» / Prose/ Horror/ Portion of a Portrait/ Prologue/
| A woman looked over to a painting looming over in the distance, the canvas dry and cracked over the years of exposure stripping away its artistic splendour with every passing day. Nonetheless, the work still held within the details of its original image, portraying the beauty of a woman that had posed for this artist so long ago. Despite the rigours of the mistress of time, nothing could have possibly marred or hidden this woman’s intense beauty, nor the most intriguing smile which seemed to haunt anyone who looked upon it.
The poseur had obviously been young during its commission, probably in the early ages of womanhood as the glow of innocence still shone through in her eyes. The single-most striking detail was the dress this woman had worn, a dress that a woman of her station would never be able to afford. With such a slender build and soft skin were traits common to the lower classes of French society. No, this dress would normally have been tailored for the plump and full figured women of the frequenting the French court. The strokes of the artists brush used to produce this painting centuries ago, still echoed with the fervour that this artist possessed. Even from a distance, men and women of today could still recognize the wild untamed nature of the strokes, chaotic in detail but meticulously place when viewed in perspective. This passion was reflected not only painting before the observer, but also recorded in the life of the man himself. A mystery was how this artist, who could have ill afforded the materials needed to make this work, let alone the gown that fit his chosen model like a glove. This was not the simple gown of a courtesan, for which the subject would have most probably been, but the dress of a woman of the royal court itself. The details of the silk and lace, the quality of the corset and the way her body seemed to naturally mould itself to the restrictive layers of clothing prompted the spectator to shed a lonely tear. She cried for what had been lost. Recalling her own innocence as she once lived on the streets of Paris, a courtesan of high stature... Nothing more then a whore really and one that would forever be tortured by such memo... * * * * Victoria tore off a sheet of paper from her typewriter, crumpling the soft white material, attempting to throw it into the adjacent wastebasket. She watched it bounce off the contents of the already overflowing container, rolling onto the ground before eventually coming to a halt at the base of her feet. Reaching down to fetch the paper, the author remembered how that she had been at this for months; the imagery of this woman haunted her. Not a waking moment could be spent without thinking of the dark haired woman that was in many ways shadowing her soul, or at the least something aspects of herself she sought to become. Physically tired, worn and hungry, yet still thirsting to live as this fictional woman had done for what seemed to be centuries. Perhaps she just had an overactive imagination, yet in the end how could Victoria be certain of this? The only certainty was that she would eventually succeed in the task and through her writing carry forth into words the account of her characters fictional life. Imaginary to others perhaps, but to her the images that flashed through her mind and the emotions she felt were very much real. This woman was as real to Victoria as anyone walking upon this world and certainly more credible then the stars of television for which people associated with on a day-to-day basis. Was that any healthier then people addicted to reality television, wrestling or the deception and carefully crafted plots shown in a weekly soap opera? Her hand idled over the paper, unsure of its actions, waiting for its master to complete the task. Victoria deep in thought jerked up suddenly as she realized what she had been up to. “Only time will tell.” Victoria told to herself as another page was inserted into the antique typewriter, leaving the ball of paper behind on the ground, waiting to be re-discovered at another time. |
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