My mind wavered. The enjoyment of being on the non inquisitive side dissipated. On one hand I appreciated the interest Lyle took in me, it even made my heart flutter – though I did my best to ignore it. It wasn't the questions I minded, it was the context behind their answer.
I struggled to keep my hands steady. If I were to take a blood pressure test I am sure my levels would've shot up three fold at the thought of my mother.
No less than a week after I tucked Mo Soileireacht into Unit #16 they started.
It was Ironic that I'd taken the paintings back because of a worry that I'd forget them. My mind made it terrifyingly clear there was no way my subconscious could erase such an anchor point in my life.
They began innocently enough, my hallucinations, like the one at the train station. First I would catch a glimpse of my mother's work on a plate as I washed it. In fear I would drain the water and throw the wash cloth to the side afraid that the suds would erase her work. Her paintings appeared in guests rooms as well, under their beds and nightstands leaving me searching their rooms for hours on end while I was supposed to be changing their linens. By the month I lost track of how many unlikely visions distracted me from a days work.
By the second month they grew worse. Her paintings began appearing all over the house – sometimes three at once - hanging from the ceiling or inside cabinets. Upon seeing them I had the immediate need to rescue them, shirking all other responsibilities.
One afternoon, when most guests were off in town of hiking and I'd just finished making my cleaning rounds I caught the side of a simple wood frame out of the corner of my eye. I was walking along the balcony when I saw it. A serene take on a forest that thinned out at the side leading to a pristine lake.
No bigger than a magazine the painting hung from the middle of the chandelier, eye height with me as I stood at the edge of the balcony. A string looped around the frame loosely as the painting hung at an odd angel, threatening to fall at any moment.
I had to get it down.
I remember the intense feeling that swelled in my gut and numbed my rationale. Once I began a hallucination there was reasoning, that part of me was completely gone, replaced with a neurotic need to rescue my painted friend.
In no time I'd stacked unused cardboard boxes against the railing to form a makeshift latter. I was unafraid as I took my first step and didn't bother to register the cardboards wilt as I made my way to the third box level with the balcony railing.
In all my other allusions I'd always waken up before I went too far. Before I went through a guests belongings or before I removed every plate from the cabinets in search of the one hiding my mother's painted face.
That afternoon was different, and as my right foot floated out in front of me there was no register of the danger. No ability to resonate the thin air that stretched out before me.
A shriek, not my own mind, is what snapped me from my trance. With one scream she tackled me to the ground, leaving the top wobbly cardboard stair to crumple over the railing.
I remembered little else of the event and for some reason Grace was – for once in her life – reluctant to share the details. It was apparent to me that my action scared her deeply, and we never spoke of the event again.
Seeing Grace terrified out of her mind made me upset with myself. How could I loose control so easily? I needed to change if I was going to keep my friends and myself safe. How had I done it before? There was never a time in my life where I attempted to detached myself completely from my mother's mystery, but why was I reacting in such a visceral way now?
YOU ARE READING
The Painting
Mystery / Thriller"It took me five seconds to fall. The impact on my chest jarring my body but not my mind. I suppose this is the point where your life is supposed to flash before your eyes as time itself freezes - and it did in a way. But I didn't relive my life phy...
