Large and small paintings cover the walls. The entire wall to my left is dedicated to the largest painting of a ballerina in what I’m guessing must beSwan Lake, and she is the black swan.
The sculptures are set out gracefully across the floor. There must be well over a hundred of them. Some made of crystal, others of stone. All beautiful. I can’t help but move closer to take a better look.
When I do, I realize straightaway that the ballerinas are the same person. The same woman. It’s the same woman in the paintings, too.
There’s something the artist captured about her face that is evident in everything.
It’s the emotion. It’s sadness, but there’s a twinkle in her eyes. The emotion is more pronounced in the paintings because they’re a clearer depiction of what she looks like.
I move closer to theSwan Lakepainting and take note of her honey-colored eyes. The sight grips me, and I think of where I’ve seen those eyes before.
Mikhail.
Is this woman his mother?
Is that who she is?
Apart from the eyes, I can’t quite detect any resemblance, but that doesn’t mean she’s not related to him. Sons tend to look more like their fathers, and daughters their mothers. Apart from my jet-black hair, I looked exactly like my mother, but I have my father’s eyes.
Those footsteps sound on the floor again. They echo from further down the hall along with the creek of doors opening.
I watch the mammoth-sized doors ahead open out on either side to a balcony, which looks similar to the one in the bedroom, but from here I can see a larger terrace outside. I wouldn’t think I was on the third floor just from what I can see.
I knew the house was huge, but it seems like it’s so much bigger than I thought.
Because I haven’t been in this section before, I have no idea where the terrace leads to. I don’t think it’s where I’ve been walking with the dog.
When I walk past one of the crystal ballerinas, I spot Mikhail ahead, and I also realize it’s lightly snowing outside again.
The cold air wafts in, making me shiver, but so does he.
He’ll know that I’m here in a few seconds, or perhaps he already does.
I take measured, careful steps, my bare feet frozen against the floor and my skin numb from where the cold caresses it.
All I’m wearing is a nightdress made of silk with little straps securing it to my shoulders.
He’s dressed for the weather in a black biker jacket and black slacks. The same clothes he had on last night. Blood drips from his hand, lots of it. He’s wounded, and as he moves around, the blood continues to drip.
This section of the hall has paintings covered up with dust sheets.
I watch him take the sheet off one of them sitting on an easel. It’s the closest painting to the opened doors. The sheet floats to the floor, and he stands in front of the painting. Because of the angle it’s placed in I can’t see what the painting is of yet.
But I can see him clearer now, and know he’s hurt.
There are bruises and blood on his face and all over his neck. It’s on his jacket too. I’m not sure if all that blood is his. In fact, I’m inclined to think it might not be from the way it’s splashed all over his face.
So, if it’s not his, it means he’s killed someone.
He’s killed more people.
With that in mind, why am I still moving toward him?
I continue and look at him as he smears his bloody hand all over the painting. It’s such an odd thing to do.
Really, Natalia, you think odd is the best word to describe that?
There’s a good reason why I’ve been describing the things I’ve seen this man do as comparable to a nightmare or a horror. It’s because that’s where monsters and fucked-up psychos live.
