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mariahmccarthy · 3 years

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The Portrait

It was dusk by the time the last inebriated guest departed from the wake of Ms. Dahlia May. The high hanging full moon sat behind a mesmerizing night fog that in combination with the light sprinkle of snow, was creating an iridescent effect. From the grand window in the sitting room of Dahlia’s expansive Victorian, her daughter Lilith watched as the last car pulled away, its headlights exposing a swirl of snow dancing through the frigid air. Her expression was blank, not furrowed or sorrowful, but relaxed, her gaze unmoving. Doris Day’s “Dream a Little Dream of Me” played on the old phonograph that Dahlia’s father had left her when he had died. Lilith cracked a small smirk, her mother always hated that song, calling it an overrated piece of garbage that made women seem more pathetic than they already were. “Sweet dreams til sunbeams find you…” she sang, twirling away from the window, “Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you”. Slowly and gracefully she swayed to the music, throwing in a twirl here and there, “But in your dreams whatever they be'' she continued, “Dream a Little Dream of Me”.

After some time she sauntered toward the kitchen, the tip of her fingers lightly caressing the textured vintage wallpaper, tracing along the delicate gold accents.

First thing I’ll do is change this tired old wallpaper.

The stench of stale quiches, liquor and body odor lingered in the house, trapped by the steel reinforced door and sealed plexiglass windows that Ms. Dahlia installed some years before when her daughter left home. She was a paranoid woman, with a plethora of exhausting, though not uninteresting, psychological issues. The most significant of which was the inability to leave her property without trepidation.

I’ll also have to switch out these goddamn windows for ones that actually open, gotta get some air in this place.

As she circled the sitting room, collecting the stray tableware left by lazy mourners and drinking the remnants of liquor in each glass, Lilith admired her newly acquired estate.

Finally, she thought.

Though she had been raised in the house, Dahlia had made certain Lilith never forgot that it was Dahlia’s house, and it was at her discretion that Lilith be allowed to inhabit it. The sitting room had been her mother’s favorite and accordingly, was off limits to Lilith. Another smirk crept across Lilith’s face and she considered how infuriated her mother would have been at her for allowing the attendees of the wake to mingle in her sanctuary.

HA.

Ms. Dahlia has filled the shelves in the room with magnificent first editions that no one was ever allowed to remove from the shelves, let alone read. Lilith reached for F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” , then paused with hesitation.

I hope you’re watching this mother.

Removing the book from it’s spot between J.D Salinger and Ernest Hemmingway, a sense of euphoria washed over Lilith. As it had been some time since the book had been put on the shelf, a thick curved layer of dust lay there.

Viva la revolución.

She swung open the stained glass French doors to reveal the front parlor, home to an arresting oil portrait of Dahlia as a young woman that she had gazed at everyday from the antique armchair in her sitting room.

The portrait was exquisite; it commanded attention by taking up almost the entirety of the wall. Standing valiantly in a tailored merlot butterfly-sleeved dress with a dangerously plunging neckline, the depiction of Ms. Dahlia was captivating. Her expression was severe, with a gaze that could intimidate any onlooker who dared to rest their eyes upon it. Fashioned in a way that perfectly framed her face, her dark locks drew focus to her piercing eyes, which were a brilliant hazel with flecks of amber.

Lowering herself slowly onto the burgundy settee that sat against the same wall as the French doors in the parlor, Lilith found herself engrossed in the portrait. As a child she had always admired the painting. Its demonstration of beauty and strength created something for her to aspire to. It displayed a facet of Dahlia that had not been present since Lilith’s father had disappeared from their lives, taking with him any ounce of confidence that Dahlia had left. The portrait was Dahlia’s most treasured belonging. She cherished it even more than her own daughter.

Living in a constant state of paranoia, Ms. Dahlia did not trust televisions, telephones or radios to be present in the house, as she feared they were listening and recording the details of her life.

As if your life was ever interesting enough for anyone to desire listening in.

As such, there was nothing to entertain Lilith except to study the grandiose depiction of her mother looming over her, ever-disapproving. Forever making Lilith feel small and unwanted.

God I need a drink.

Reaching over to the mahogany mini bar on her right, she poured herself a glass of wine from a crystal decanter before guzzling it swiftly and pouring another.

Indicative of a kind of toast, she raised her glass towards the painting and considered the peculiarity of her childhood in a house that never truly felt like home. She remembered the many Christmases they did not celebrate because Dahlia would not allow so many extra lights collected in one place, as they might emit radiation and kill her.

I suppose now I can buy a tree.

Ms. Dahlia also did not allow decorations for Halloween as she considered it a childish holiday, and thought it disgraceful that anyone would go door to door knocking and begging for food. While Dahlia did not forbid Lilith to participate in such activities, she made it clear that she considered the practice distasteful and unbecoming of a young woman.

