Short Stories

The Painting

"The artists world is limitless. It can be found far from where they live or just a few feet away...but its always on his doorstep, knocking at the door to be greeted and welcomed"
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I don't know if other things remember their birth or point of creation, but I don't. The first moment of existence that comes to mind is being surrounded by darkness- but I know that I existed before that moment because I've heard talk about where I came from before it. But that is my earliest memory: blank darkness, the rustle of paper, and being jostled around while steadily gliding forward. Or perhaps it was backwards, sideways even. And muffled sounds- music: percussion, hard strings, and indistinguishable lyrics. No talking at first. No human conversation. That came later.

I don't know how much later. Time moves differently for me than it does for you, I would imagine. You have the luxury of clocks and calendars; you can quantify time in minutes, hours, days, months, and years. It almost doesn't exist for me. The concept does, but not the measurement.

The next moment I knew I existed started with ripping and then, finally, light. I wasn't blind before, but covered in plain brown paper I watched get thrown aside as a young woman's pale and dainty hands gripped the sides of me and held me up for a closer inspection.

"Beautiful" she sighed.

"I'd knew you'd like it. The moment I saw it at the gallary, I knew it'd belong to you" another voice said, deeper in tone compared to the womans. It came from behind me, I imagine the man it belonged to wanted to see the look on her face when she first saw me. And I like to think he got the reaction he was hoping for, because her face was pure loveliness as she gazed upon me. Bright blue eyes, who's intelligence seemed to glow as she let her eyes scan up and down, back and forth, taking in every detail I had to offer, rested above a straight, simple nose and flushed, well defined cheeks. Her smile stretched and illuminated her brilliant eyes when she redirected her sight to the gentleman behind me. One hand released my frame, and brushed brunette hair off a smooth forehead.

"Its perfect. Thank you. I love you" with that, I was set aside and could no longer stare in wonder at her face- but it wouldn't be the last time I saw it. In fact, I saw it forever after that some times in fleeting moments when she'd walk past me, and some times in marathon sessions when she'd sit alone on the brown leather couch, her feet tucked under her, a narrow knit blanket around her shoulders with a mug of hot chocolate warming her hands as she lost herself in whatever works the sight of me created in her imagination.

Of course, once I had a permanent place, I'd see his face, as well. It never seemed to express any honest expressions though. At least, in my assessment. In the beginning, she didn't seem to notice this- she would hug him or kiss him at any choose she got- he alone was rewarded with her most joyous laughter. And he generally seemed pleased with her, but gone was anticipation, the eagerness with which he'd waited for her reaction over me. I never heard him say, "I love you."

I never knew her laughter stopped until a day when I ached in the obvious absense of it. She began looking at me more and more often, with an earnest desire of longing and hopeless sadness etched in her pretty eyes. I wanted to find a new way to comfort her, knowing all her contemplation was no comfort at all. Torturous, more likely.

I did know when she reached her breaking point though. It would've been pretty difficult to miss. The man had long ceased to pass by me and she would begin to revert her eyes whenever she was in my room, until suddenly, things were in boxes, and two strange men carried the brown leather couch out of my view. A blonde lady I'd seen many times before grabbed my frame and lifted.

"Is it going with you are him?"

"Its mine. It was a present. But I don't think I can look at it anymore- too much memories."

"What are you going to do with it, then?"

The woman shrugged and started to weep. The blonde set me down, turned against a wall so I could no longer see either of them.

"Don't worry I'll take care of it for you"

Darkness once again and the sick feeling that I'd never get to see her again- that there would never be a smile so genuine in the face of anyone who looked at me.

When the darkness lifted some time later, I found myself in a white square room. On the opposite wall hung other paintings and portraits of other paintings whoses stories I'll never know. I could see more and more outlines and frames in my peripheral. People walked by in streams. I can see their faces. Their pensive, intelligent, stupid, bored, happy, sad faces. Their smiles are never enough.

No smile belongs to her.