Fun, thriller

The Woman in the Portrait

     Oh the years that have passed as I yearn to be seen. Notice me. Please notice me. I beg of you, new man of greatness who has come to possibly own this home. Can you see me? Can you see me looking at you?
      I am quite certain my history will soon be told to you. It is told to each person who enters this great mansion. Each person is always amazed to know that I, Elizabeth Watts, lived my entire life in this impressive home. They stare at me in total admiration as the story unfolds. Some of them have been kind enough to caress my weathered skin. My skin that continues to fissure over the years. These lines that resemble the look of a woman who has been cut over a hundred times and poorly sewn back together. These lines are caressed and looked at as the beautiful aging of artwork. And oh how I have aged alone. How I am so desperate for someone to know I am here.
      Can you see me? Dear Lord, can you SEE ME? Please tell me that you see me looking back at you.
You do have beautiful, deep brown eyes. I love how they are connected to mine. You must see me looking at you. Don’t you? Say something! So long it has been since a man has spoken directly to me. Tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me that my beauty surpasses all of the warm sunsets you have beheld in your lifetime.
      When they tell you my story, you will learn my life was abruptly taken in this home. There was a menacing fire. It happened so quickly, and I had nowhere to go. Nowhere! The searing pain was ghastly, and when the pain ended, I fled to safety as quickly as possible. I hid in this picture. It was high, so high above the flames, and I was safe. When the fire had been put out, I could see my body below. Burnt. Every last area of my body was scorched. I tried to get a closer look, but found myself trapped. Here, in this painting of myself. And I have been here ever since.
      I know you see me looking at you. No one has ever kept their gaze on me for such a long period. It is wonderful, knowing you see me. I can feel it. Say something. Anything.
“Hey, Honey, can you come over here?”
Who are you talking to? Who is this woman?
“I love this house, Babe!”
Why is she calling you “Babe”? Don’t let her take your attention from me. Please! You are the first to ever know I am here.
“Yeah, Honey, I love it too. Except this picture is freaking the fuck out of me. If we buy the house, we’re burning it. Okay with you?”
“Of course, Babe. Too bad, she is so beautiful.”


Written by Sheryl Marasi (pen name)


AUDIO version


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Artist to photo is unknown.  Photo was the inspiration behind this story.



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