I've had the idea for this short story for a very long time now actually. I got the idea from a song called All the Rowboats by Regina Spektor. The song just really fascinated me, and I started formulating this idea in my head literally ages ago. The song is talking about an art museum full of beautiful pieces, forever memorialized in a display. She compares the museum to a prison where the classic works of art are forced to stay, living out an existence that is merely for show. "First there's lights out, then there's lock up, masterpieces serving maximum sentences. It's their own fault for being timeless, there's a price to pay and a consequence." (really good song, you should go listen to it.) Anyway, this gave me the idea to write a story. . Hopefully you find it interesting :)
I am beautiful. I have learned that beautiful does not mean free. That doesn’t mean it is not pleasant, oh no. It is a very nice and comfortable thing to be beautiful, to have people compare your eyes to violets and your hair to pure gold and your lips to baby roses in the spring. It is nice to walk down the street and to know that you are the one turning heads, the one everybody is looking at. I love beauty, and it is truly delightful to look in the mirror and see it reflected back at me.
But I am not free. Every morning I carefully apply a dazzling smile, like a generous layer of lipstick, and I attach a charming laugh to my voice. I use my large, dewy eyes and my sparkling wit to get me out of just about any situation. I am adored by all who cross my path, but truly known by none. They see my face, and not much more than that.
Today, I am in an art museum. Standing under the high ceiling, my fingers brush a marble statue, sending a chill tumbling through my veins. It’s beauty is in simple, graceful lines, a likeness of a woman lifting a bucket from a well. The chilly, white purity of the statue is so lovely it sends an ache to my heart. She is one frozen moment, robbed of the gift of breath, of movement.
I turn around and see a painting, it’s colors stark against the canvas. A beach, a starry sky, and a flock of rowboats tied to the shore. The painting pops out with a fierce, lifelike sharpness. I can smell the ocean, I can feel its spray. The boats are still, are tied down like birds chained to cages. And they will never sail, will never feel the ocean beneath them, nor travel to a far land. A sadness, piercing and sweet, stabs into my heart for the plight of the rowboats.
I travel through the gallery, enjoying the beauty of the art, each piece a manifestation of the mastery of it’s creator. There are so many paintings, so many rectangular frames containing snippets of stories that will never be told in entirety. And a sadness washes over me, a sort of hollow despair, flowing from the flatness of the paintings, from the emptiness behind the lovely images I see. I see a sketch of a violin, it’s every detail intricate, and shed an unbidden tear for the music it will never play.
As I explore hallway after hallway, I am stopped by people, their words full of admiration, their gazes astonished. I smile, nod, and continue on. Each wing of the museum seems to grow colder, and larger, and emptier. I begin to feel it. Dread. A great monster stirring beneath my ribs.
I’ve reached the furthest wing of the building. There is a door at the end of the hallway and despite the protest in the beat of my heart I turn the handle and step in. Against the far wall is a heavy velvet curtain cascading to the floor. Something--curiosity mixed with fear pushes me onward. I’m terrified of what lies behind the curtain, but my hand reaches out and lifts it.
The painting is large, and brilliant in color, floor length and full of vibrant realness. The color drains from my cheeks, numbness turning me to a colorless shell.
It’s a picture of a girl, standing with perfect posture and a haughty tilt to her head. Her eyes are nothing more than blue painted markings in the frozen and beautiful face. Her smile is heartbreakingly lovely, and completely empty of laughter, painted on with a masterful hand.
She is not real. She cannot see, nor feel, nor hear the song that is within her coming out. People may exclaim over her beauty, but there is nothing real about her. She is merely brushstrokes on a canvas, a two dimensional work of art.
Horrified, I cannot take my eyes off of it.
For I can see it quite clearly now. The empty eyes are all too recognizable.
The girl in the painting is me.
Beautiful, but not free. For freedom is happiness, the freedom to laugh with joy, the freedom to be loved for more than just your perfect skin, the freedom to be alive. And I’m afraid that alive is not what I am. Not anymore.
