The Painting (long)

-this is a story i wrote a few days ago. dont worry your not supposed to get it till near the end, or perhaps not ever.

The Painting
About 19 years ago they moved me to this room. I hate it more than my last room, even though it has a more comfortable bed and is much nicer overall. In the other room I had hope, hope that I would be let out, hope that I would one day walk out of this place with my family at my side. That hope is no more, from what I can tell it has been over 20 years since my accident. This room is my cell, and my captor is the Painting.
In front of me, at a height roughly two inches above eye level, there is a simple painting of fruit in a basket. The Painting has a wooden frame sprayed over with gold paint which is slowly flaking off at the sharp corners due to the improper preparation of the wood before paint. Day in and day out that painting looms over me, putting me in my place, reminding me of the dwindling chances of escape. I want to destroy the Painting, the grapes droop over the edge of the bowl as if to jeer “Look at me, I can't even think and I can escape.”
The Wall in front of me is a simple clean white, of course after staring at it for so long it is much different that just white. It has 37 scuffs, fingerprints, marks, scrapes, and dents, as well as the 17 thousand other imperfections in the paint color caused by an improper mixing technique. The Wall acts as if he is indifferent to the politics of the room, but I can tell that he is just afraid of the Painting. The Wall seldom comments on anything, he has been traumatized by the responsibility of holding the Painting on his throne above the room. The Wall was initially an innocent bystander, a peaceful loner so to speak, but the Painting has forced him to be a pawn in his scheme to ruin what is left of my life.
Then of course there is the Footboard of my bed, it is a simple half circle shape formed from oak, by my calculations the tree was 29 years old when it was cut down, a characteristic we share. The Footboard has a dark finish, similar to what you would expect from a very old desk. The Footboard has no imperfections on the side facing me, something that makes me like him more.
Then obviously there are the sheets, which are merely sheets, I believe that due to their constant changing of rooms they hardly exist at all.
The Footboard however is very real, He and I get along together very well and we have been friends for a long time; we share the same views on the Painting and one day we will destroy him together. The Painting often consults the Footboard on issues in the room; the Footboard has been working as the Painting's consultant for 23 years now. His position has become very helpful; he has been able to protect me from many of the Painting's menacing attacks.
Unfortunately, that is all there is in my line of sight, however I have reason to believe that there is something just above my view. About two weeks ago a steel screw coated with a shiny varnish fell from above my view and was swept away by Martina the following day.
Martina is the cleaning lady. She has four children that she cares for on her own. She often talks to herself or sings songs while cleaning. The sound she makes nourishes me, she is my only entertainment, the words she says to herself are like pieces that I can use to put together the puzzle that is her life. I love Martina more than my own mother. My mother used to visit me often; maybe even three times a week, but now I only get the monthly visit from who I gather to be my younger sister. I love my sister more than even Martina, whenever my sister comes to visit she makes sure my sheets are changed and that I am given a bath. That is what I live for; when the workers move me I get to see a whole world that I haven't seen in over 20 years. If they pick me up from the right side of my bed my head tilts and I can gaze out the window. Since I am on the fourth floor there is nothing but blue sky, but the feeling that I may one day return to world is ecstatic. My baths are also amazing; they move me through the halls of the building as I look up at the tiled ceiling. I figure it's about 376 feet from my room to the bathroom. Yes, I love this girl who is my sister; she cares for me without knowing that I care for her back. I fear for her because she angers the Painting. The Painting doesn't like my sister, in fact he hates her. The Painting may be able to control me but It can't control her, she disrupts the peace and suffering that the Painting has worked hard to achieve. I fear that one month my sister won't come and the apples will peer at me with that look; that look that says “I own you now, you have nothing left.”
The Painting, the Wall, the Footboard, Martina, and my sister are not the only things in my life; I have sound. Once I was moved to this room there has been much fewer sounds from Outside, of course there is still the non stop beep from the machine to the left of my ear. However I occasionally hear the date or someone talking about a current event, unfortunately I can no longer distinguish reality from dream and I have no idea what the truth really is. Dreams used to be one of my favorite things, they could not be controlled by the Painting and they would remind me of better times. Now however I only dream about this place; I can no longer recall my past, the dream state meshes with reality and I am left with a misplaced feeling.
If I could kill myself I gladly would, when my family first wondered if they should kill me or not I begged for them to let me live, now I wish I could have foreseen this tragedy and asked for death. After all a piece of wood is my only friend.
I am now on my way to a bath; once again I count the tiles on the ceiling and notice that one tile is missing. Through the hole I can see many different pipes and wires that are held up by brackets screwed into the studs, my ceiling must also be missing a tile, it fully explains the screw from above. Oh, the Footboard will be happy to hear the news, we both worried it was one of the Painting's tricks.
After removing my dotted gown the worker lifts me into the bath; he appears to be new, he has brown hair and similar eyes. He seemed uncomfortable manhandling my lifeless body as I'm sure anyone would be. The warm water feels great against my skin and I can fully see the 249 and 6/28ths ceramic tiles that make up the wall in front of me. The young worker appears to have forgotten to get the soap from the supply closet 14 footsteps down the hall from my room; he leaves hurriedly to retrieve it. Usually a worker would have someone watch me while they gathered the materials but like I said, this kid is new. I can start to feel my rear slipping on the bathtub bottom. At first only a few inches but suddenly it slides again forcing my mouth and nose below the water. I realize I have two choices, hold my breath and hope the boy makes it back or suck the warm water deep into my lungs as if to say “Fuck you Painting.” After short deliberation I realize the Wall, the Footboard, Martina, and my sister are a sorry excuse for a family, and the workers will never realize that I'm not in a coma so I guess that means fuck you Painting; Footboard and Wall, I wish you the best of luck.


thanks for reading, any comments are welcome

 

i was getting worried about no comments, thanks alot guys, yeah it was supposed to be a little confusing.