Artbeat

Chapter V

- CARSON -

I took step into the museum, unsure if Mr. Donovan still followed behind me or not. The soft glow of sunset filters through the skylights above, casting a warm, golden light on the art pieces scattered throughout the halls.

The air is thick with the scent of old books and canvas, a familiar comfort that took me in like a gentle hug.  The silence is almost heavy, broken only by the soft creak of the old wooden floors beneath my feet and the distant hum of the city outside.

As I wander through the galleries, my eyes feast on the vibrant colors and textures of the art pieces, each one a window into a different world, a different story. The brush strokes dancing across the canvases that filled the largely spaced room.
The colors all blending and swirling in a mesmerizing rhythm.

Places like this, make me feel like I'm walking through a dream, the art pieces coming alive as I gaze upon them, their beauty and emotion resonating deep within me.
Places like this, where I could stay here and wonder around for days and not realize time pass by past a few hours. This was my idea of paradise.

The museum is almost empty, the few patrons scattered throughout the halls lost in their own worlds of wonder and contemplation. I feel like I have the entire space to myself, the art pieces my own personal treasures to discover and savor.

As I continued to wander through the galleries, my eyes land on a painting that makes my heart skip a few beats. It's a piece unlike any I've seen before, standing out from the rest - a swirling vortex of colors, a dance of light and shadow that seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy. It's beautiful.

But as I stepped closer, gazing deeper into the painting, something shifts. The colors that initially drew me in now seem jarring, discordant. The brushstrokes that once appeared bold and expressive now feel chaotic, frenzied.
I feel a lump form in my throat as I gaze upon the painting, my own emotions resonating with the artist's. It's ugly.

"Beautiful, isn't it?", a voice beside that had gone unnoticed spoke.
I became aware of a presence beside me. I sense a tall figure, motionless and now silent, like a shadow cast by the art itself.

I feel a shiver run down my spine as I realize I'm not alone in my contemplation.
Slowly, I turn to face the man, my eyes meeting his gaze. He's still focused on the painting. The man's eyes seem dull and distant, lost in the depths of the painting. His gaze is intense, yet sorrowful, as if he's searching for something within the brush strokes and colors.

"Well...at the first glance, the story the painting tells of hope and beauty", I tell my first honest thoughts of the art piece out loud, answering his question, "But it screams nothing but of darkness and despair, its message one of hopelessness. Its colors and shapes are all a cacophony of pain and anguish.

One might see themselves in the painting, their own struggles and fears reflected back at them like a mirror."

I feel a knot form in my stomach as I said the last words, my heart racing with a sense of unease. For the first time, my solace in art has failed me.
Everything came back all at once. Everything that made my life undeserving for anyone to live no matter what wrong they did in this life or the past one.

The familiar comfort of losing myself in a beautiful piece has given way to a sense of discomfort, like a discordant note that refuses to resolve.
The air around me seems to vibrate with the same frenzied energy as the brush strokes, making my skin prickle with unease. I feel exposed, like the painting has stripped away my defenses and revealed my own darkest fears and doubts.

The silence between the stranger and me feels oppressive, like we're both trapped in the painting's vortex, unable to escape the turmoil it represents.

Instead of comfort, I find only reminders of my troubles. The painting seems to be taunting me, its beauty turned to ugliness in the quickest way I didn't believe possible.

For a moment, we just stand there, two strangers connected by our shared fascination with the painting. The air is thick with tension, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.
I feel his eyes deep and piercing, and I feel like he's seeing right through me, into the depths of my very soul.

I take a step back, my eyes never leaving his face, and wonder who this man is, that he's so captivated by the same painting that has stirred up such emotions in me.

I feel my eyes watering up, tears threatening to roll down my cheek, and I'm shocked to realize that because I had always kept my emotions on lock. Two firsts in less than two days, not good ones for that matter. I pulled my mask up my nose further, taking another step back before my back bumped into someone's chest behind me.

I turned and looked up to find Mr. Donovan's eyes, filled with concern, wondering what had happened.
I had not heard his strides, his footsteps echoing through the silent museum.

"Miss Carson, are you ready to leave?", he asks, his voice soft and gentle.

I try to speak, but my voice catches in my throat, and all that comes out is a faint whisper, "Yes, please."

He guided me away from the painting, and I feel a sense of relief wash over me as we leave the haunting artwork behind.

As we step out into the cool evening air, I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering emotions. You're okay.
Mr. Donovan's eyes never leave mine, his expression a mix of worry and understanding. "Mrs. Donovan is waiting at home for you", he says, his voice a soothing melody that calms my racing thoughts.

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