Examining her surroundings with a new sense of freedom Lilith thought,

What fantastic birthday parties could I have hosted if mother did not fear outsiders in her house? What other experiences have I missed out on? Could I have had a good relationship with my mother if she had wanted one?

Taking a swig then lowering the glass to her lap, cupping the bottom with her other hand, she looked down at her reflection in the liquid. Her eyes, she noticed, looked not her own. Though she could see her features clearly, the face being reflected to her she did not recognize as herself. With wide eyes she whipped her head up, and focused on the face in the painting.

It’s me, Lilith concluded with discontent.

It was her. Not just her features, but the very expression she witnessed in her own reflection. Severe and disapproving, with no trace of her normal, passively-content expression to be found. Incredulous, she became enraged and flung her glass at the offensive portrait. The glass shattered on the beautifully finished cherry hardwood floors, the wine slowly dripping down the painting onto the floor below.

Screw this, she thought as she got up and retrieved the poker from the fireplace in the adjacent room.

I cannot look at this shit anymore.

Shoving the poker as far as it could reach behind the frame, she attempted to pry the painting off the wall. Her jaw clenched tightly, she vigorously yanked the poker to no avail. She pulled with such intensity that the metal bent around the withstanding frame and left her hands raw, red and blistering.

Shit.

Throwing down the hopelessly bent metal, she grabbed the frame with both hands and positioned her foot on the wall for leverage.

“Ow fuck” she yelled out in agony, her finger nails unnaturally bending backwards.

Even with her efforts, the frame would not budge, and now in a frenzy, she lost her footing on the wine covered hardwood and fell to the floor. Her face was red with fury and her once white dress was covered in burgundy colored splotches from the spilled wine. Further enraged, she let out a blood-curdling scream before slowly pushing herself up off of the floor.

This is some bullshit, I’m not fucking playing around anymore.

Returning from the backyard with the axe used for cutting firewood, Lilith dragged the, surprisingly heavy, weapon through the house, scraping a trail on the hardwood that led directly to the portrait.

Let’s fucking do this, she thought, the inner chaos apparent in her eyes.

Struggling to hoist the axe over her shoulder, she took a swing and struck the frame but failed to even scratch the finish. She took another swing and to her displeasure, it presented the same result.

Over and over, she hacked at the frame. Each time creating no dents, chips or scratches in the wood. Her face was a picture of determination, unrelenting and clearly pissed off. Pacing back and forth in front of the painting, she considered her options. Though she admired the painting, Lilith did not think she could reside in the house with a constant reminder of Dahlia’s disapproval, and the reflection of her own shortcomings looking back at her.

With one more precise swing of the axe, she attempted to cut a line down the middle of the canvas. As if it was completely solidified and made of cement, the canvas did not tear. Similarly to its frame, the axe had not caused a single deformity on the surface of the painting. “What the actual fuck”, she said, exasperated, with flared nostrils and rapidly shaking hands. There was no longer a look of determination on her face, it had progressed into full fledged outrage, as if the painting was antagonizing her.

Now in full frenzy, she thrashed at the portrait relentlessly. She kept thrashing but with each strike she exhausted herself further and eventually collapsed to the floor. Her breathing was heavy and strained, with a noticeable wheezing sound growing louder with each breath. Her complexion looked as if she had sat in the sun for days, blotchy and radiating heat like a furnace. Her glamorous dark hair now lay matted against her head, soaked in sweat. Her hands and feet were covered in blood, cut up by the broken glass that littered the hardwood. The wall and baseboard were covered in gashes, the wallpaper curling up at every slash.

For some time Lilith sat motionless, staring blankly at the untarnished portrait. Her expression no longer displayed rage, but defeat. She contemplated how it was she got to that point, defeated by a painting.

A fucking painting.

Turning her gaze to the sitting room behind her, she set her eyes upon the fireplace. There's an idea.

After rolling a few condolence cards together, she held them against the fire until they caught the flame. Slowly and with great care not to burn herself, she carried her handcrafted torch into the parlor and, without hesitation, set it against the corner of the frame. Within an instant, the fire had traveled up and across the painting, spreading to the wall on either side and to the floor which was still covered in alcohol.

Shit.

Stricken with panic, Lilith stood frozen.

Fire.

“Fire!”, she screamed, finally finding the words.

She turned towards the front door, a mere 10 feet away, but the path was blocked, as she had inadvertently tracked the alcohol all over the room in her frenzy. The fire now surrounded her on every side, smoke engulfed the entirety of the ceiling and she began to choke. The flames intensified with every second that she took to find a way out, inching closer and closer.

I’m trapped, she finally accepted.

One last time, she turned her gaze to the portrait of Ms. Dahlia whose disapproving face was still visible because, although the painting was engulfed in flames, it was not burning.

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