Night Gallery

Night Gallery
         My hands stained green from the paint, I stood admiring my piece of Catherine. Whom I have had the pleasure to meet earlier that week. Her unruly red hair and bright blues in the green satin dress suited her well. “Who should I hang you beside, my love?” I asked the lovely woman. She answered with an apoplectic smile. “Oh. Helena, huh?” Helena was equally beautiful, for her long brown hair and enchanting brown eyes. I met her a couple months ago.
         Such a big house. For so many fair women, this was an obligation. Many people speak about me in hushed voices, calling me such things as insane, impulsive, and a hunter. I do none of these things. I have not found a woman that fits my standards, nor do I choose to settle. I simply find these women attractive and enjoy painting exquisite creatures.
         I hung my dear Catherine beside my dear Helena. Oh, how friendly the greeted each other. Admiring the ladies, I noticed light seeping beneath the heavy drapes. I drew them back, blinded by the afternoon sun, I thought to take a walk. Considering I spent much time indoors and among the dark with Catherine.
         I decided to observe the docks. The breeze nipped at my nose and ears, although it was worth seeing the glimmering water. A ship was docked, the Hayberry. Disembarking passengers hurried to their targets, be it their home, family, friends, or meetings in the pristine hotels. All did this with an exception of one. A bewitching beauty. The most alluring I’ve seen. She acquired a stunning figure to frame that winning frown she possessed on passing people.
         I stumbled to speak with her. I must get a pristine look of her. I must paint her. As I ran, she acknowledged me and hesitated. I faltered in front of her. “My dear, forgive me, you are stunning. What is it they call you, darling? For what reason does a delicate pet, such as yourself, arrive in this gruff town?” I spat out with much excitement. She tilted her head. Such grace! “Isla Everett. My mother died when I was young and my father passed not too many days ago. I am here to live with my brother and his wife,” young Isla replied.
         This enchantress had long wavy blonde locks, pale skin, and exuberant green eyes. Isla was short and thin. She was blessed with dainty hands and a long regal neck. Around her, draped an ill-fitting navy blue dress. However, it did not affect her beauty in any way. I gave my new obsession my address and offered dinner and let her carry on.

Six Months Later:
         I have found my lady to be wedded to. I would not settle and now I acquired the most beautiful woman in Hathworn. I waited at the window overlooking the road to my home, for we had dinner once more and this time I would ask for marriage. I have spoken with her bother. Since I am a man of good fortune and wealth, I have been guaranteed her hand.
         A carriage approached and my love was guided out with remarkable grace. She held a folded paper in her small hands, that was then slide beneath my heavy oak door. She was then guided back into the carriage.
         I immediately ran downstairs. Hoping she still loved me, I lurched for the paper. A letter of affectionate rejection I hope! I opened it and was failed by my hope. The disappointment was bitter and strong. It read:

         My Dear Laurence,
         
         Although we have had many good days together, I regret saying, you only love me for my beauty. If you would dare call it love. Your lust has drove me away from all men because even someone as insightful as you, only cares about the scale of how charming a woman can be. I possess much more than my pleasing looks. You, even with your good nature and good intentions, did not care to know me on a personal level. Goodbye forever, my love.

         With much regret, Isla Everett

         Tears fled from my eyes. She was right. How could I forget the beauty of the mind? I drug myself to my room, where a finished painting of Isla, leaned against the wall. It was meant to be a surprise. Her portrait took me longer that any other portrait.
         No! She was wrong! I did love her! How could spend so much time painting her if I didn’t love her? I got to know her though her features. She was just too witless to realize it! Isla had no idea how I felt because her heart and mind was the most unfortunate ever cursed on a person. The guilt of making a beast so evil and idiotic, made her pleasing to the naked eye.
         I picked up the painting. I will not destroy it. I will modify it. I will show her true beast. After all, when painting her, I wanted to capture her person. The gull of Isla! How dare she? Her love was unfortunate and hard. My money is all she lusted for. Doubtless she was having an affair with that peasant musician. I will have him killed, as well as her brother and his family. However, I will have her live to grieve real grief.

