The Painting

Dust gathered in thick layers over the mantle. The flames that once adorned the fireplace had long flickered out. The picture frames atop the shelf held memories of the people lost to the chronic angers of time. The carpet below remained drained of all the colour it once lit up the room with, lifeless and dull as it had been for the past decade. A lone painting of a woman sat on the wall above the row of forgotten people in frames. She looked regal, sitting in perfect posture. Moth-eaten, black curtains shrouded the painting in mourning of the life that was lost. 

I imagined her name was Isabelle. She had a brother and two sisters who she did not like to spend much time with. I thought perhaps she was closer to her brother for he did not treat her to be breakable. Instead, I hoped that he challenged her and loved her fiercely and jumped to her protection even though he knew she did not need it. She did not immediately command the attention of a viewer if she were in a sea of other paintings, yet, alone in the empty room, she seemed like the overlooked blossom of a woodsorrel, delicate and easily missed unless someone was searching carefully for it. 

Her delicate fingers were adorned with sleek bands of rings. Her hands laid on top of each other, gently placed on her knee. A single bracelet with miniature sapphires embedded in the band, the dainty chain shying away from the spotlight that the sapphires demanded. A flower painted in swirls of pure blue and white depicted the larger jewel resting at the base of her neck. A simple string of light silver mixed with white paint connected the precious gem to the back of her neck. Curls of auburn caressed her nape, tied back in a pearly ribbon. There might have been a chill in the air, the day it was painted for Isabelle had the collar of her dress up, her netted, cuffed sleeves falling well past her elbow. Delicate stitches which only the best artist could have captured were intricately painted beside a line of uniquely shaped buttons. The dress was washed in a beautiful shade of champagne, the translucent material showing her pale skin, the texture flawlessly etched onto the canvas. A shawl of fur, painted with the finest brush in shades of brown, fell over her shoulders providing what little warmth it could. 

Isabelle had a diamond face with a soft chin, and describing her doe eyes as blue as the sky, would not do them justice. Never had anyone seen such blue fire burning in dancing hues. They told tales of struggle, ocean-strong with rushing currents. Her lips were cerise, plump and pressed into a thin smile betraying that perhaps she did not quite enjoy being immortalised in a painting. Yet there was an air of royalty within her. Her nose was upturned and maybe so because she thought that sitting there in front of a stranger who wanted nothing but to admire her undermined beauty and show to the world that even the most hidden gems can shine the brightest when brought to look at the sun. Perhaps she was cold but refused to show it. Perhaps she did not like the smell of paint. 

Infinite possibilities yet no one would know the true thoughts lying hidden away carefully behind her skillfully painted eyes.