Chapter 8 – Portrait of a Young Boy

I can hear birds chirping around me, and I feel the sun on my skin when I wake up. I don’t know if I should be glad I didn’t have to die in the last painting to wake up elsewhere. Because even if I didn’t die, someone else did. And I killed him.

            I keep my eye closed. I don’t want to open them, because opening them will mean that I’ll see whatever this painting is, and it means I’ll have to face something awful again, and I’m tired.

            I’m exhausted. I don’t want to die again. I don’t want to hurt. I just want to be left alone for a second.

I want all of this to end somehow.

            “You’re not supposed to be here!”

            I open my eyes at the sound of the voice and find myself looking up at a young boy’s face. He can’t be older than fifteen years old.  His hair is brown slightly curly. He’s wearing a blue hat and a blue shell jacket with grey pants. There’s a mischievous glint in his brown eyes, like he’s got a secret he won’t tell but it probably has something to do with doing a prank on his teacher. He looks harmless enough, but I really can’t be sure. Last time I confronted a little boy, it didn’t exactly go well after all. “Excuse me?”

            “You’re not supposed to be here—this is my family’s property.”

            If trespassing is the worse that happens in this painting I might actually thank a deity. I’d even be happy with being chased by dogs off their property if it means I won’t get killed gruesomely again. Or that I won’t have to kill anyone… “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll leave…” I trail, slowly getting up on my feet. It’s a hard task because I hurt all over. Each one of my muscles is aching. When I touch the back of my head, there’s dried blood stuck in my hair. I must be an awful sight.

            I still manage to get upright though.

            The boy sees this. When I take my first step, he touches my arm. I flinch. “Hey, wait,” I don’t move. “Are you hurt?”

            Am I hurt? It’s a good question. From what I understand of this curse, the wounds inflicted in one painting don’t cross over to the next. But it doesn’t take away the memories of the pain. It doesn’t take away to pain that’s engraved deep within my bones. It doesn’t take away what happened even if there are no more wounds to show.

The wounds I have are within. And god do they hurt.

But that’s not what the boy is asking. He must take in my torn clothes stained with blood. “Not at the moment,” I reassure him. I start to leave again. His hold on my arm becomes firmer.

            “Are you okay?” he presses.

Am I okay? I look at him, almost desperately. “No, I’m not okay.”

            I see resolve in his eyes the second I answer him. “Wait here, alright?” he tells me, and then runs away.

            I don’t have the strength to call back after him. I don’t even have the strength to leave this place to be honest. Let him sick his dogs on me, have me chased by a mob of zombies, so I can be eaten by a giant.

I don’t care.

            Few minutes later, he comes back. His hands are full. I frown. When he’s close enough to hear me, I ask, “What’s this?”

            He hands me a flask in leather. “Water.” And then he lifts the side of the handkerchief in his hand, “Here’s some bread, you look like you need it.” It smells delicious, like it just got out of the oven.

            I can’t believe this. After everything I’ve been through this act of kindness… I have no idea what to make of it. It shakes me to my very core. “Thank…” I have to swallow the weight in my throat. I feel like I’m going to cry—I’m probably already crying. “Thank you,” I tell him. It’s not enough to truly express my gratitude but for some reason, the boy seems to understand.

            The first sip of water I take I realize just how truly thirsty I am. I’ve screamed and shouted and shrieked and yelled for I don’t even know how long. My throat is as dry as sand paper. My lips are chapped.

            I don’t think I’ve ever tasted water this good. From what the boy is wearing, I’m assuming we aren’t in the twenty first century, or the twentieth for that that matter. But I couldn’t care less about bacteria in water—it tastes like heaven.

            I start to bawl when I take my first bite of bread. My gums hurt when food touches my tongue. I’ve had a similar feeling once or twice, when I skipped eating for a while because I was too busy with school or something else. It’s very odd to explain, but it’s like my gums were aching to taste something. And this bread is warm and delicious.

            I don’t know when I fell back on my butt on the ground, but as I keep eating and drinking, I just cry and cry and cry.

            The boy doesn’t say a word. He just looks at me with hooded eyes, like he’s analysing me, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

            “Do you want me to go get some more,” he asks me after a little while.

I realize I’ve eaten everything. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask if you wanted some,” I tell him, surprised.

