The Art of being Strangers

ii.

Lunch break was my least favorite part of the day. That, and math. Chemistry too. I hated them. The students usually eat in the cafeteria, sitting and laughing in groups. I preferred eating in the classroom and I noticed that so do other classmates of mine. Today, however, there was only me and another person eating in the classroom. It's this girl from my class – Marigold was her name, I think – that never eats alone. She's always in the cafeteria with her friends. And boyfriend, by what I've heard. So, I was really surprised to see her eat in the classroom. She was sitting in the seat beside me. The fact that she was eating chips surprised me more than it should've. I guess I never thought of bringing chips instead of sandwiches to school. Hmm, maybe I should try that.

I wasn't hungry, though. So instead of trying to start a conversation with her, I decided to go look at Basil's paintings and search for any possible clues I could find.

His paintings were put on display in the main hall. Part of the reason they were there was for remembering Basil, and the other part was for their beauty. All of his paintings were stunning. I could stare at them for days and not get bored. There were always tiny details that would catch my eye and made me question the reason they were truly there. I found myself looking at one of his most known paintings: An oil painting of a raven clawing its way out of a young boy's chest. The boy was sprawled on a frozen lake, his eyes white and blind, his mouth open in a last word. The clothes he wore were shredded and soaked with blood and saliva. The bird emerging from the boy's chest looked toward the sky. Its wings were spread as if it was preparing to fly, and its hooked talons pierced the boy's heart. But it wasn't the gore, broken ribs, or the frozen heart that disturbed me. It was the amount of detail he put into the boy's emotion that made my skin crawl.

"It's quite pretty, isn't it? That's my favorite piece that I've painted. Actually, no. There's another one I liked better. Such a shame I can't paint anymore."

My heart jumped out of my chest and my muscles tensed up. My eyes were filled with terror. When I realized what was going on, I felt a bit more relaxed. Basil was standing near me, his eyes locked on his own artwork. And then it hit me again. I forgot he was "dead". Basil, clearly ignoring my short panic attack, continued talking.

"This one's my favorite," he pointed at one of the paintings. It was a portrait, but the subject had no skin. No, that's not accurate. Some frayed ribbons of skin were still stuck to the muscle as if the subject had been flayed hastily by someone who hadn't cared enough to do it properly. A gaping hole yawned where the nose should have been, and the bulging eyes gazed heavenward and to the left at something or someone off the edge of the canvas. "Self-portrait," Basil said after a moment of silence. I had to tear my eyes from it.

"That's you?"

Basil nodded.

"That's what you see when you look in the mirror?" I asked.

"It was when I painted that," was his reply.

"Who tore your skin off?"

"I tore it off myself."

"Why?"

Basil sighed, and I wasn't sure he was going to answer, but then he said, "Snakes get to shed their skin, why shouldn't we?"

"But why would you want to shed your skin?" I couldn't stop staring at the painting, looking for any detail that would give me insight into the real Basil Farrow. If his paintings were any indication, then there was more to him than I had imagined. He didn't reply.

"What do you see when you look in the mirror now?" I wondered.

"Can I really look into mirrors right now?" he said, letting out a sad laugh.