Portrait of a Girl

The Old Man

She spins around, not knowing how she ought to feel. Scared of such a stern presence in what was, possibly, her own home? Relieved that someone had come to her aid? Angry at the harshness of the shoulder grabbing? Or, even, ashamed of her anarchic conduct? But the face that greeted her as she turned around in no way matched the severe manner of the hand that had grabbed her shoulder. The man who stood before her had gentle, wide blue eyes filled with gentle melancholy. His shoulder length grey hair was patchy and uneven, and his face was lined with a whisper of some far off long forgotten smile. He gazed at her with no hint of any judgement, but rather with a shy curiosity as to why she had resorted to such rambunctious behavior.

Suddenly as she had started, she stops, as if the sight of the man's old and kindly face had replaced her overwhelming terror with a soft tranquility that washed over her in a sparkling mist of calm. She is so absorbed within this wave of calm that she doesn't hear his sharp and raspy, yet benign, voice speaking full of an obvious note of concern. He shakes her shoulder gently, his eyes filled with perturbation. Bringing her gaze back to him, she looks up.

"Miss, are you OK?", he whispers softly, as if a sudden loud noise may send her on a rampage.

"Oh," She mutters, her trance finally lifted, "Well... I suppose..."

"Miss," he says again, slightly louder this time, "do you need me to go get help?"

"No," She replies, more clearly this time, "I am fine, just a little bit... lost?"

"Oh," he replies with an air of disbelief, "Well, you must be very lost, after all, we've been closed for the holidays for the past three days."

She looks at his concerned face. These words, this revelation that the house was not hers, but some strangers', stirs in her a desire to leave, but she knows that to venture so quickly into the unknown is not wise. But still, something is most certainly wrong here, beyond just her sudden loss of identity.