It was half past ten, and she was thinking about lunch already. Poppy’s stomach snarled as she shuffled through the hall and gazed, with disinterest at the paintings. Sprawling, sobbing saviours hung from crosses as Poppy trudged through with her class, feigning some kind of feeling at yet another portrait of Jesus Christ in his struggle era.
Poppy understood that Jesus was a big deal, and that his sticky ending was probably a spectacular event for those who were around at the time, and even for centuries after, but she couldn’t understand the value of wall after wall of paintings of the moment.
Poppy was thinking about lunch. She was thinking about what she’d wear for Leila’s birthday party the next day. She was thinking about why Leila invited her to the party, when Leila was the most popular girl in school.. The prettiest girl in school.. The prettiest girl that Poppy had ever seen.
Poppy tumbled backwards, her nose suddenly sore as she was shocked back to the quiet hallway that slowly filled with gasps. She had walked straight into a wall, and her cheeks glowed as she tried to ignore the collective snickers that began to spread around the class.
After a quick tut from her teacher, the class was back on the move. Poppy stole a quick glance at Leila, biting her lip, before begging her eyes to return to the path in front of her, and the paintings that bored her to death.
It was her first time in London. The class had been so excited to get out of their dreary, dull town to visit somewhere a little more exciting, but the gallery didn’t quite match up with anyone’s expectations, and so, they filed through each room of paintings, nodding and sighing as the guides explained each picture that hung on the walls.
Her mind still wandered, but Poppy did her best to limit herself to wondering about lunch as they reached the end of the Jesus room and headed towards more paintings, and the promise of weathered, soggy sandwiches in a few hours.
Poppy didn’t recall the theme of the next room of paintings, and soon, her mind began to wander, and meander, until she was thinking about sandwiches, perhaps a sandwich she would share with Leila… perhaps a romantic, candlelit dinner… perhaps a kiss?
Leila wore a yellow hair clip. She wore it every day, tucking a slip of her auburn curls behind her right ear, fiddling with it when their eyes met and Leila bit her lip. Those were the moments that Poppy thought she might not be crazy. She even thought that she might be something special, lucky enough to be looked upon with such curiosity.
Perhaps they’d talk over lunch? Perhaps, she’d gently run her fingers through the slip of auburn curls that dangled behind Leila’s right ear, pulling her closer as their lips trembled…
She did not walk into another wall, but she was once again stolen from her thoughts as her eyes fell upon a painting up ahead that dominated the wall. Her mind was as quiet as the room, raided by darkness and suddenly, so lonely. She circled the room with her eyes, bothered by the emptiness as the door that lay behind her slowly creaked and closed.
There was a clock above the door, quietly ticking as she wandered the room, repeatedly drawn to the painting, but feeling her fingers tingle and her chest tighten every time that she looked in its direction. Something wasn’t right, and she shook with every glance at the painting, but couldn’t keep her eyes from it.
The clock ticked. Two PM. No windows. No company. Nothing but the painting. And the mocking tick tock of the clock.
Poppy was alone. Her heart thudded as she stared around the almost empty room, and then, back to the painting. It was the only source of light, with a flickering light above it seeming to lure her, like a doomed, disturbed moth.
Framed in brass, and almost entirely swallowed by black paint, there was a girl, in a wrinkled blue uniform, with muddy shoes. Her dark hair fell across her slumped shoulders, and her brown eyes pierced her own, a hopeful, pleading stare.
She stumbled towards the girl, a gasp caught in her throat, unable to shake the stare that seemed so desperate to reach her. Poppy glanced down at her own wrinkled blue uniform and muddy shoes, pushing her dark hair back across her slumped shoulders and gulped, unable to escape the fact that the girl in the painting was almost certainly her.
It made no sense, but with every glance, she became more and more certain that she was staring at an image of herself. Her frightened eyes ached as they drifted from the haunting vision of herself to what surrounded it.
As she got closer, the darkness began to breathe, coming to life and surrounding the girl, with ever reaching arms. Deep within the darkness, across the whole canvas were small, shining eyes, all across the winding maze of arms that held the girl in place, and staring right at Poppy.
“Poppy must be punished.” She jumped at the voice, her mind racing and her heart pounding. The room seemed smaller, and as she searched the suffocating shadows, the voice spoke again. “Poppy will be punished.”
She shook as she stumbled back towards the door, fumbling in the darkness until she managed to open it and the dark room was flooded with light. Poppy took one last look back at the room, and the strange painting, rushing through the hallway breathlessly until she found her classmates.
