Innocence and power

a murder witness

Izel Misora Sartori
"Hi, I'm Izel Misora Sartori. My friends call me Izzy, and my art professors call me 'that girl who always paints outside the lines.' I'm twenty-one, a fine arts student at NYU, and I work part-time at a cozy little bookstore called 'Whispering Pages.' Yes, it's as quaint and magical as it sounds. And yes, I do love comics. But before you get too excited, my life is not the whirlwind adventure of a comic book hero. In fact, it's quite the opposite."

The alarm blared, jolting me from my dream of being a renowned artist displaying my work in a Parisian gallery. Groggily, I fumbled to silence the noise, knocking over a pile of comic books in the process.

"Good morning, New York!" I announced to my empty apartment, tripping over my own feet as I made my way to the tiny kitchen. Breakfast consisted of cereal, which I managed to spill, and a cup of coffee that only tasted slightly like dish soap.

After a quick shower and a frantic search for my favorite paint-splattered jeans, I was out the door. My first class was Art History, taught by Professor Grump-uh, I mean, Professor Grunfeld. He had the uncanny ability to make the Renaissance sound as exciting as watching paint dry. But I loved it anyway. Each lecture felt like diving into a time machine, exploring the masterpieces and lives of artists I aspired to be like.

"Hey, Izzy!" Mia's voice brought me back to the present. Mia is my best friend and fellow art enthusiast. She's vibrant, full of life, and always has the best ideas for our impromptu art projects.

"Mia, did you finish the assignment?" I asked, hoping she had some insights I could borrow.

"Finished it? I barely started it!" she laughed, linking her arm with mine as we walked into the lecture hall. "But I have this brilliant idea. Imagine if Van Gogh had a Twitter account..."

Classes blurred into a medley of sketches, critiques, and more coffee. By the time I reached the bookstore for my shift, I was ready for a change of pace. Whispering Pages was my sanctuary, a haven of old books and the comforting scent of paper. Mrs. Hopkins, the elderly owner, was like a grandmother to me, always offering wisdom and the occasional cookie.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hopkins!" I greeted, setting my bag down behind the counter.

"Hello, dear. Busy day?" she asked, peering over her glasses.

"You could say that," I replied, flashing a tired smile.

The bookstore was my escape, a place where I could immerse myself in stories and forget about the stress of deadlines and critiques. Each book held a world of possibilities, much like my paints and canvases. When there were no customers, I would sketch or read, losing myself in the endless adventures contained within those pages.

As I organized the new arrivals, the familiar bell chimed, signaling the arrival of a customer. I looked up, but this time it was just one of our regulars, Mr. Thompson, an elderly man who loved detective novels. I felt a sense of relief, glad to have a mundane interaction.

The rest of my shift passed uneventfully. As I closed up shop, I couldn't help but think about how predictable my life was. Little did I know, that was about to change.

Later that night, I decided to take a stroll to clear my mind. The city had a way of inspiring me, its lights and energy fueling my creativity. I wandered through the familiar streets, lost in thought, when I heard something that made me stop in my tracks.

Voices. Harsh and urgent, coming from somewhere nearby . It was a dead end of a backstreet .

Curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked around the corner. What I saw made my blood run cold. A tall, imposing man with an air of authority was there, his figure looming over another man who was on his knees, pleading.
"t-trust me Ra--iven I w--won't do it a-gain"

"Trust is a currency I rarely spend"

and the tall man's voice was cold, devoid of any mercy.

Before I could process what was happening, the tall man pulled out a gun and, without hesitation, fired. The sound of the shot echoed through the silent backstreet, and the man collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound. The tall man's head snapped up, his piercing eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, with a terrifying calm, he started walking toward me.

Panic surged through me. I turned and ran, my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear his footsteps behind me, steady and unhurried, as if he knew I had nowhere to go.

"Stop!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the night air.

I didn't stop. I couldn't. I ran until my legs burned and my lungs ached. Finally, I ducked into a small park, hiding behind a statue, hoping he wouldn't find me.

I listened, my breath ragged, for any sign of him. Minutes passed, and when I finally dared to peek out, there was no one there. I sank to the ground, my body shaking with fear.

What had I just witnessed? And who was that man?

Back in the safety of my apartment, I tried to calm myself. I made a cup of tea with trembling hands, the mundane task grounding me slightly. I couldn't get the image of the man's lifeless body out of my mind, nor the cold ruthlessness in the tall man's eyes.

I needed to tell someone, but who? And would they even believe me?

As I sipped my tea, I resolved to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. My life was complicated enough without getting involved in whatever dark world that man inhabited.

But deep down, I knew it wouldn't be that simple. His piercing gaze had left an indelible mark on me, one that I couldn't easily forget.

My life, while not extraordinary, was filled with small moments of joy and creativity. I had my dreams, my friends, and my art. And though the world could be harsh and unforgiving, I faced it with a hopeful heart and an open mind.

Little did I know, my life was about to change in ways I couldn't have imagined. The innocent, predictable world I knew was on the brink of colliding with something much darker and more dangerous. And at the center of it all was that mysterious man with the piercing eyes.

But for now, I was content in my little bubble of innocence and dreams, blissfully unaware of the storm that was brewing on the horizon.
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Dear Reader,✨⚜️

Thank you for joining me on this journey into Izel's world. I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into her life, filled with dreams, creativity, and a hint of mystery. If this chapter has captured your imagination and left you wanting more, I would love to hear your thoughts. Your feedback means the world to me and inspires me to continue this journey with you.

Did you enjoy this chapter? Please let me know!

With warmth and gratitude,
Gothic fantasy ✨