Living above an art gallery sounds like nothing to write home about and trust me, it’s not. Very few people walk in and out of the museum or walk past it toward Central Park or Columbus Circle, where the real attractions are. Millions of New Yorkers and tourists going about their business while I’m up here trying to figure out what the fuck it is about this painting I saw the other day that keeps me up a night, haunting my dreams of slutty strippers giving me lap dances and turning them into horrible nightmares of a gnarly hand reaching for my soul. The museum I live about is called 57th Street Art Museum (57th for short). It’s a small place, more of a gallery than a museum, but hey, I’m not an artist so what do I know? I’ve been in it a couple times; it showcases different paintings every week from impressionistic to abstract to concrete as shit. I saw one painting of two people having sex and I swear I was watching a porn video it was so life like. I mean seriously, some artists have too much talent.
Anyway, when I was there last time it showcased paintings of ninjas jumping rooftops in the night, Godzilla terrorizing a city, a portrait of an attractive supermodel resembling Brad Pitt with an unrealistically chiseled body, and lastly, an abstract painting that didn’t look so abstract. I’ll explain. From afar, it looked like a swirling rainbow dominated by yellow, blue, red, purple and a tinge of green.
When I got closer, the painting morphed into something darker and more sinister. The colors faded into the background and swirled like toilet water when being flushed; I looked around once then twice to make sure it wasn’t just me, but no one else was in the joint so I guess it was. I mean, I smoke a little weed every now and again, but I was for damn certain I wasn’t high when I saw this shit. The painting turned into a scene. It panned through a cemetery in the dead of night, the background was foggy, and silhouettes appeared. It was like one of those scenes where a group of teens was some where they weren’t supposed to be, and some bad shit is about to go down because they played around too much and fucked with something they shouldn’t have. I know, shitty description, but I’m not a fucking writer. I’m just some asshole who saw some crazy shit and lived to tell about it.
The silhouettes gradually got closer, the gallery grew darker and the doors closed ever so slowly. The thought of running crossed my mind for half a second, but I knew I wasn’t getting out of there, not until the painting showed me what it wanted to show me. Don’t get the wrong idea here, I’m not superstitious by any means but when something is happening right in front of me, I believe it. Logic be damned.
The fog reflected the painting and appeared in the gallery, the temperature dropped a good twenty degrees and a chill crawled its way up my spine to the point I cringed involuntarily. My legs wobbled and almost gave out, but it wasn’t due to fear. Well, maybe it was but I didn’t feel scared. In fact, I felt normal which was strange. Suddenly, in a flash, I’m in the cemetery surrounded by headstones and barren trees with chipped bark and broken branches, the moon shining over my head with a moderate wind coming in from the west, and the silhouettes . . . growing closer and closer.
“What the fuck . . . ?” I whispered.
“The name of this painting . . .” A raspy, throaty voice said from the sky, “is The Psycho’s Carnival . . .”
“Who’s there?” I asked like a dummy, “show yourself!”
“I . . . am Voltaire,” the voice replied, “the painting’s maker . . .”
“What do you want?”
“Find me . . .”
“Find you?!” I asked, “What do you mean find you?”
“Find me . . .”
“Are you trapped here, or something?!” I asked. “Where the fuck am I?!”
“find the painting. . .”
“What painting?! What the hell is going on—”
I woke up sweating profusely in my bed. I looked down and my hands were shaking, trembling. The room felt like a deep freezer and I could see my breath; I looked left and saw it was raining outside. The water hit the ground at a hundred miles an hour, sounding like a drum solo as the pitter patter developed a rhythm. I sat there and contemplated nothing for five minutes before I decided to get up and attack the day (more like let the day attack me). I went to the bathroom and freshened up, feeling lethargic throughout. When I got out, it seemed the room got even colder, but I attributed that to the transition from hot to cold. Suddenly, my chest started hurting and my heartrate increased. The sound of the water outside and the horns of traffic became distorted. My nose got stuffy and my vision blurred, I grabbed the door frame for support and soon my legs turned to jelly, and I fell to my knees. The floor felt like Antarctica and my hands started to turn blue, then red, then green, then yellow, and then a mixture of the colors.
“The fuck?” I said, “Am I having an acid trip?”
