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In memory of mortality
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2020-10-31 01:30:59Madam Alice was in her studio, painting on a large canvas. There was no music playing, no skitter of rain on the roof. She sat in a melancholic daze, focused on her brushstrokes she turned around. The painting was behind her, starch and morose. She turned back, shading her figure. When she turned back around to retrieve her thin paint-brushes near the painting, she stopped. Examined it with the tilt of her head. She noticed that its mouth was now closed. She bent down to touch it. The paint was wet. She could feel the matter on the tips of her forefinger and thumb. A loud clang made her shudder.
"Jesus Willow!" She slanted her head. Willow looked frenzied, panic-stricken. She turned back to the painting and if, by magic, the mouth was open. Back to its original state. Willow turned her by her shoulder.
"It's not done yet."
"What isn't done yet?"
Her gaze drifted to the portrait. Willow spoke in a faint tone."Do you think it's wise to put it amongst the rest of your work?"
Alice looked surprised. "Are you afraid?"
Willow was stunned. "I saw it."She took the portrait and turned it around so that it no longer faced them.
"And?" Madam crossed her arms, as calm as a virtue.
"You say, that the artist committed suicide?"
"Yes?"
"In England?" Madam Alice nodded but to her dismay, Willow shook her head. "That's improbable."
"How so?"
"The voices I heard, were French."
Willow looked down at the portrait. Contemplating a response." Do you know? What happened to the body?" Madam gave no reply, as she was stupefied. "He wasn't dead when they buried him, Alice."She looked at her afflicted. " He was buried alive."
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"This couldn't have been the best option sire."
His eyes darted from corner to corner, he doubted the lawfulness of the ceremony.
"Hush and call the Baptist."
Luderick stood in a suit before the grave, checking the sky for a time. He knew there would be no civil enquiries of the matter, that it was a voice to the wind. His composure was answered by the Baptist. In respect to the body, a small sacrum commenced. With a disarmed nod, it was over.
The grave had been left in the hands of God. That was the idea, to encompass holiness in the matter, yet, the grave was alive with the whispers of the dead. The body clattered with consciousness. The compression of the sand hadn't deterred its vitality. It called, but to no avail had there been an attempt to save it. A seed had been planted, one that reeked of misgivings. It banged until it was bloodied, screamed till it had no voice. The body remained so, stuck in a purgatory state of immortality. How unfortunate, to never die.
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