            He rolls his eyes at me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

            And suddenly, I find myself doing something I haven’t done in forever. I laugh wholeheartedly, sincerely. I laugh at his bold tone. And then I smile at him. I like that kid. He’s got spirit.    

            He smiles back at me. And then he frowns a little. “How did you get here anyway? One second there was nothing and the next you just appeared out of nowhere.”

            I look away. If I tell him the truth, will I be burned to the stake? Is this what this painting is about?

            I can’t tell him the truth, whoever kind he’s been to me. He wouldn’t believe me. “I’ve been sleeping in the middle of this field all day,” I answer him. There are lone trees here and there, but for the most part, it’s a field covered with very long weed. Lying down, people can’t see you. Hell, even sitting down we’re probably hard to spot.

            “You’re lying. I’ve looked all over the field when I got here, trying to find something nice to paint. You weren’t there.”

            “You paint?” I ask him. If he’s a painter, maybe that’s the reason why I’m here. Maybe there’s a painting out there of a young boy painting.

            “Don’t change the subject,” he answers.

            “Look, I don’t know,” I try to defend myself. It seems though that he can see through my pretense. It’s quite unnerving. “Maybe you didn’t look as well as you think.”

            He looks pensive again. “What do you have to hide?”

            I look away.

            He sighs. And then he hands me a piece of wood with paper stuck on it.

I take it carefully and it’s a painting of him, sitting under a tree. His face doesn’t exactly look like him, but the clothes are very similar.

“You actually painted this?” I ask him. Sure, the portrait of himself is a little sketchy, but the rest is really good. And I realize what’s going on, while holding this painting—I’m in this painting. It’s eerie to think about.

“Yes…” he answers me, a little unsure.

“How old are you?”

“Old enough!” he suddenly exclaims.

That makes me smile again. “Hey, don’t get mad. I’m just…” I sigh. I can’t believe it. Maybe this painting is a break before I get shredded like cheese in the next painting.  “Impressed. I could never be as good as you.”

It’s the truth saying that. Yes, I hate art, but this boy’s been nice enough to me and I can recognize that he has talent. And I never had any.

“That’s because you did not start painting young enough,” he tells me, taking back the painting.

I shrug. “Naw, it’s because I hate painting.”

I probably shouldn’t have said that because he looks appalled. “What!? How can you hate painting?”

I raise my hands defensively. “I just do, alright.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “That is not an answer.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever, you never answered my question,” I point out.

He looks like he isn’t going to answer me, but finally he does. “I’m almost fifteen.”

I smile at his answer. “So, you’re fourteen,” I tease.

He almost pouts, and crosses his arms over his chest, the painting in one of his hands, dangling beside him. “No, I’m almost fifteen.”

I chuckle. “Alright kid, you’re almost fifteen.”

He surprises me by dropping the matter. “Now, your turn. How did you get here?”

I’m about to repeat what I told him earlier, but for some reason I don’t. This boy fed me and he’s been kind to me. He might not believe me, but I don’t think telling him the truth will get me in trouble. And even if it does, I find myself wanting to tell him. I want someone to know. I don’t want to keep on carrying this burden alone. So, I take a deep breath and tell him, “I’m curse.”

He frowns automatically.. “To appear in random fields?”

I can’t help it, I smile. This boy is really something else. “No, I’m curse to live in paintings until I die…” I think back to the last painting, “or well, pass out I guess too.”

“How did that happen?”

I assume he loves art, but I still tell him the truth. I think I owe it to him, somehow. “I burned a museum because I was angry at art. Something went wrong and there was an explosion. Next thing I knew, I woke up and there was a kid telling me,” and for some, probably unnatural reason, I can remember by heart exactly what the crying boy told me, “Because you burned art without consideration for it or for the artists, Melody Orsay, you are condemned to roam from one painting to another, never resting until you understand the weight of your actions and the importance of art.”

The boy doesn’t say anything for a while. He just mulls this over. Finally, he takes a breath and says, “I don’t see how it can be a bad thing, living art, that’s sort of a dream.”

I snort. Yeah, no. “I woke up and there was an army of skeleton slaughtering people,” I tell him, thinking back to the first painting.

He frowns again. “Army of skeleton?”

“Yes.”

