What to paint

Chapter 2

    You've wandered into another room. A fancy studdy with golden pens, and silver lined pages. A deep dark wooden desk, full of papers and books. Law books, economics, and tucked into a corner a few well hidden romance books. You don't pry into their reading choices and you'd forget even if you did. So you find an angle to paint from.
Away from the desk and empty chair pushed back. A book laying open on the floor, another laying with its pages bent.  A half written page and a pile of torn and wrinkled papers. There's pages of diagrams and images. You take no note of the items on the desk and continue to paint as if there is nothing strange about them.
You don't ignore it, you just don't question it. The pages may have looked familiar if you had actually looked at them. There was dry ink across the desk spilled and dumped onto the floor. The pages would be harder to read but you didn't take note.
You painted like usual. You have gone into nearly every room and painted it all. If you hadn't been a walking shell of a person you would have been worried about going into the wrong one. To you you wandered like a lost puppy.
You waved and smiled as a stranger walked into the room. You had no idea why you felt the need to wave as a richly dressed woman draped herself across the chair. You changed the painting at the same time. A new carbon copy, a flawless painting.
Even when maids came and gifted you with something to eat and drink with her. You continued to paint the confused and worried expression on the woman's face. Yet you yourself didn't take note of the way she rushed to hide the papers. You were an ever watching observer yet you couldn't remember a thing.
When you left the room again you had forgotten whatever it was she had said to you.
You wandered the halls and stopped to stare at the room that made you feel strange. It was an unexplainable feeling. You had no reason for your stomach to twist, your hands to shake, and for the hair on your arm's to stand up. It confused you as you finally moved from your frozen state.
You walked and looked. Walked and drew. Stepped through the halls and past the doors. You opened a large door and stumbled into the large library. You forgot the passage of time. A maid had been the one to find you.
She took you by the wrist and pulled you away from an incomplete painting. Her grip was harsh. You stumbled and knocked paint across the floor and yourself. It splattered across the sides for your clothes.
It was the first memory you made.
The next day when you were sitting and painting with that stranger, the with the large hat. You were painting. From the way, you were sitting, he was unable to see what you were painting.
He had questioned you. About the mark on your wrist, and you had no answer. You had forgotten what happened.
You weren't eating like the man. You were mindlessly painting, like normal. He didn't worry since it was a common occurrence. You painting and eating only after finishing your newest project. When you stopped painting that's when he took note of the bizarre.
Your painting wasn't from the present. It was of a paint-splattered floor. Wood soaked in warm reds and oranges. The maid's shoes are covered with paint and your hand splattered and covered in paint. You hadn't painted the present but something from the past.
The man stood up and grabbed your painting. You only tilted your head and sipped your tea.
"When was this?"
You didn't know the answer to the man's question. You couldn't understand why he was asking about a painting. He looked and studied the picture for a while, before calling for a servant. He demanded someone to be brought to him. Yet you just blinked owlishly.