Of course not! I didn’t do acid! Well, not since that one time in high school chemistry class, but that’s neither hear nor there. The pain in my chest became sharper, like a needle digging into my skin and my heartrate increased gradually, the thumping sound consumed my eardrums and the cold colors of that painting crawled up my arms like a spider stalking its prey. The water mixed with the thumping resembled waves in the ocean, and as soon as I had that thought the floor turned to water and I went under. My whole body tensed up and my muscles trembled from the frigidness of the sea. My bodyweight dragged me down, down, down into the deep, the light of day falling away from me as an angel falls from grace. I desperately clawed my way up to no avail; the sea has consumed me, and I am on my way to a watery grave.
I woke up again and took a deep breath, the first thing I saw was the light and for a moment I thought I’d died. Turns out I was on my back looking up at my bathroom ceiling. I sat up and placed my hand on my head, the pain of the impact must’ve been intense because I had a splitting headache. It seemed that painting really left an impression on me (pun intended), the rain had stopped, and the horns became a little less intrusive. I heard the indistinct mumblings of people downstairs which meant the gallery must’ve opened. I looked at my hand and then the floor to check for blood, but I was good which meant the day might be good too. I got my clothes on and headed down to the gallery. It didn’t look any different than yesterday which meant there were no special events for the week, which was good because this place tends to get packed when some well-off joneses want to have a get-together.
I went back to the wall with the painting on it and stood for a moment, trying to figure out what the fuck was so special about this painting to give me nightmares and hallucinations. The longer I stood there and looked the more the colors appeared to move and blend with each other; suddenly, I was back at that cemetery with the foggy forest, black sky with a luminescent moon and frigid air. I looked to the forest and the fog opened like a doorway and revealed a path. At first, I was reluctant to go through, you know, because I was inside a painting in an art gallery that called itself a museum when it really wasn’t and some raspy, throaty voice kept telling me to find him. One thing that surprised me was that the cemetery didn’t smell like dead people (not that I’d know, or want to know, how dead people smelled) but instead smelled like a fresh, moist spring garden. Like the trees were pollinating which was weird considering the fact it was cold.
I decided to go down the path and see what was on the other side. While walking, there were growls, snarls and other terrifying sounds. Rips, tears, a distant scream and a cry for help all blended into a cavalcade of horror. I felt a looming presence at my back and jerked my head around, no one was there. I stood for a moment for my edification and when I was satisfied continued walking. The sky started to show some signs of color, a bit of purple here, a bit of green there. For a moment, I thought aurora borealis was about to emerge. Instead, I noticed the tinge of green trailed off in a specific direction and my eyes followed involuntarily, leading to a menacing, black castle. It was a sixteenth century, European style castle with a moat and drawbridge.
The bricks were scratched, worn and battered, as if it were attacked in battle. The castle exuded a dark and ominous energy that permeated its circumference. The horrible sounds faded from memory the closer I got to the castle, as even the terrible creatures behind the fog were afraid. The air became more frigid and the fog gave way to darkness with a tinge of green, then yellow, then blue, then red. The colors swirled around each other and next thing I knew, I was in the castles’ hallway. It was an ordinary hallway with little to show except portraits of eyes. Green eyes, yellow eyes, red eyes, blue eyes, orange eyes, just eyes all the way down.
The thing about those eyes was that they moved. Not seemed to move or appeared to move. They moved. The eyes blurred and swirled and twirled and changed colors and morphed into different beings, all with an eye on their forehead. It was this moment I was convinced I was having an acid trip (even though I hadn’t tried acid since high school). I took one step and then another, the eyes followed my movements but did little else. The place smelled like a fresh spring garden filled with pollinating trees with a tinge of rose. As the colors of the eyes changed and switched portraits, so did the smell. When it was yellow it smelled of sunflower, when it was green it smelled of oak, when it was purple it smelled if deep lavender, and when it was red it smelled like the most precious rose.
“What is this place?” My voice echoed through the hall.
“This,” a deep, gurgled voice said beside my ear, “is the painting’s castle.”
I jerked my head around reflexively, but no one was there.
“Who was that?!” I asked, “Show yourself!”
No one answered.
I stood for a long time before deciding to move on and when I turned to continue forward, a menacing face assaulted my sight and nearly scared the soul from my body. They reason I didn’t jump and scream like a girl being my brain didn’t have enough time to process what the fuck was just in front of me. It was gone as fast as it appeared, the only thing left was the heart-stopping fear and my chest being abused from the inside. My legs were frozen stiff but gradual started to come back under me as the fear subsided. I waited an even longer time before deciding to move on, looking in all directions to avoid another horrible surprise. I took one reluctant step forward, then another, and as I took more steps everything started returning to equilibrium.