“That’s probably The Triumph of Death,” he tells me.

Well, what do you know, the boy knows his paintings. “Maybe, I don’t know…” And it’s true, unless he shows me the painting, I couldn’t tell him if this was its name or not. It sure as hell did feel like the triumph of death when I was there though. “The next painting, there was a giant eating his son, and then he ate me,” I tell him. I don’t know why I tell him… Well that’s not entirely true. I tell him because I need to tell someone, anyone. And he doesn’t look like he’s about to run away and have me thrown into an asylum. He looks like he’s genuinely interested, curious about this.

“Ouch…” His nose wrinkles in slight disgust. “That was probably Saturn Devouring his Son.”

Probably. And I smile. “You’re good at this,” I point out.

“Thanks.” He smiles too. “What was the next one?”

I chuckle. The way he seems enthusiastic about this, it feels like it’s some kind of question game to him, and he’s probably winning. “I was on a boat with a couple, and we were shipwreck. The woman drown,”

“And you?”

It’s funny that for a second there, I hadn’t thought about me and what had happened to me. I only thought about Ava and the nameless man, crying over her dead body. “Oh, yeah, I drowned too.”

“I don’t know that painting…” he trails. That seems to bother him. Maybe it hasn’t been painted yet. “What was the last one you were in?”

“I think I knew that one, Rape of the Sabrinas?” I tell him, well ask him really.

“You mean Rape of the Sabine Women?” he corrects me.

“Yeah, I guess I do…” I wrap my arms around myself automatically, thinking about it. “I killed a Roman,” I whisper.

“You killed a Roman?”

“Yes…” I breathe.

“Where are you from, if you’re skilled enough that you can kill a Roman?” he asks me, and again, he looks genuinely curious.

“I’m from the United States.”

“Seriously?” he asks, and he looks surprise. It’s good to know that whenever this is, my country exists.

“Yeah,” I smile.

“I guess I could see it.” He chuckles. “You’re young and crazy.”

I scoff, gaping at him, but laughing a little too. “We’re not young and crazy.”

“Yeah, you kind of are,” he smiles, teasingly. “But that’s interesting. And anybody that doesn’t get along with British dominion is usually good in our books. Or monarchy.”

I frown at his words. “Where are we?”

“We’re in Ornans, in France.”

I’m shocked. “Why aren’t you speaking French then?”

He looks confuse now. “Huh, we’re speaking French…”

I shake my head. “No, we’re speaking English.”

“Maybe that’s a perk of the curse. Were you speaking Latin with the Romans?”

“No, English too.”

“Never stopped to think about that?”

I guess I hadn’t. Now thinking back, that would make sense. Maybe this curse kind of works like the Tardis. “I had other things to worry about.” I tell him. And now I’m more curious. “What year is it?”

“1834. When are you from?”

1834. It’s hard to believe. “2014,” I tell him, waiting for his reaction.

“2014?!” he exclaims.

            I smile. “Yes.”

            He looks in the distance, like he’s trying to make sense of it. “Wow…”

            I nod. “Yeah…”

            And suddenly, he’s curious again. “How is it in your time?”

            Just like that, I find myself telling him. I tell him how much we fight to make things better, to have people equal, but for some reason, it’s not a shock. He tells me they’re doing the same thing now. Maybe that’s what we humans do. Always fighting for someone’s equality.

            I tell him of our awful wars, but of our discoveries in scientific fields. I talk about cars and planes and submarines and spaceships, and his eyes light up as I tell him we walked on the moon.

            I answer his questions and he starts to answer mine, and I find myself noticing that we might be from different times, but we’re not that different.

            After a while, Gustave gets up on his feet. I frown, surprise at his change in posture. “Well, what you wear might be okay in 2014, but in 1834, you kind of stand out.”

I look down at myself and laugh. “You mean the pants?”

“No, I mean the dried blood. You need to get washed.”

Oh, that too. I get up. “I don’t argue with that.”

“Come on,” he starts walking.

I follow him, but then ask, “Where?”

“To my house,” and then I stop walking. He turns back, “Look, don’t worry, my parents are gone to see family. And the maids don’t ask too many questions.”

“I’m not sure,” I trail. Maybe this is where the painting turns bad.

“I can have one of our maids make you a bath with warm water,” he tells me tauntingly.

