“La Familia. This masterpiece is an additional piece to our art collection.” The gallery staff started as she observed the visitors with her big, round eyes. “It was only donated by an anonymous local.” She continued as she presented the abstract, realistic portrait.
The portrait depicted a dark room with obstructed light rays peeping from behind the drawn curtains. There was a teenage girl at the center. Her kneeling position gave a picture of begging for either forgiveness or mercy. She cried scarlet tears which portrayed her poignant plead for life. The life that was departing her body every second of being censured as well as by being beaten.
“She must’ve lived a tormenting life.”
Everyone turned in Munin’s direction upon hearing her words.
“You think so?” the staff asked in amusement. “You are a keen observer and have an eye for a masterpiece,” she said.
Then, the woman swayed her ponytail, which was obviously dyed blond. She shifted her focus on the other painting and guided the gallery visitors to it.
Munin was left in front of La Familia as the group proceeded. And there she stood, frozen, for she didn’t know how long.
She felt a sudden connection with the art, especially to the crying woman stooped amidst five masked tormentors—all were clutching their paddles—while onlookers swamped wanting to inspect of her agony. In a snap, Munin was drawn inside the crying lady’s world by a whirlpool not visible to the naked eye. It could probably swirl any art critic viewing the subject’s anguish.
The heart-tearing scream of the lady at the center, who begged off as blood came gushing from both her eyes, shattered Munin’s vital organ to pieces without warning. The soft yet annoying wicked laughter of insult and mockery coming from the heartless oppressors tickled her auditory sense that it almost caused her to want to punch them in the face. Murmurs coming from the observers were also audible.
“Look. She cries blood. She’s a genuine freak!” said the one who was obviously enjoying the view.
“She doesn’t deserve the beating. She’s the victim,” a sympathetic one said.
“Munin.”
“Munin.”
Stunned by the voice coming from the sobbing woman, Munin remained petrified. The voice, soft and as fragile as a wine glass but as cold as ice, blended with the wind kissing her nape. The whisper sent a chill down her spines. She hugged herself as if it could protect her from the source of the eerie voice.
She stood like that for a minute, in a trance. The next thing she knew was that she was struggling to move a finger. She literally lost the ability to mobilize and stood still as if the frigid atmosphere froze her every joint. Until she felt someone behind her.
“Munin.” Then there was silence. “Munin, are you okay?”
She was brought back to her senses by a familiar voice. As she turned, the smiling face of her mom, Hemlin, greeted her. With a sigh of relief, she stared at the woman’s deep set of brown eyes. Her face, though wrinkled because of old age, was warm and charming. Crow’s feet on both sides of her eyes appeared as she beamed at the thirty-two-year-old beauty staring back at her.
“Do you feel cold?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Do you like that painting? I could buy that for you.” She smiled, this time showing her teeth, without even looking at the hung art on the wall. “Did you like my birthday gift?”
“It’s my birthday today?” she asked with wondering eyes and a confused voice.
“Well, yes. Have you forgotten?”
She didn’t know how to respond. Instead, she gave Hemlin a querying look with eyebrows pulled together. It’s weird that she didn’t know that it was her birthday. Is it really a special day?
She smiled half-heartedly and shook her head in disagreement as a response to her mother’s question. Though still bothered about today-is-her-birthday-thought, she was also silenced by the vision she had moments before Hemlin appeared. As her mind wandered back to the world opened by the painting, she saw how the story of the victim ended.
The poor crying lady could’ve probably died in vain because of emotional torture.
As she was silently mourning the death of the image she had in her head, Hemlin’s phone rang. And again, she was brought back to reality.
“Wait here, dear. I need to take this.” Hemlin walked without hearing Munin’s response.
As the woman in her fifties strode off, Munin looked at the painting again, trying to feel the same way she felt earlier. But this time, no voice echoed from the canvas… she only heard footsteps coming from behind. Her imagination was tickled by creepy images of anyone coming out of the painting.
With eyes closed, she waited for what was going to happen next. Then, her heartbeat was like a drum in her ears when a man’s voice spoke.
“You’ve been looking at that painting longer than anyone who looked at it.”
She took a deep breath and relaxed her tensed body as she turned towards the owner of the voice. There she saw a smiling man in his early thirties with winter grey eyes behind round spectacles. She stared at the man for some time. His pupils dilated as his gaze met hers.
“It’s intriguing.” She replied to the invader of silence standing in front of her. His seductive, thick eyebrows lifted as he heard her answer as if he didn’t expect her to react that way. She studied his facial features while waiting for any response, her eyes drawn to his rich ridged lips and pronounced philtrum.
“This painting reminds me of a very special girl, so I find it valuable. Are you also drawn to it because of a special someone?” he said.
“No,” she then studied the man’s reaction before continuing her words. “Are you buying it?”
“No. Are you?” he asked and continued. “I’m already satisfied seeing it on display. Seems like you’re interested in buying it. Guess I’ll have to look for another captivating painting to interpret.”
“You can still look at it as much as you want. I don’t have a penny for that.”
Muteness filled the air as neither of them dared to speak after she responded. They just stared at each other as if their eyes were doing the conversation for them. Both felt their cheeks burning the longer they studied each other’s features. The invisible connection was only broken when whispers became audible.
“I have to go.” Those were the last words she heard from the stranger who strode away as quick as he could.
“I’m sorry about that, dear.” Her smiling mom said. “Who were you talking to?”
“Just a random stranger.”
“Are you sick? Your face’s all red.”
“I don’t think so. Let’s go.”
But before they leave the spot, Munin gave the painting one last glance and read, “Siesie” from the bottom of the canvas. “She must be the artist.” She whispered in her head.
While they strode out of the gallery, Munin gave her mother a confused gaze with pulled brows together in a frown. The latter felt her awkward gaze and turned to her. Hemlin gave her a questioning look in return.
“What?”
“Why did you bring me there? I think I’ve told you I want to go to galleries by myself. Why’d you bring me there with you?”
“Why? I thought you’d like it. Didn’t you?” she then looked at her with sad eyes as if her heart had been torn into pieces at that very moment.
“Don’t look at me that way. You’re overreacting.” The old lady pretended to wipe her tears, and Munin exactly knew that her mom was pulling another drama scene with her. She knew that she was a bit exaggerating. “Stop it. I won’t buy that.”
“Really? Is that how you show gratitude to your loving mom. How rude?” the old lady paced a few inches away from Munin without looking back. When she was already a meter away, she shouted, “Welcome.”
Munin’s left eyebrow lifted as she ignored her mom’s sarcasm.
“So weird.”
While in the car, Hemlin remembered something.
“Fun fact, dear,” she said. “That painting you were looking at earlier is believed to be cursed. I heard some staff saying that the painter mixed her own blood with the paint she used. They say it’s a depiction of the painter’s misery when she joined a sorority that caused her miscarriage.”