         For many restless days and frivolous hours, I dedicated to exposing my beloved’s true self. I had her remaining family killed as well as that filthy musician. Peter was his name. Isla insisted he had nothing to do with it, even as he held her in his arms. How blind I was before to discover her lies now!
         I stood back in awe. This is the best painting I've ever created. My dear, Isla, was covered with an appalling brown chaotic mass of fur. She had a pig snout with white unkempt hairs speckling it. Her lopsided snarl was ornamented with yellowing fangs. Her eyes were harsh and hateful. They were discolored and misshapen. Her neck was short and stout. She was of massive in height and her body deformed. Her hands were now disfigured and huge with grisly black claws. A couple slashes across her rough cheek added effect. Her clothes were torn and foul looking. The left ear mostly bitten off. As a total she was bloodied and dirty. My Isla, grotesque as her heart.
         The pride I felt. The power! I felt no guilt, only pleasure of delivering such a unique punishment. “Where should I hang you my Isla? Beside Jane? Of course, my love.” I paraded down the dark halls until I came to Jane’s portrait. I removed Mary to be placed elsewhere, then hung my beauty. “Oh Isla, you look so lovely there,” I chimed.
         I glanced at Jane and Mary. Both young and beautiful. Jane, red headed and outspoken. Mary, resembled a sweet mouse and happened to be very meek.
         My eyelids became heavy and my knees weak. I have slept in some time. I drug myself to bed, curling up under the wool blankets. All I could think about was my dear, Isla.

         I woke with a start. I had a terror of Jane being murder by a monster. Isla to be exact. Very curious. Nevertheless, I must she my beast. I pranced down the dark halls once more, to come to a horrid realization. Isla, posed as I had painted her. Unmoved yet horrid all the same. Although my eyes glanced to Jane and I was taken back.
         Her eyes were wide with fear and her hair rumpled. The most terrorizing thing was her neck. There was lengthy cut across it. Blood stained her chest. I look back at Isla. Unmoved, just as I painted her. I scanned the painting, only to find blood stained on one of her black claws.
         Someone must be tampering with my art! But how? My doors were locked, the windows don’t open, and no one gets past the dogs. I realized I was facing someone much more dangerous than I could imagine. Could it be Isla? Is she that angry? I could have pushed her too far. What have I done? I neglected her and acted out rage. She has now had enough and is coming to kill me. Shame channeled though my body causing me to stagger back. I have done wrong. This is all on me. It is time for me to be punished.
         I ran stalked outside with fear that I could be corner in the house. I made haste to Isla’s house and began slamming on the door. There creature opened the door with an expression of disgust when coming into sight with me. She had obviously been crying.
         “What do you want, you monster?” she snarled.
         “Isla, my darling, please don’t be cross with me. I was confused and in rage. I could not comprehend not having you as my wife. Please understand. I know I have wronged you in an unbearable way, but be aware that it was a horrid mistake and that I still love you,” I pleaded.
         “My dear, you are unforgivable. Someone who loved me would not put me though so much pain and cause such evil. You are not the man I thought. You are evil. Please just leave me to be,” she spat and slammed the door closed.
         I got close the door and shouted, “I was not thinking! Please find it in your heart not to be so cross as to kill me or tamper with my portraits. The girls and my life are all I have without you!”
         I reluctantly backed away from the door and preceded to the market. I wanted to see Jane. Her beauty will calm me. Coming to her stand, I noticed it was closed. Very curious. Her stand is always open. Only because it’s the only way she can feed her brothers. I continued down to the village to her home.
         Arriving at her small home, nothing seemed right.          I tapped on the door to be greeted coldly by her father. I asked to see Jane. He widened the door to let me peer in. To my horror, Jane was laying on the bed, dead. Her eyes in fear, hair not groomed, and her chest stained in blood. The throat was slit. Her mother was crying beside her bed as the doctor pulled the sheets over her head.
         This was worse. The sorrow of my tampered portrait, but death of the living beauty was incomprehensible! I expressed my distress for the family. Losing such an enchanting creature is an exceptional deficient of the population.
         I reluctantly returned to my home. Only to investigate the remaining portraits. Out of all the portraits, including Jane and Isla, I had created twenty three.
         All the paintings were accounted for. None were changed, except for my beloved Jane. Peering upon the beauties has relived me. I continued my day, which ended in rest.

