. Exhaling slowly he allowed himself to gaze at the others around him. Some reveled in the gaiety of youth, playing merrily in the rain. Others clung to their protection in the form of umbrellas, their faces weary and pronounced.

 

Finally he saw it, the steepled roof jutting upwards, as if daring the rain to assault it. He saw the white, smooth stone. Saw the clear glass doors, and the softly lit entrance. He saw it and he smiled, forgetting for a moment where he was. A stream of cold water dripped into his face, and he was rudely brought back to reality. Shaking his head to clear as much water as he could, he trudged onwards.

 

At last he was at the precipice of the entryway, the rain still driving downwards but now unable to touch him, he glanced through the clear glass doorways, his eyes wide with excitement. Then, with little hesitation he gripped the smooth metal handle and heaved it open, walking into the warm, elegant room.

 

He introduced himself, they knew him already. The way their lips curved at the corner of their faces he could tell what they thought of him. He didn’t care, he wasn’t here for them.

 

With the compulsory introductions out of the way, he moved down one of the many hallways, savouring the feeling of the warm air, the soft carpet, and even the gently lit walls.

 

He wandered throughout the many hallways, stopping occasionally to glance at one painting or another, his eyes drifting from one canvas to another as he continued his search.

 

He wasn’t truly sure what he was searching for. It was as hazy and undefined as it had been for the past week when he began frequenting the gallery. Various painters had works of high esteem here, many of them were beautiful, many tragic, some even enlightening—but somehow it was never what he was searching. Somehow that void had never been filled.

 

And so he wandered through the elegant and spacious hallways, from exhibit to exhibit, searching in vain for something that he couldn’t even describe. He smiled a thin smile at his situation, pausing a moment in his insatiable search.

 

He mentally went over the map in his head, scratching off every exhibit he had already visited. There was only one that remained—one that was often filled to the brim with spectators. He sighed a heavy sigh and trudged onwards, towards the next circular room, and the next part of his search.

 

Amazingly it was devoid of people, though usually hordes of men and women would throng to the room, it lay bare and empty. He stepped onto the smooth tile floor, and looked around. He could see now that there couldn’t have been that many people in here, as the room was smaller than the others. While the other exhibits had spacious rooms that stretched out, this was a smaller room, lacking even a second floor.

 

He began his search on the east wall, glancing from painting to painting: Seeing a wonderfully artistic interpretation of a shipwreck, seeing the bare flesh of a nude painting, seeing the intense eyes of a murderer drawn in charcoal. None of these were what he was searching for.

 

He looked without hope, his heart sinking with every painting. What was he searching for? Would he be searching through every gallery in the city? In the country? In the world? These thoughts ran through his head like pestilent flies.

 

Then he saw her. She seemed to be gazing directly at him, her calm blue eyes beckoning him to come closer. Somehow he knew she was it, she was what he had been searching for.

 

He gazed at her, drinking in every detail. Her smooth alabaster skin, her gently curving lips, her flaming hair, even the way she languidly sat in her chair. He stared unabashedly at her, at her green dress that seemed to shimmer and dance as the light hit it, at her small circlet around her wrist, and of course, at those entrancing blue eyes.

 

He moved closer to her, desperate to feel any sense of connection with this beautiful vision. And then he stopped.

 

She was a painting and nothing more. He had thought that someone else had come to observe the exhibit with him, someone that he could talk with and enjoy the art with. But he remained, as always, alone.

 

He sighed softly, glancing once more at her face, at the perfect curves that made up every element of her body. He saw everything there was to see about her, saw the beauty that resided within her.

 

He was now standing directly before her, gazing in rapt fascination at the sight before him. His mind was careening out of control, imagining possibility after possibility. Wondering how it would feel to brush his hand against her soft skin, wondering what it would taste like to kiss her lips, to brush that vibrant hair from her face, to hold her in the moonlight as her dress shimmered and the light danced across it

 

He gazed at her with sunken eyes, weary from a lack of sleep. He had been searching for a week and now he had finally found what he was searching for, he had found her…and the void had been filled.

 

But what now? Sinister voices whispered inside him, warning him that he could not have her, warning him that the search was not over. Warning him, always warning him.

 

He closed his eyes, blocking out the voices and gazed again into her tranquil blue eyes. He needed her.

 

He allowed his shoulders to slump as he leaned in as close as he could, his eyes studying every inch of her canvas, his hands resting lightly on the ornate frame in which she rested. He focused on her and only her, but still the voices broke through.

 

“You can’t have her” they said, their words twisted and vile. “They won’t let you”

 

He tried to shut them out, tried to force them to end their tirade—but he couldn’t, and the oily whispering went on.

“She’s not even real, and if she were, why would she want you?” they slithered through his brain, worming into his thoughts.

 

He needed to fight them, he didn’t know what to do. He let out a scream of frustration as he hurled something to drive away the voices. Too late did he realize that he had thrown his keys. Too late did he realize that they had smashed one of the many globe-shaped lights that were dotting the exhibit walls. Too late did he see the sparks as they flew and grew into embers that turned to hungry, angry flames.

 

Instead he saw only her, with her tranquil blue eyes and her brilliant red hair.

 

Only her.

 

Only her portrait.

 

Total Word Count: 2,085

 

4 Comments


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Valid criticism. Care to tell me why It seems that way to you? I basically just wrote what the story told me to to do.

 

-Janus

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I love the way you totally bypass the issue of whether he's sane. Sanity is relative, and it's not for us to judge the protagonist. He is what he is, and he does what he feels he must do. To him, her portrait is something real that he can connect to, in a way that he cannot connect with other people. He is a Seeker, and when such a one has found the object of his devout searching, he does not give it up lightly.

 

Thanks for writing this. ^_^

 

<o> <o>

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