I came across a long, spiraling staircase that ascended into darkness, a green ray of light shot down and circled me. It smelled like fresh lime. It moved from around me and floated toward the stairs and paused, as if motioning me to follow. When I did, the ray of light switched back and forth between various shades of green, which was surprising because everything else reflected the rainbow. As I ascended the stairs the temperature got warmer and cozier, it was as if the air cradled me in its arms and began rocking me to sleep.
The ray of light sparkled with a shine that would put a diamond to shame, the smell of fresh lime became more pronounced as it graced my nostrils and elicited a feeling of euphoria through my entire body. Before I knew it the ray of light enveloped me and lifted me from the ground like a magic carpet, my body involuntarily spread, and I couldn’t move. It felt like being strapped to an examination table except the warm air and euphoric smell of lime kept me at ease.
The darkness itself seemed to change as well, going from pitch black to the darkest of green. As the ray of light lifted me higher, strange and horrible shapes revealed themselves. Long, stained teeth protruding from large, furry mouths with savage grins and saliva drooping from them; colorful but menacing eyes focusing on me from every direction, large, almost alien irises with bottomless pupils leading to nothingness struck fear into my very soul, countering the euphoric lime smell and cozy air. The monsters faded into the darkness and the light carried me even higher still, another, and stronger, ray of light shone from the castle roof as I came within reach of it. When the light released me and I looked outside, there was a man standing there.
“So,” he said in a deep, throaty voice, “you have come for the creator.”
“I. . .guess?” I replied as I took three reluctant steps forward.
“Do not be afraid, Cameron.” He said, “I will bring you no harm.”
“How did you know my name?”
“I know all tings within this painting,” he replied, “including the location of the creator.”
“You mean the guy that painted this thing?”
“Who else would I mean?” The man replied.
“Just checking,” I cleared my throat, “Anyway, what is all this?”
“This would be the deadly castle within The Lonely Painter,” he started, “conceived by the creator when he was only fifteen years of age. Outcast from his peers for his dark and unpleasant thoughts and views, he locked himself in his room and produced this terrible masterpiece, not knowing his true power and capabilities.”
“So,” I looked at him questioningly, “because he was socially awkward, he decided to paint something horrible to express his feelings, not knowing it would entrap anyone who looked at it long enough?”
“Precisely.”
“Al least he didn’t decide to shoot up a school.” I said to myself.
“Pardon?”
“So, where is the ‘creator’ as you call him?”
“Step forward and I’ll show you.”
I walked to where he was and saw the forest from above, the green light shined above the trees in the night with little white particles sprinkled throughout the sky. Upon closer examination, I saw the rainbow engulfing the world as if it were a dome, the colors changed from red to yellow to orange to purple to violet to blue. I heard snarling and growling in the distant along with gut-retching screams, the forest looked pitch black and radiated a dark and terrible aura.
“The creator is not in that forest, Cameron,” the man said, “nor is he in this castle.”
“Then where is he?”
“For me to answer a question of yours, you must solve a riddle of mine.”
“Riddles?” I sighed, “I suck at those.”
“Oh, come now,” the man said, “have some faith in yourself, this one won’t be difficult.”
I sighed again, “Alright then, what’s the riddle?”
“You will answer three riddles,” the man said, “each harder than the last. The first one will be easy, I promise.”
“Alright then, let’s hear it.”
The man cleared his throat, “The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?”
I thought about it for a full ten seconds before it hit me, “footsteps!”
“See?” You’re not so bad.” The man said, “Now the next, can you name three consecutive days without naming the days of the week?”
“Hmm,” I thought for a bit and, surprisingly, it hit me again, “Yesterday, today, and tomorrow!”
“Ha Ha Ha,” the man said, “getting the hang of it, are we? Alright, last one,” he cleared hit throat, “Only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain. Doing no harm and feeling no pain. What is it?”
“Fuck.” My mind went blank.
“Take as much time as you need,” the man walked to the other side of the balcony and stood, looking out at the green lit sky.