         I awoke of another dreaded terror. Adabella, a sweet dear, voice like honey and looks of youth, had her fragile head slammed against the wall by Isla, the beast. Carol shrieks. Her favorable lifestyle was abruptly ended, with a wine bottle to the head. Her long blonde hair haloed her. Her cheery smile now a permanent scowl. Winters will not be the same without her warm heart.
         I scavenged towards Isla. There was blood on the wall in the background and broken glass at her beastly feet.
         Then examining Adabella’s portrait, she sat against the wall, her head split, and blood painted down to her head. I noted the lump on Carol’s forehead as she lay in a ring of green glass and red wine. Observing the horror, I made way to their homes.
         Adabella, I found out to have been killed by her husband when he pushed her against the wall after a disagreement. Carol was killed during a break in. The thief struck her with the wine bottle when she threatened to scream. My beauties were dying!
         I had to speak with Isla. She may have invoked Adabella’s husband and paid off the so called thief. She also probably murdered Jane. I hurried to her house and rapped on the door.
         “Isla, please! You must stop. Murdering these beauties is too much. Let the be! Let me be! I feel the guilt. Like none you can imagine. Forgive me, and let me lead to my own suffering! I beg of you!”
         There was no answer and I continued home. I paced with guilt and dread of future murders. The day passed without much acknowledgment and I set to rest.

         The dream started out favorably with the three French sisters, whom I adored, chatting away. The triplets had soft blue eyes and black hair. However, the dream turned dark as Isla showed herself. Despite that she did not touch the girls, the fear made them go mad and they killed each other. Simone, the youngest, was suffocated by Odette’s scarf. Odette, was then stabbed in the back by the oldest, Giselle with a their mother‘s knife. Realizing the horrid fault she had done, Giselle drank a bottle of poison hidden in her purse.
         This scene was demonstrated in the girls picture. All of them dead within the portrait. In Isla’s portrait, Odette’s scarf was around her neck, the knife in her left hand, and the bottle of poison on the table. This same scene was shown at their home. They simply went mad, their mother said.
         This was obscene! However, I felt worn. I must sleep. It was a long walk to my home, yet I could not wait to savor the thought of being in between the cold sheets, in the dark, and forgetting this horror while I drift among my dreams.