The little rat… I start walking again. His beaming smile is contagious. “You’d make a good lawyer,” I tell him

He laughs. “I’d rather be a painter.”

“You’ll probably be…” I trail. “If I’m in your painting. If you’re real.”

His answer is quick and final. “I’m real.”

“Maybe not,” I point out. Maybe I’m having a conversation with a figment of my imagination. Maybe all of this really is just an hallucination.

“I am real,” he presses again.

“What’s your name?” I ask. I should have asked earlier. It’s kind of crazy that I still don’t know his name and we’ve talked for hours about everything and nothing.

“Gustave.”

“Gustave who?”

“Gustave Courbet.”

I frown. “I think I’ve heard your name before.”

“I hope so. Because I’m positive that I’m real.”

I shrug. “My track record would disagree.”

            It doesn’t take us too long to get to his house. It’s huge, like a mansion, and it’s by a river. I look at him differently just then. His parents must me loaded.

            “Are you sure you want to take me in your house?” I ask him, slowing my pace.

            “Why not?”

            “Are you a Duke or something?”

            “What?” He laughs. “No, my parents have a farm and lots of lands. I’m definitely not a Duke. My grandfather fought in the Revolution.”

            That surprises me for some reason. “He did?”

            “Yes, so definitely not a Duke. We’re pretty much anti-monarchy.”

            “Good to know,” I nod. And I follow him, though reluctantly. I’m not sure of this is a good idea.

            It’s beautiful inside the house. Sun shines through the many windows and the walls are full of tapestry and paintings. The furniture is mostly in wood, carved with intricate designs.

            I feel lost, but Gustave knows exactly where he’s going. I follow.

            When we reach a door, he turns to me. “Just wait here, okay?”

            I nod and listen.

            A few minutes later he comes out. “Follow me.”

            “What just happened?”

            “I ask the maid for that bath I promised you.”

            “And she’s just going to do it, no question asked?”

            He chuckles while taking off his small cap, ruffling his brown hair. “I just got back here from the seminar about a week ago. I’m the first and only son here. They’re more than happy to do my bidding.”

            “Seminar?” Is he planning on becoming a priest?

            “Yes, I got in when I was twelve, I’m learning to draw and paint there.”

            That makes sense. “You like it?”

            “Sure, well,” he ruffles his hair again, “I have a new professor, father Baud. He’s showing me to paint out in the open, outdoors, not cloistered in a room. I like that. I don’t really like to study or stay still for too long.”

            I smile at that. “Well that’s good that you like your teacher.”

            He looks down, his nose wrinkling. “I’m going to be sent to a college soon though.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes…” He sighs, “it’ll be okay, I hope.” He frowns when he says this. I hope for his sake that it is. He’s a nice boy. He deserves nice things to happen to him. He deserves to become a great painter if that’s what he wants. I hope he does. “Anyway, here we are.”

            We walk into a small room and he starts digging into a pantry. After a couple of minutes, he comes out grinning, holding a piece of clothing. “Here,” he hands it to me.

“What’s this?” It silly for me to ask, because I can see it. It’s a dress. A beautiful white puffy kind of blouse, with a little string at the front to tie it up, covered with a dark blue corset and skirt. It looks like something a cute dairymaid would wear. It’s beautiful.

“It’s one of my mother’s dresses,” Gustave tells me while I just stare at it.

“I can’t wear this,” I tell him. It’s beautiful but it belongs to his mother. Also, I’m not one to wear skirts or dresses. Sure, it would make me stand out less in these paintings, but it still not me.

“Sure you can, she doesn’t wear it anymore, it’s too small for her. She’s keeping it for one of my sisters. I doubt they’d mind. And you can’t put back the clothes you’re wearing now, even if we wash them. They’re in shreds.”

I look down at my jeans and t-shirt. He’s right, they are in shreds, in bloody shreds.

I sigh in defeat. “Are you sure?”

The beaming grin is back on. “I wouldn’t be offering it if I wasn’t.”

That boy. I smile at him. What else could I do? “Again, thank you.”

“You’re welcome Melody,” he tells me.

