"I must have hit my head a lot harder than I had anticipated, or maybe breathe too much smoke because this is definitely nut-case crazy. Or a very creepy dream that feels way too real for my own good. I can pat my subconscious on the back for that o...
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I wake up in what can only be an art studio.
It's not the art studio I want to be in though.
My hands go to Gustave's jacket pockets, my fingers tracing the few trinkets in there. It's comforting, having this piece of him with me.
Sure, it doesn't exactly smell like Gustave anymore, but it's like he's there with me his arms around, telling me everything is going to be okay.
I will go back to him.
But for now, I am here.
My clothes are dry now, and I'm not freezing anymore, though it's like I can still sort of feel a weird tingling in my fingertips, like they've just defrosted.
Thinking about this makes me think about the last painting.
Getting eaten by a bear probably wasn't even in my worst scenarios. It wasn't even the worst way I'd been eaten, which is kind of a ridiculous realization.
These paintings are definitely changing my perspective on a lot of things. I can think about that later though. For now, I should figure out what I'm dealing with here.
I get up.
I look around.
The space looks like it's a Victorian, or some fancy old timey house, but there's canvases and art stuff everywhere.
And the more I look... the more I think I know where I am.
Not a lot of people painted like this.
This is a very specific art style, that anyone could probably pinpoint.
I think I'm in Pablo Picasso's studio.
Just as I think that, an old man comes into the room, with a box in his hand.
He stops walking. Looks at me. Frowns.
"I'm not supposed to have visitors today," he says, and walks past me to head to a table, where there's a big piece of paper lying.
He takes a piece of fusain from the box he was holding, and starts tracing on the paper.
"I'm not a usual kind of visitor," I reply, staying at a distance.
He looks like a grumpy old man. Not sure I want to get punched by Pablo Picasso today.
"Obviously. If you just break and enter into people's home. I'll call the police if you don't leave. Are you here to steal something?" he asks, not looking my way.
"I'm not here to steal anything. I'm here..."
Why am I even here? I still haven't figure this out. Why some paintings, and not others.