I thought and I thought, and I thought, and I thought but nothing came to mind. Only one color, but not one size. I looked to the green sky and then the forest, as if those were going to give me a clue. Stuck at the bottom yet easily flies. I paced back and forth and tried to think of something, anything but nothing. Present in sun but not in rain. My head was starting to throb, my brain wasn’t used to expending this much energy; I’d never heard that riddle in my life, and the only thing I could think of was ashes. Wait a minute, ashes were present regardless of sun or rain, so that couldn’t be the answer. Doing no harm and feeling no pain.
“Dammit!” I scratched my head in frustration, “why is this riddle so hard?”
“Would you like a hint?”
“I get hints?” I asked, “Sure, I’ll take anything at this moment.”
“The answer is something that travels with you no matter what.” The man said, “go over the riddle again and add that fact in, what do you get?”
I went over the riddle and a memory came to mind. I was five years old and my father was telling me a bedtime story, it was about how monsters eat little boys that don’t go to sleep. . . or something like that, it was unclear. Anyway, after he told me the story, tucked me in, and closed the door something fell in my closet. Nearly scared my heart out of my chest. Then, the closet creeped open ever so slowly; first, a pitch-black snout appeared followed with stained yellow teeth with off-pink gums. The creature breathed and thick, black smoke came from its mouth and traveled around the room like a ghost. It swirled around the ceiling and changed shapes; first it was a man, then a woman, then a dog, then turned back into a phantom. It didn’t appear to see or sense me, but I wasn’t stupid enough to test the theory. It traveled down the wall and made its way to the creatures’ mouth and went back inside. It moved less like a phantom and more like a shadow—
It hit me, “. . . shadow, that’s the answer.”
“Pardon?” The man said, “have figured it out?”
“The answer is shadow,” I said with more confidence, “it’s a shadow!”
“Prove it,” the man said.
“Only one color but not one size,” I started, “shadows only come in black but change sizes depending on the time of day and angle of certain twists and turns.” I continued, “stuck at the bottom but easily flies; shadows are usually on the ground but their also on the ceiling sometimes too.”
“Go on.”
“present in sun but not in rain,” I continued, “since there’s no sun, there’s no light to reflect off you to create the shadow. Doing no harm and feeling no pain, though the shadow mimics you it doesn’t feel what you feel, and it also doesn’t do anything to you, so there!”
The man chuckled and nodded his head, “very nice, the answer is, in fact, a shadow.”
“Alright, I solved your riddles.” I said, “What’s next?”
“You catch on quickly,” the man said, “next, you must walk through the forest,” he paused, “but not the way you came.”
He pointed toward the green sky and the light shaped itself into a staircase and descended to my feet. The staircase sparkled in the night and seemed to have no end in sight.
“Isn’t the forest down there?” I pointed to the ground.
“You won’t be walking through that forest,” the man said as he walked up the staircase, “follow me.”
The sky turned even blacker as we ascended the staircase, the colors no longer changed but remained a constant steel grey. Thunder and lightning permeated the skies and dark clouds clustered and let out a hellish rain. The raindrops were the colors of the rainbow; the rain went from a drizzle to a maelstrom. Suddenly, we were surrounded by a sheet of rainbow water and the staircase resembled the painting. It was like walking through a hypnotic portal toward another dimension.
“Enjoying the view?” The man asked.
“I guess you can say that.”
“Yes, the creator does have a . . . unique mind for such things.”
“You sound like you know him.”
“Oh, I do.” The man chuckled, “I know the creator very well.”
“Alright, tell me about him.”
“Well, the creator is a loner, so to speak,” the man started, “he often keeps to himself, doesn’t enjoy the company of those not of his creation. He is a bit cantankerous for such a young age but, I feel he can be turned around. I’ve tried, in the past to get him to indulge in his own reality but he insists on staying in the one he created.” The man paused, “it really is unfortunate that his reality hasn’t turned out as he expected, but it is necessary that he return, so that eh can create to his maximum capacity.”
“Basically, you want him to get real and grow up.” I added, “And you want me to turn him around somehow?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know the guy from a can of paint, no pun intended but,” I paused to look at the view once more, “sure, I guess I can try.”
“Thank you,” the man said as the staircase ended with a rainbow door that had a knob that changed colors constantly. It was red, then blue, then green, then yellow, then scarlet, then orange, the purple, then gray. The man grabbed the knob at certain colors and the door opened to reveal a room filled with paintings, each more impressionistic than the last. Some were of landscapes, others were of big cities with high-rise buildings lighting up the night, some were of beautiful women and attractive men.
