Irreparable - Hannibal Lecter

001 Silent Companion

 She tugged at the dress Thomas had bought for her, feeling the discomfort of its ill fit. The fabric clung too tightly in some areas and hung too loosely in others. As she ran her fingers over the material, she couldn't help but notice how the color clashed with her complexion, the hues failing to complement her skin, It was a striking realization, considering Thomas, as a painter, should have known better, then to not match the colors to the canvas. The mismatched colors seemed to mock her, serving as a stark reminder of the disconnect between her own  and Thomas's perception of her.

 As Thomas exchanged pleasantries and showcased his knowledge of the artworks, Emily stood by his side, attempting to blend in. She smiled politely, her eyes scanning the room, but she couldn't help but feel a pang of inadequacy. She silently compared herself to the women around her, noting their impeccable style, their polished presence, and their apparent confidence. Emily's shoulders slumped as she glanced at the elegant attendees around her. Stand up straight, darling," Thomas whispered, noticing her slouched posture. Emily straightened her back, trying to comply with his request. "I'm trying," she replied, her voice tinged with unease.She clung to his arm as Thomas guided her further through the museum. They paused in front of a large painting displayed prominently in the middle of the room. "What do you think?" Thomas's voice carried a hint of excitement as he awaited Emily's response. She took a moment to study the painting, her eyes tracing the abstract brushstrokes and colors, but it failed to evoke any emotional connection within her.

''This is yours, isn't it?'' Emily said.
''It is,'' Thomas said proudly, ''I'm glad you recognize it.''
Despite her discomfort and lack of genuine appreciation for the artwork, Emily mustered a bright smile and stepped even closer to the painting, trying to fulfill her role as the supportive wife. "It's a captivating piece, Thomas. The textures are well-executed," she commented, her words lacking the sincerity she wished she could convey. She tried to mask her indifference with a forced enthusiasm, but Thomas seemed pleased by her response. He beamed with pride as he explained the inspiration and meaning behind the painting, his words flowing effortlessly, endlessly.

Emily nodded, feigning interest, her mind drifting to the dress that clung uncomfortably to her body, seeming to nweigh down her steps. She longed to peel off the suffocating layers. As Thomas continued to guide her through the museum, still engrossed in his own world, Emily's attention wandered. Amidst the sea of art,  her eyes sought out the pieces that Thomas didn't seem to pay any mind to, yearning for a connection to something that resonated with her. Emily's gaze landed on a small painting tucked away in a corner of the room.
'I'll be right back,' she murmured softly. Emily's steps grew heavier as she released her grip on Thomas's arm, her discomfort with each precarious heel strike becoming more apparent. She longed to slip off the confining shoes, to feel the coolness of the marbled floor beneath her feet. As Thomas's voice faded into the background.

She carefull kicked of her heels as she reached the small painting. Emily stood with a sense of relief, liberated from the constraints of her heels. Her gaze fixed upon the artwork, which revealed itself in delicate brushstrokes and colorful hues.

A soft, golden sunlight bathed the painted landscape, casting a warm glow upon the scene. In the foreground, a carpet of wildflowers blanketed the ground, their colors ranging from delicate pastels to bold, saturated tones. Delicate bluebells swayed amidst fiery red poppies, creating a stunning contrast. Buttercups and purple lupines added their own vibrant touches, while distant hills rose in the backdrop beneath a serene cerulean sky. Lost in her own world, Emily found solace in the serenity of the painting, momentarily forgetting the discomfort. It was in this moment of solace that a man approached, joining her in contemplation of the artwork.

"It's quite beautiful, isn't it?" he remarked, admiring the painting alongside her.
"Too beautiful, perhaps," Emily replied, turning to the man with a smile. "It's serene, yet somehow alien. These flowers are rarely seen together like this."
The man nodded, appreciating her keen observation. "You have an eye for flowers. It's indeed rare to witness such a harmonious gathering of wildflowers in nature. But here, it's captured in perfect harmony."
"Perfect harmony," Emily repeated and smiled. "I like that."
The man smiled and extended his hand. "I'm glad you appreciate it. In fact, I'm the artist behind this painting," he revealed, his eyes gleaming with pride. "If you're interested, I'm open to selling it." Emily's eyes widened in surprise, momentarily caught up in the artist's enthusiasm. 
the piece would work well in her home office. There Thomas didn't have to see it. It would be here little framed window to a more peaceful place. 
But before she could respond, a familiar tug on her arm interrupted their conversation. Thomas had come over, his expression stern as he asserted his control. "Emily, we should continue," he said curtly, his grip tightening as he noticed her bare feet on the ground, urging her to conform to his plans, 'and meet the curator.'

Startled, Emily turned towards Thomas, torn between the allure of the painting and her husband's insistence. She glanced back at the artist and managed to quickly say, "Thank you, sir" The artist nodded understandingly, his smile fading slightly, as if he could sense the conflict between them. She slipped back into her heels.

The tight grip of Thomas's hand on her arm as they walked only heightened Emily's self-awareness. Each step through the gallery reinforced the discomfort of the ill-fitting dress, restricting her movements and stifling her spirit. She forced a smile, attempting to maintain an appearance of composure, but inside, she was unraveling.As they approached the curator, Emily's insecurities surged to the surface.

The curator greeted Thomas with enthusiasm, his attention solely focused on her husband. She tried to push aside her frustration, reminding herself that she should be supportive. But the more she suppressed her anger, the more suffocated she felt. The discomfort of the ill-fitting dress served as a constant reminder of her lack of agency in the situation. As she pulled at the fabric, readjusting it, she couldn't help but feel the weight of Thomas's control over her. It felt as though he had dragged her away to this event, only to treat her as if she had no mind of her ownAs she discreetly adjusted her dress once more,  she watched the animated expressions on their faces, the way they laughed and exchanged ideas. It was insufferable to watch from the sidelin

With a surge of courage, Emily gently removed Thomas's hand from her arm, breaking free from his grip. His confusion and annoyance were evident in his furrowed eyebrows. "I must admit, I took a particular liking to 'Spring's Tapestry'," Emily interjected carefullu. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but Emily continued before he could say anything. "The way the colors blend and the flowers come together, it's truly captivating. I couldn't help but be drawn to its alien beauty," she expressed, slightly mimicking the tone of voice Thomas often used when discussing his own art. The curator, now acknowledging Emily's presence, smiled warmly. "I'm glad the painting resonated with you. It's an extraordinary piece indeed." Thomas's dissatisfaction grew, and he shot Emily a disapproving glance. She faltered, feeling the weight of his disapproval. In that moment, her newfound confidence waned and she decided to not speak anymore. "Art has a way of evoking emotions in people. It's wonderful to see how individuals connect with different pieces," the curator diplomatically remarked. ''And thank you for your contribution tonight, Mr. Stanton.'' Emily, acutely aware of the dynamics at play, inwardly braced herself for the continuation of the evening.