Masuk"Hi yes, it's me again."
Her voice was shaking but she continued," It's gone? Already?" Her eyes were veering from the floor to the object in front of her.
"And you're sure its sent to its place of origin?" She nodded.
"Well funny story." She walked towards the object. Checked it's markings at the back.
"It's in my possession." She stood back. It was as she remembered it, harsh contours lining a ghastly face. It's hollow eyes dripping with emotion.
"I'm sure." She touched it and felt the dry acrylic.
"I have no idea." She stood back to fully grasp the painting at its haunches.
"Ok, in a few days." She tilted her head.
''Would it be alright if I send it? I'd like to examine it if you don't mind, of course, I won't obscure the painting in no shape and form." The line mumbled.
"Great, thank you." The line went dead, not by her own doing. When she was about to say goodbye, it started to crackle. She thought the signal was bad but that was improbable. She could hear what sounded like, muffled sobs...
She immediately called Harry, thank god she did. "Harry, it's here!"
"What is?"
"The painting !"
"What do you mean by 'It's here'?"
"I can't explain it, just get home as soon as you can."
"No problem."
She left staring at it and thought that she should really call Crystal and ask her input. Right after, she'd call Madame Alice. She dialled Crystal's number and it went straight to voicemail. Odd, she thought. She always picked up her phone right before her classes started. She figured she was busy and decided to call her later. If she got the same results she'd just pop by her studio and check up on her.
"Hello, Madame Alice?"
"And this is?"
"Dona, Dona Claire, I'm the art blogger from the other day."
She said a type of 'oh' that sounded sarcastic," What can I help you with mon cher."
"This will sound crazy but—" Madam interrupted her.
"Darling, crazy people are the best kind of people."
She was wearing a classic trench coat, with a fedora and that hid most of her red hair. Sitting across from a concerned family, she stated."Like any private detective, I have seen many things in my years, even previously as a former agent."She took her hat off and entwined her fingers. "But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come." As the husband held his wife in his arms, she wailed as the detective continued. "I am sorry for your loss."
There she was. As a lusting satyr grabbed at a feminine figure, Dona was now the sleeping Hermaphrodite artwork. Approaching her from the rear, Harry thought she represented Venus, but, the front side revealed something unexpected.Why had she been represented as Aphrodite's son and not Aphrodite herself? She was stark naked, posing like a doll with no expression. He wanted to touch her, to stroke her cheek and feel the urgency of the scene in front of him. His chest was caving in, and he found it hard to breathe. The tears st
The doorknob twisted and a light twinkling of metal came from outside. With murderous intent, Harry flung open the door, clinging onto the arch in need for support. Like a cunning serpent, he entered the garden of artworks. Grabbing his phone torch; he lit his way through the gallery.The air was dry, and his sinuses gnawed at him. He sneezed so hard he stumbled into something near the wall. It was wet paint. The gallery was still in the making, the interior design was incomplete, but there were
No matter the room, the smell of rotting flesh followed him like a shadow. He had to steady himself on the walls, trying to escape the voices. Fervent wailing and inaudible speech vibrated all around him. He staggered his way to an unassuming door at the far end of the house.He turned his back to it as soon as he fell, rolling down the door with his stomach clenched. He held his head in his hands, shaken and confused he looked up. Looking down the hallway, the paintings and all their tumult ceased. He was now able to breathe,
*Trigger Warning* This chapter contains graphic contents.Breathless, he stood outside of Tony's residence. His throat was dry, as he swallowed in the sultry rage bobbing around his apple. He kept flicking his forefingers together. It was the witching hour, and he didn't care.
His ribs convulsed with every breath as he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees. Sweating profusely he tried to stand but rocked his way back to the bed. He felt groggy, a headache, was waiting for him along with the clutter of a new day. He stood and stretched his shoulders, twisted his neck and walked towards the studio.He'd find himself wandering around like a desert wind, without a place to rest. He tried to stay busy with something other than work- he knew that it was a bad idea to be enthralled by the