Wow, I thought, this guy has some talent.
“As you can see,” the man started, “though he has great abilities when it comes to art, his creativity has hit a peak.”
“I’m surprised he pulled this much out his ass,” I said, “but yeah, some of the work is a bit repetitive.”
We reached another staircase that was shorter than the last one, it still spiraled for some time, but I could see the top and a ray of light peaking out. We walked up the staircase in silence and I took in all the guy’s work. Most of it had a sadness about it, a melancholy that reflected someone bitter not at life but at their reality. It elicited a wide range of emotions on the lower end of the spectrum with anger being the highest and depression and suicidal tendencies at the bottom.
He never seemed to paint anything happy or cheerful, like he’s stuck in a perpetual dark age (which wasn’t too far from the truth). The closer we got to the top the more the rainbow faded into blackness, a dark feeling came over me along with a coldness that only perpetual loneliness and solitude could breed, like stepping out of a hot shower where the cool air feels like the north pole, biting into your skin and eroding the warmth.
The paintings themselves exuded a melancholy; a sort of lingering sadness formed from old wounded that never healed. Like the death of a loved one who was omnipresent, who you never thought of in a casket until the day came where they were, it had that strangeness that something else was supposed to be there but was taken by circumstance never to be returned. There was a feeling of pain, loss, and regret in the air as we got closer and closer still. It was so palpable I felt my eyes tearing up though I had nothing to cry about; sure, my life wasn’t the best but it wasn’t the worst either, especially since most of my family is still alive; although, I prefer to keep my distance.
When we got to the doorway, he was sitting in front of a canvas painting, the work in progress looked to be something dark, filled with agony, guilt, shame. I didn’t have to look at the guy to know he was broken on the inside and could only create beauty from pain. There was no joy in his brush strokes, each one seemed filled with a negative emotion, draining the soul from his very body. Though they were slow, methodical, and had the air of a professional who’s trained for years, his fingers looked arthritic and vascular, his hands moving back and forth like a witch waving a wand.
There was a black aura surrounding his presence and it smelled of ash; in fact, the room smelled like a graveyard and I almost threw up as the scent was so odorous. Once I composed myself and the smell faded, I took a hesitant step toward him, he didn’t move. I took another step and then another until I was directly behind him. His aura was so powerful I felt sweat dripping from my brow, my heartrate rose gradually and my hands fidgeted, for a moment the only thing I could hear was my heartbeat and the soft, scraping sound the brush made as it stroke the canvas. The strokes began to match the rhythm of my heart making a terrible melody, the creator remained stiller than a dead man.
“So, Otto,” the creator said with a hoarse voice, “this is the one you’ve brought to convince me?”
“it is, creator.” Otto responded, “it is time you go back to your world, sir.”
“This is my world,” the creator responded, “I created it.”
“True,” Otto said, “however, your own creation is destroying you and I can no longer stand idly by, you must return so you can create worlds more beautiful than this one.”
“Flattery was always your strong suit, Otto.” The creator said, “that’s what I like about you.”
“Then heed my words and return,” Otto pleaded, “We don’t want to watch you destroy yourself anymore . . . it breaks us to do so.”
“I know you care, Otto.” The creator said, “But I can’t. There’s nothing for me to return to. I gave away everything and cut ties with my family, the ones that are alive anyway, and I have no way of making money. No one would by my art.”
An Idea came to me, “I believe I could help with that.”
The creator moved for the firs time and Otto smirked.
“I work in an art gallery,” I started, “And this work we’re in is on display right now. People come every day and look at your work and wonder where you’ve gone. All you have to do is make an appearance and everything should be fine.”
“You lie, boy.” The creator said, “something so convenient wouldn’t—”
He looked at Otto, “you planned this, didn’t you, Otto?”
Otto smirked again, “Guilty as charged, sir.”
“Wait a minute,” I started, “You mean it was you? Screaming to find you when I was in the graveyard?”
“That was I.” Otto nodded.
“So, you’re really trying to throw me out, after all I’ve created for you and the others?” The creator asked, “Is this how you treat the one who sacrificed everything for you?”
“If I must incur your wrath to save you, then so be it.” Otto responded, “I will watch you doe no longer, and the others share the sentiment.”
