Wretched || H. Lecter

} CHAPTER FIVE {

} CHAPTER FIVE {

It was another gloomy day in Maryland, but I was desperate to make use of the day so I planned on visiting my favourite art gallery several blocks over from my apartment.

It took me a little while to walk over but I didn't mind. The cold wind felt comforting against my cheeks as I wrapped my jacket closer around my body, sheltering it from the weather.

I have always loved art. I loved the way it could tell a story through colours and shapes. I loved the way it meant different things to different people and depending on how you interpreted it gives an insight into who you are as a person. Your morals, your beliefs, your opinions.

Art could rip you apart, slowly piece by piece, making you feel things you could only ever dream of and leaving you exposed, vulnerable, and a broken shell of what you once were.

But it could also knit you back together, mould you into a better version of yourself and create a whole new perspective to view the world. It can expose both the beauty and horrors that inhabit our planet.

The gallery was busy with people from all backgrounds, their quiet chatter encompassing the building but I paid no mind. This was the one place I felt I could be myself like I wouldn't get judged for my past by these strangers.

My sole attention was on the array of masterpieces hung up inside each room and I felt my heart pounded ever so slightly louder as I took them in one by one. Every single one was an escape of the mind, all with the ability to transport you into a world akin to our own. But unlike this one, we can determine our fate and solitude. A world that could become our very own Marinette, where we were pulling the strings.

As I walked around the familiar architecture, I took it all in, all the beauty it had to offer. I strolled the gallery for hours, intrigued by the sight of the new additions to the white walls as well as the old.

I was just about to head home when a dark portrait caught my eye and I turned to face it with a small smile. It was at the right at the back, where a small group had gathered in front. They quickly admired the painting before moving swiftly on. I felt slight sadness at the lack of appreciation these strangers held towards one of the creations of John Singer Sargent.

The 'Portrait of Madame X' was created between 1883 and 1884 and it depicted a young woman in a long black dress with her hair tied up in an elegant updo. She was beautiful and flawless, everything I desperately wished I was. I wanted to be seen the way I saw her.

A similar portrait hung from my kitchen walls, gracing the room with its presence. It was almost entirely identical to the original and if you merely glanced at it, you would see no difference or distinction between the two but only those who bothered to notice, to observe. It was its polar opposite.

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I had gotten home that day around noon, filled with all the newfound motivation to pick painting back up again, that I had gathered from the gallery. Grabbing my art supplies from my cupboard and bringing out my easel, I set up a small painting station in front of my living room window.

I had got changed into old splattered overalls that I kept under the kitchen sink and grabbed one of my previous paint pallets before moving to face the pristine white canvas that lay propped against the easel in front of me.

I racked my brain for something, anything I could paint but my mind came up empty handed. I began to get frustrated with myself and the angrier I got, the more my motivation left me.

So there I stood, drained of inspiration and filled with a nasty feeling bubbling beneath my skin as I released a disheartened sigh. I put my brush down and plopped myself down on the couch, disappointed in myself as I switched on the television.