         I dreamt of the Spanish sisters. Kitri, Octavia, Carmen, and Paquita. Lovely ladies, yet vain. This, however, can be dismissed easily for the dark haired and dark eyed beauties. All four, graceful dancers. They were performing upon a stage that hovered over the water. Sharp and alluring movements were made. They were skilled at what they did. Unfortunately, Isla rears her ugly deformed head. The women scream and plunge, one by one, into the icy harbor. All of whom, drowned, for the audience was in fear of Isla and could not think of the young women.
         I awoke with dread. I knew what was coming. I could not bare it. Instead I rolled over, in guilt of course, and dreamt more.
         I knew of two German beauties, Swanhilda and Coppelia. They were cousins and very familiar with one another. Swanhilda had very long straight blonde hair and blue eyes and always dressed in blue. Coppelia, was red headed with green eyes, today she wore a pastel yellow. They were having lunch with two close friends, Suzanne and Joyce. Suzanne, talk, dark haired beauty and very mature. Joyce, blonde and welcoming and bubbly as always. Things were going well. I knew what was going to happened. I tried desperately to awake but could not. The door began to open slowly and mockingly. Then, instead of the dreaded Isla came two more friends of the ladies, Margot and Medora. Margot had mousey brown hair and light green eyes. Medora, acquired chestnut hair and eyes and a voice of an angel.
         As they were chatting away and eating. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. As they go about their lives, they become ill and fall to their deaths, Swanhilda being the first and Medora being the last. Isla, is then seen dragging rotten meat from Swanhilda’s home into the forest.
         Instead of waking, I could not the dream kept going. Isla discovered a hunter, dropped the meat, and killed him in one swipe of her massive paw. She stole his bow and arrow. Diane, a fawn like creature, innocent and light hearted as well as skinned, was seen by Isla and shot in the chest.
         She then set out a pile poisonous berries, somehow knowing it would play as a trap for some lovely young lady. No doubt, a lovely young lady did come along. Violet, her black hair and purple eyes and gothic features and her obsession of black attire. She saw the red berries with delight and swallowed the sweet juicy spheres. A moment later her face began to swell and her skin blotchy and she fell to the ground, dead.
          In the forest, not far from Violet, were Mary, Helena, and Catherine. They were exploring and playing, for they were the youngest of my paintings and still very restless. They were being careless and running through the woods not expecting danger. Isla rushes towards the girls. She bites Mary’s neck, then lurches to Catherine and pulls her delicate head off her shoulders, decapitating her. Helena screams and runs. Isla lets out a roar so horrendous and blasting, it deafens Helena. Isla stands over the girl and puts a paw on her chest as she suffocates. Her face turns a frightening purple as she struggles and then limpness.
         The sister in laws, having tea in John’s cottage, hear the frightening roar. Clara being married to John and Anne being his sister. They become fearful and call for John. Even as he is far away in town. Isla hears their cries and stalks toward their cottage.  She then starts a fire at their porch, being that it is the only entrance and exit. Their screams fill the air as they slowly burn to death. The shame. Both very enchanting. Anne very sharp featured and Clara very soft.
         The fire then catches to the trees and the forest sets to flames. It begins to destroy a home just on the outskirts of the forest. It being the home of Daniel and Juliet. They choose suicide to burning to death. Juliet stabs herself in the chest. Her loving personality now gave way to the fire that ate away her brown hair and blue eyes.
         I finally awoke. Oh the despair of what I must face. I can’t bare to leave my home for I know what is to await me, yet I must. I must pay these families my respects. Although, first, I would like to examine the paintings after such a slaughter fest. I first went to visit the Spanish sisters. The four dear girls lay about wet, cold, and dead. My throat tightened. I can’t bare more but I must.
         I then traveled down the lonely halls to Swanhilda, Coppelia, Suzanne, Joyce, Margot, and Medora. All of these ladies were placed beside each other, for they were all close to one another. All of these girls sat slumped or lay on their backs, face green with vomit around them and upon their attire. My heart ached. Why is this happening?
         Traveling another ways down, Diane lay with an arrow lodged in her chest. Blood stained the wood floors. Beside her was Violet. She sat on her heels in her black dress surrounded by the gothic atmosphere. Her skin was blotchy and her face swollen. In her hands were bright red berries.
         I moved on. Heading over to Catherine, Helena, and newly placed Mary. Mary sat in her picture almost unmoved, except that her head was hung awkwardly to the side yet fastened by a slight bit of flesh. Catherine held her head in hands. It was a haunting sight. With her neck unoccupied of her mind and lovely face. Helen’s face was purple and her chest smashed in. So dreadful. I felt tears rim my eyes. I must keep going.
         Anne and Clara were painted together, for their contrast complimented each other. They had charred bodies. The room was also burnt and the exterior was exposed. I took a deep breathe. I can cry later. Juliet next and then to the town to find out the horrible truth and send my condolences to their families. After which I must beg Isla to stop murdering the ladies. She mustn’t be jealous, for she is much more beautiful in body but heinous in personality. She couldn’t care for character over figure, could she? That can be answered later. Next I will cry and not fall asleep. Then what? Commit suicide? That’s what she wants, right? Considering I killed her family and lover and left her to grieve. What if I destroy the paintings? Will I just be killing the girls?
         I thought this as I carried on to Juliet’s portrait. The dagger through her chest and her hands committing the act. She has sinned. Even if it was such a horrible death, did she really have to fight against God? Nevertheless, that is what has happened.
         I traveled downtown to find that the families of the girls were gathered there sharing the painful news and letting people send their blessings. I walked to each family wishing them the best without needed an explanation of the process of which they died.
         I hurried to Isla’s and knocked upon the door. Noticing, however, there was a note. I left it. It was not addressed. I did not bother to shout through the door.
         As I made it home, I recalled I never looked upon Isla’s portrait. Nor did I want to, except my curiosity pushed me to. There in the picture were the newly demonstrated deaths. Cold water was slashed on the floor, rotten meat beside Isla’s feet, a quiver of arrows slung over her beastie shoulder, the bow crossing her body from the shoulder to the waist, the yellow fangs colored red, her hands bloody, her leg muscles tense from the suffocating, fire lined the room, and a dagger in her right hand.
         I swallowed, my knees went watery as I felt the spit travel down my throat. I collapsed and cried into my hands. The despair I felt! It felt as if I had no reason to move forward. As if I will now just drift through the universe without any importance, like I had any in the first place. I created this. My own selfishness created these innocent deaths. Only if I could off myself. I could fly with God, as he chews me out for suicide, and kicks me down to hell. I honestly belong there. These paintings were my only friends, now they’re dying. I can’t deal with reality. I need help dying. I went to the cellar to drown my sorrows. I had to run away from my awareness and just get drunk.
         Which is what I did. I was hammered and slamming into walls and eventually passed out. Unfortunately, I was caught up in so much despair, I never thought of the consequences getting drunk. Selfish bastard! Oh and how I dreamt! Can you hear my cries! Dear God, please save me!