And then, just like that, he wraps his arms around me and hugs me. I almost start crying because of this simple gesture. I haven’t felt kindness in a while, and his hug is kind, and comforting and warm—everything I haven’t felt in so long. I haven’t been hugged in a while. Even before the curse, people didn’t hug me. My parents are gone, my grandmother is dead and Jarvis was never affectionate. He has his own demons to battle and comforting me isn’t in his job description. I care for him, but being with his is lonely sometimes.

After he lets go of me, I follow him to where my bath is at. He leaves me alone, and as I take off my clothes I realize how I much I truly needed this. I look at my body before stepping in the warm water. I’m covered in bruises. Maybe some of the wounds do follow in the next paintings. There’s dried blood all over my body too, even as far as in between my toes.

            I stay in the bath until it becomes cold.

I dry myself and put on the dress. I’m surprised that it fits as nicely as it does, and the corset isn’t one of those complicated ones to put, I just have to pull a little on the string in the front. I’m actually comfortable. But, anything that isn’t bloody clothes is an improvement from what I was wearing.

Gustave is sitting on the ground, waiting by the door when I walk out. He smiles when he sees me.

I smile back.

After that, we wash my boots—I might have agreed to get rid of my clothes, but the boots I keep.

We let them dry outside as we eat dinner—he managed to get two servings from the maids and we sit in the field again and chat easily.

He talks about his little sisters, Clarisse, Zoé, Zélie and Juliette. He talks about how much he loves it here, at home. He talks about his friend Max. But most of all he talks about painting, about what he wants to paint—real things, things he can see, honest things. It sounds nice when he says it. I can almost understand it in a way. Paintings have only been cruel to me, but I don’t think his paintings would have been. Art doesn’t have the same significance to him that it does to me.

            When the sun sets and my boots are mostly dry, we go back inside.

            “I’m tired,” Gustave says.

            “Me too,” I agree.

            “Do you have anywhere to stay, wait, that was a stupid question.” He laughs. I laugh too. “You can stay here you know? And don’t ask me what my parents would say. They wouldn’t care.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Certain.”

            “Alright.”

            We go to his room. I don’t want to take a guest room, in fear that his parents will find me and do something dreadful. I don’t want this painting to end catastrophically. I argue with Gustave, about who’s going to sleep on the floor, but after a while, I don’t have the energy. I’m laughing too much because he’s a goof and keeps making up unbelievable scenarios as to why a lady shouldn't sleep on the floor.

            “Alright, fine, I’ll sleep on the bed,” I finally give in. “And I do hope those rats come out tonight, and they eat off your toes while you sleep on the ground.”

            “It would be my pleasure.”

We settle in. After he blows out the candle, Gustave tell me, “Goodnight. See you tomorrow.”

I almost say it too but then I realize something. It’s not going to happen… “I’m so sorry, I’m not going to be here tomorrow.”

He sits up. “Why? Why would you leave?”

I turn in the bed to look at him. “You remember what I told you, right?”

“Yes, but you’re not dying or passing out. And you don’t need to leave. You can stay here and sleep in my room all the time if you want.”

I smile at the thought. Adorable kind boy. “I wish I could Gustave, I wish things could work that way but they don’t.”

And suddenly I can see his lips shaking under the moon light. “What have I done wrong?”

I get up from the bed and go to sit beside him in the ground, patting his knee comfortingly. “Oh nothing, you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. You’ve done everything right actually. For the first time in what feels like forever I’ve actually been happy and not in pain. And he won’t have it, whoever is controlling this. Having me happy doesn’t work in his plans.”

For some reason, I expect the boy to sniffle or show signs that he might cry, but his voice is only dead serious and almost angry when he answers me. “That’s not fair.”

Fair… I don’t know if it is, but fair or not, it isn’t going to change anything.

“I know. And I’m sorry. I wish I could stay.”

“I wish you could stay too.”

“But at least we had a nice day,” I nudge him, smiling.

He smiles back. “We had.”

Looking in his eyes, I think about what this painting means. Why was I taken here? I didn’t suffer, or felt pain, or even guilt. What was the plan behind this?

“You look tired,” he tells me. I don’t answer, because the answer is obvious. I am. Dead tired. I go back to his bed.

And now, at night, lying on this bed, for the first time for I don’t know how long, I don’t go because I got killed or because I lose consciousness because I couldn’t take it anymore. No, this time I just close my eyes, and I fall asleep.