Life in Paintings

Chapter 8 - Portrait of a Young Boy

 Chapter 8 – Portrait of a Young Boy

I can hear birds chirping around me, and I feel the sun on my skin when I wake up. I don’t know if I should be glad I didn’t have to die in the last painting to wake up elsewhere. Because even if I didn’t die, someone else did. And I killed him.

            I keep my eye closed. I don’t want to open them, because opening them will mean that I’ll see whatever this painting is, and it means I’ll have to face something awful again, and I’m tired.

            I’m exhausted. I don’t want to die again. I don’t want to hurt. I just want to be left alone for a second.

I want all of this to end somehow.

            “You’re not supposed to be here!”

            I open my eyes at the sound of the voice and find myself looking up at a young boy’s face. He can’t be older than fifteen years old.  His hair is brown slightly curly. He’s wearing a blue hat and a blue shell jacket with grey pants. There’s a mischievous glint in his brown eyes, like he’s got a secret he won’t tell but it probably has something to do with doing a prank on his teacher. He looks harmless enough, but I really can’t be sure. Last time I confronted a little boy, it didn’t exactly go well after all. “Excuse me?”

            “You’re not supposed to be here—this is my family’s property.”

            If trespassing is the worse that happens in this painting I might actually thank a deity. I’d even be happy with being chased by dogs off their property if it means I won’t get killed gruesomely again. Or that I won’t have to kill anyone… “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll leave…” I trail, slowly getting up on my feet. It’s a hard task because I hurt all over. Each one of my muscles is aching. When I touch the back of my head, there’s dried blood stuck in my hair. I must be an awful sight.

            I still manage to get upright though.

            The boy sees this. When I take my first step, he touches my arm. I flinch. “Hey, wait,” I don’t move. “Are you hurt?”

            Am I hurt? It’s a good question. From what I understand of this curse, the wounds inflicted in one painting don’t cross over to the next. But it doesn’t take away the memories of the pain. It doesn’t take away to pain that’s engraved deep within my bones. It doesn’t take away what happened even if there are no more wounds to show.

The wounds I have are within. And god do they hurt.

But that’s not what the boy is asking. He must take in my torn clothes stained with blood. “Not at the moment,” I reassure him. I start to leave again. His hold on my arm becomes firmer.

            “Are you okay?” he presses.

Am I okay? I look at him, almost desperately. “No, I’m not okay.”

            I see resolve in his eyes the second I answer him. “Wait here, alright?” he tells me, and then runs away.

            I don’t have the strength to call back after him. I don’t even have the strength to leave this place to be honest. Let him sick his dogs on me, have me chased by a mob of zombies, so I can be eaten by a giant.

I don’t care.

            Few minutes later, he comes back. His hands are full. I frown. When he’s close enough to hear me, I ask, “What’s this?”