         There was an invasion. All the women gathered in the church. The stupidity! The barbarians came around the back while all the men were fighting in the front and broke into the church. My remaining ladies Bernadette, Johanna, Kashchei, and Aurora, were all raped and killed.
         That was it, I thought as I awoke. All of my women are dead. All my friends and beauties are gone. The pain I felt will continue to be unbearable. Only because I was too idiotic and selfish to refrain from drunkenness. This is my fault. I don’t deserve to live. But I must pay my respects first.
         I walked down the even gloomier halls to see the last of the women with some strange man behind her with a weapon to cause her death.  Aurora was an enchanting women with golden hair. Kashchei was truly unique with those big brown eyes. Bernadette was what you would describe as cute, with her small sweet features and yellow hair. Johanna possessed auburn hair and yellow eyes.
         Reaching Isla’s portrait, four strange violent looking men stood in the background, each bearing some form of weapon and a letter for a demanded attack signed, “Isla Everett”. My heart sunk.
         I traveled into town thinking of ways to commit suicide. The town was destroyed. There were very few people, all of which mourning their loved ones’ deaths. I checked around and none of the girls family members were among the living. How disgusting and bitter. The burning biasness of death. Those who don’t deserve it are treated of this disease we call life first, while those who be served first are put off until the time seems convenient. Death is a cheater I thought.
         I reached Isla’s door and decided to read the letter. Whether it was addressed to me or not. It read:

         My Dear Laurence,

         You have accused me of murdering those young women. Yet, you seem to make no effort to notice the murder you have committed. My brother, his wife, his children, Peter, and Peter’s mother. What purpose did you have? Because you were jealous. Also you should know, I was not having an affair with Peter. He only happened to have a little infatuation for me, and if you didn’t notice pretty much everyman had an infatuation for me, including you, my love. Nonetheless, I have no idea why all your little ladies, in whom you desire so fairly much opposed to me, are dying. I have nothing to do with, though I can say I wish I did. To kill those innocent girls would free them from your selfish lustful way. I honestly cannot take the loss of my mother, father, brother, and his family, in which I have grown very close to. Their deaths were all very sudden and unneeded. Consider this my suicide note. Going though life without the ones I love, you including, is not possible. It is hopeless for me to find someone who isn’t either just attracted to my looks or too jealous to speak to me. Blood and law relations were all I had far a chance to be excepted for being human rather than a piece of art. I don’t want to die but, the despair is so strong and passionate, I can’t see any other option. I have no future because I honestly have no skills. If I just die I could stop hurting men like you. Men would stop lusting and not hurt so much after being rejected. Women the envy me wouldn’t hurt either. Although as they say, being left alone is murder and isolating yourself is a death wish. I must live around my own species. Oh why do I torture myself with living? I deserve to hurt. I don’t know why, but I deserve to hurt. You use love when describing me. You ignorance makes me cry. This is the end. I have determined it. There is nothing left for me that I want or will stoop to. Because after all life is a waste of death.

         Goodbye my dear, Isla Everett

         Oh, that did it. I choked up and cried. This is the end. How did she die? I don’t care!
         I ran home and grabbed a rope from the shed. I walked by Isla’s portrait. There was a noose hanging in the background. I’m not sure if it’s determining how I will die or it is how Isla choose to end her life. I know I’m going against God, I thought as I tied to rope to the beam in my room.  At this point I have no choice. This is my fault. I must pay for it. I quickly did the noose. I set my stool beneath the rugged rope. Then a thought provoked me before taking the next action. A suicide note. If someone was to care about me, they deserve an explanation. I began to write:

         Dear those who may be concerned,

         I have ended my life for a number of reasons. The only woman I ever loved, refused to wed me and took her own life. My portraits have come to life in some sort. When the real person dies in my dreams, they die in my paintings and in real life. My repainted version of my dear, Isla, killed the beauties. The paintings were my only friends. I was never good with people. The deaths of these girls was my fault, for I angered and mistreated Isla and took my wrath out upon her loved ones. This was some sort of revenge to kill the beauty I cherished. For I do not deserve beauty. I committed murder. Of Isla, her brother, her sister in law, her nieces and nephews, Peter, Peter’s mother, Jane, Mary, Helena, Catherine, Anne, Giselle, Simone, Bernadette, Adabella, Johanna, Carol, Elaine, Violet, Diane, Octavia, Kitri, Clara, Odette, Juliet, Suzanne, Aurora, Joyce, Carmen, Swanhilda, Paquita, Margot, Coppelia, Medora, Kashchei, and lastly, myself. This is my nature. Death. Not life, beauty, and love. Only death, ugliness, and hate. I belong in hell, in which God will assure me of.

         Goodbye, Laurence

         I finished the last sentence and felt tears drip from my eyes. My, how I have cried so often. I folded the paper and placed it quietly on the desk. I stepped up onto the stool. Pulled the rough noose around my neck. I swallowed. I can do this. I took a deep breathe. Let it out. Closed my eyes. Took another deep, deep breathe in and kicked the stool back. There was a hesitation and my heart skipped a beat and my lungs were empty. Gravity finally had its affect and pulled me down as the noose closed around my neck. It happened so fast, yet in the end, I was caught by the rope and pulled down by gravity. There was a crack. My neck I suppose.
         Eyes shut, heart ceased, body limp and dangling, breathing came to its conclusion, bodily functions were released, the mind was at a halt, and Laurence’s life in general was finished. There was silence. As if the world has paused. Even as that was not the case, the house itself was at standstill. Until the maid came in to fix his bed, to discover a horrible sin and deed as well as disgusting portraits of vivid death. She would think of him as mad. He was not mad. He was afraid of going crazy. He was really experiencing this unconscious hell transferring to a living hell. Death is a strong thing. As is life. Both of which happen easily and beautifully. The moment hell does not stay refrained in your dreams at the mid of a cold night, is when hell becomes the realest thing you can experience. Death and rejection and failure is hell. When the Night Gallery opens during daylight hours is when you will experience true despair, as it be physical or mental pain. The constant torture cannot always be endured. Isla’s portrait recognizes this torture.

The End.