“Then where are they?”
“Trying to fight off the darkness,” Otto said, “their trying to fight you.”
The creator turned from Otto and looked at his canvas as if seeing it for the first time, he looked around the little room he trapped himself in and out the window into the darkness he created. He looked out the door into the hallway, at the paintings on the wall; he looked at the sadness, looked at the pain, looked at the loneliness and solitude, and his eyes widened as Otto’s message finally resonated with him.
“When did this happen, Otto?” The creator asked, “When did I fall from grace?”
“You fell when you first came here,” Otto said, “but I believe the fall started long before, and only you know what happened before you came.”
The creator rested his elbows on his knees and grabbed his head in frustration, he shuddered at the feeling of his own hands and moved them to the front of his face. He looked at them, cold and ashen blue, he wiggled his fingers but there was something off about it, something that spelled death rather than life. He looked at his arms, lifted his trousers and looked at his legs.
“I’m afraid, Otto, that it is too late.” The creator said, “It seems I’ve been dead for quite some time.”
“Then it seems what I feared has come to pass,” Otto said, “I’m afraid. . .”
“It’s alright, Otto,” the creator said, “I must go to the grave and absorb the darkness I’ve wrought upon the painting. I must take responsibility for the life I’ve wasted and pay the consequence.”
The creator stood up, “I have no family, I have no friends. I only have my work and I would like to be buried in it.” He looked at Otto, “Can a dead man’s wish still be granted?”
Otto gave the creator a sad smile, “Of course it can, sir.”
Two weeks later . . .
It was a rainy morning as the gallery opened and people trickled in one by one, I looked at the rainbow painting on the wall and it looked more vibrant than it had in a long time. What happened to the creator and Otto? Well, the simple version is this: the creator, who I later found out was Vincent Vonnegut, an English artist who disappeared over sixty years ago due to mysterious circumstances.
When Police and investigators showed up to his house it was totally empty save for the rainbow painting, they never found the people that took all his stuff and decided, after a good month and a half of investigation, to drop the case and donate the painting to an art museum that’s been closed since 1989. The painting was sent around from place to place because some owners believed it to be haunted and possess spiritual properties, some even said the painting penetrated their dreams. One said he heard a voice screaming, “Find me! I’m in the painting!” Sound familiar? Anyway, the painting landed here three years ago, about the same time I started working here to be exact, and had been quiet ever since, until two weeks ago.
The museum has decided to take down the painting after this week due to holiday season, my boss told me that they probably wouldn’t be putting the painting back up and were looking to give it away. I asked if I could have the painting and he said, sure.
When the gallery closed and I had finished locking up, I felt a temp increase. I checked the thermostat and it seemed to be working just fine, and if that was the case. . .
I ran to the painting to see if it was still there and it was, only it was glowing. The colors swirled around each other and morphed into different shapes until it formed a face, Vincent’s face. The droopy eyes, the long, straight hair, the pointed nose and thin lips, and that perpetual sage look he had about him. He looked at me with ageless, rainbow eyes and said,
“So, you’ve decided to keep my work,” he paused, “Why?”
“Well,” I said, “if you’d been sucked into a painting and lived to tell the tale, you’d want to keep the thing, wouldn’t you?”
Vincent chuckled, “That depends on your sanity.”
“Well, that hasn’t always been on point for me, so. . “
“Seems we have something in common.”
“So,” I asked, “How’re Otto and the others?”
“They’re doing just fine,” he said, “In fact, they wanted me to give you a parting gift.”
Vincent’s eyes glowed brighter than anything I’d ever seen; it was like encountering an angel. What came from the glow was a ring, and not just any ring . . .yep, you guessed it, a rainbow ring.
“And what’s this for, might I ask?” I slipped it on my finger and a ray of light shot out toward the painting.
“Should you find reality boring, feel free to visit through use of that ring.” Vincent said, “However, try to not to drop by too often, lest you get stuck like I did.”
“I’ll try to keep it to a minimum,” I said, “And thanks.”
“Anytime, Cameron,” Vincent’s face faded, “Anytime. . .”
The temp returned to normal as did the painting, I walked around the gallery one last time to ensure everything was locked and glanced at the painting on the way out. I figured since I’d get to look at it every day after the week is up there was no need to be sentimental, I put the keys in the bosses office, turned out the lights, and went upstairs to my room to get some well deserved sleep.
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