The Painting on the Wall

A painting couldn't mean much, right?

I was sure that there was a painting on the wall. I was sure of it. Even though my parents ignored me, or looked away whenever I spoke of it, I knew that there was a painting on the wall. I even remember that it had a dark green contrast.

On this green painted canvas, there were sketches of three women with curly boy-cuts. They were so real, sometimes I'd find myself staring blankly at them. Sometimes these women scared me. They looked kind of eerie. This painting, of whose existence I was so sure of, used to hang on a wall of this corridor in our old apartment. I had nightmares about the painting and often woke up from my sleep. But my parents were never there to console me. I remember it so clearly, yet my parents walk away when I mention it.

My parents don't usually talk to me, though they say my name out loud sometimes and then cry about what a disappointment I am. They wouldn't give me anything to eat, so I used to sneak inside the kitchen when they were asleep. My parents always went out to work, leaving me behind with the painting. I had some special memories with it, and was hence, attached to it.

Yet, my parents denied it's very existence. It didn't make sense to me. I wanted to go back to our old apartment and bring back the painting. When my parents showed me the door, the women in the painting made me feel that I wasn't alone.

When I got older, my parents completely ignored me. They would see right through me. Not even a smile. Even the painting had started to look darker.

About around that time, we shifted here. Now my parents didn't even talk to each other. The house was on rent, and they used to come at midnight. They went straight to bed.

Then this one stormy night, when my parents weren't home yet, I decided I'd had enough. I slipped the key to our old apartment in my pocket and stomped out angrily. I planned to bring back the painting. And my lost company along with it.

A slight drizzle had started 'round the time I reached. I hurried into the lobby. The watchman was engrossed in a book and didn't notice me. I got into the copper-coated lift and pressed our floor button. I was sure no one new had settled there, as Dad left some of his stuff there. I got out of the lift, slipped the key into the keyhole and opened the door.

I still remembered where the light switch was. I turned on the lights and coughed. The dust enveloped around me.

I walked around the four walls of nostalgia. I wandered into the corridor. And there, I saw the painting. My painting, on the wall. Even now, despite my appearance, although it was now thundering, those women seemingly consoled me. That calmed me. I went further towards it and a rotten stench hit my nostrils. I pinched my nose and wrenched the painting off. I still remember the feet, inches away from my face. They were almost like my feet, but smaller. The whole body in fact, when pulled out by me, resembled a younger me. At that moment, the lights went out. I still hear the pattering of the rain that night. The occasional thundering, now and then.

And then, a flash of lightning threw light on the body. The body with my face.