The rest of the day was a blur, with the painting dominating Poppy’s mind as she tried to understand what she had seen. She had asked the guides at the gallery about the painting, but they had never heard of it, and after looking online, she found no information on the gallery’s website, or anywhere else on the internet. It was as if the painting had never existed, but as much as she wished it wasn’t true, Poppy believed her eyes, and those that stared back at her from the painting.
The day was soon lost, and Poppy was in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she should do. She was exhausted, but couldn’t close her eyes without seeing the beady eyes protruding from the gloom, unending arms that wrapped around the lonely, lost girl and her sad stare.
Her efforts to unearth the truth of the painting had been fruitless, and she couldn’t forget the ominous words that rung out as she left the painting’s gaze.
Punished.
She must be punished, but for what. By what? She didn’t care to wonder, but nonetheless, her mind wandered back to those words again and again, until she fell into a deep, dreary sleep, chased by those words, and the feeling that she was being watched, from everywhere.
Poppy didn’t make it to school the next day. Her mother could tell that something was up, but Poppy wouldn’t budge. She didn’t want to add potential madness to her list of problems, so simply said she had a headache, and let her mother busy herself with overbearing parenting.
After her second bowl of soup, and many hugs that she couldn’t quite return with the enthusiasm her mother would have liked, Poppy headed back to her room, opening her laptop to search for information.
As her laptop slowly sprang to life, Poppy clasped her hand to her mouth, almost unable to believe her eyes, shaking as she stared back at the tangled arms, beady, blinking eyes and the solemn, sullen stare of herself. The painting commanded the entire screen, and no matter where she clicked, it was stuck, firmly in place.
“Poppy must be punished.” She slammed the laptop shut and backed away from her desk, tripping on the rug and clattering to her unmade bed. “Poppy will be punished.”
The room fell dark, and her body was snatched by shadows, invasive, angry eyes strange from the ceiling, watching from the walls, their scleras searing into her.
She struggled, pleading in breathless whispers for release, but as hands wrapped around her throat, the words were stolen, and she was silent. High above her, almost lost in the winding, wicked arms that spread across the ceiling, was the girl from the painting, her very own mirror image, straining and struggling for her own freedom, as their eyes met.
“Poppy knows what she did.” The girl screamed, her voice intertwined with the tormenting cries that closed in all around Poppy as the dull, dreary room weighed heavily on her, until she could barely breathe.
She watched her painted reflection descend back into the shadows of the twisting arms, feeling herself falling into darkness too, until there was nothing but the shadows, and the echoes of the endless night’s judgement.
“Poppy must be punished, for her soul to shine once again.”
She heard the words again and again, swallowed by the shadows and slipping away.
Her mind was busy again.
Her overbearing, but well meaning mother. She would be so worried. So confused.
The English essay she had been putting off for weeks would probably never be finished. What was the point of it anyway? There were no jobs. No hope. No future for a girl like her anyway.
Would she still be able to go to Leila’s birthday party? She had to escape. She had been invited. She was expected to go. She had ordered some flowers to be delivered. Sunflowers. She tried to picture them, but there was nothing.
Her father left when she was seven years old. He probably knew what she was, before she even had the words to tell him. Perhaps it was the painting. Perhaps he had always known.
Did Leila know?
Did she know that she was the sun and the moon?
Where was she going?
Why did it hurt so much?
Why wouldn’t they look away?
Why did they keep watching?
Would she ever understand the painting?
Would she ever understand Pythagoras?
Would she ever understand what she was?
Would Leila have liked her outfit for the party?
A yellow dress, with new shoes, clean and free of mud that she had spent weeks saving her pocket money for.
Yellow was Leila’s favourite colour. She said it reminded her of sunflowers and vanilla soft serve ice cream. Poppy had developed a real taste for vanilla soft serve ice cream, with toffee sauce, and the bittersweet flavour of shy, nervous love.
Leila.
Leila.
Leila.
Leila.
Leila wore a yellow hair clip. It seemed to shimmer and shine as a shadowy room swam into view before her.
Poppy watched her bored classmates filing into the room. The clock ticked and ticked. Two PM. Lingering arms held her in place, as enraged, irate eyes followed her every struggled, strangled breath. She watched Leila step closer, a soft smile playing on her lips as the girl fiddled with her hair clip, her bottom lip between her teeth, closer than Poppy had ever seen her. She ached, yearning, burning inside as Leila stepped away, turning to the chaperoning teacher with a curious grin.
“Sir, doesn’t that girl in the painting look like Poppy?”
The students were herded from the room, towards the next hall full of paintings, unable to see the silver, shimmering tears that fell from the large, brass frame and puddled on the gallery floor as the clock ticked and tocked, and the door that lay before her slowly creaked and closed.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 