Unforgettable

In the not-too-far future,when Penelope sees a painting that haunts her with familiarity, she becomes determined to find the artist behind the creation, even if she must rebel against her father.

23^rd January XX15, 10:45AM

Today’s starting out as a lovely day already. The light snow outside falls slowly, dancing on the wind. It’s really pretty, how the snow’s decorated the barren trees. Good thing the house is nice and warm to be in right now. While I was having a breakfast of a yummy oatmeal with sweet strawberries and raspberries earlier, I shopped online for a new outfit. I saved enough credits to buy a new warm pink winter coat-dress with bows that I’ve had my eye on. Complimented with polka dotted tights and blush-pink heels, it’ll make me look like a strawberry myself! I’ve been shopping a lot lately; luckily Father’s funds keep my hobbies alive.  In fact, he caught me searching and lit up. It’s easy to tell that Father just loves when folks are using his inventions even after all these years. Personally, I never found much interest in his encouragement for my inventing skills that never caught on. Nevertheless, I always listen in Father and I’s endless one-sided conversation about the latest and greatest technology.

Once he joined me for breakfast, Father and I discussed the upcoming International Inventor’s Showcase, where he planned to show off his latest invention: the Wyper. I asked what it did but he shrugged me off and told me, “It’s a surprise.” Once he said that, my download for the outfit I saw earlier finished. Already yearning to wear it out, I charmed father by recounting his earlier victories at the showcase: online shopping systems that allowed consumers to download and purchase clothing and later furniture, credit currency stored in the computer systems, and teleporting machines that sent purchases straight to the shopper’s home.

Bashful from my comments, he retold old stories about the former currency but his words fell on deaf ears as I daydreamed about visiting a new art exhibit at the nearby museum. A local online newspaper covered the new exhibit and I’m already itching to go. Father detests the arts for its lack of use and would rather I stay here, in this large empty home where I always am. I don’t doubt his worries for me, telling me I might get hurt or worse, but sometimes I wish I could leave without him practically taped to my side. There are those lucky days, when I do get to leave just for a while, and I hoped today was one of those.

Before Father could notice I wasn’t listening, I returned into the conversation tossing a few “Hmmms” and a “Uh-huh, go on” here and there. I don’t think he noticed a thing, the silly old man. He got up to leave and with my most appreciative voice, I asked if I could go out for a while. “I mean, you’re not going to be here after all! It’s been nearly 3 months since I’ve had an outing by myself! Oh please Father, I’ll run errands if you need too!” After shaking him down for a few minutes, he decided to allow me to leave, giving me the keys to the house. He seemed reluctant but my earlier brownnosing must’ve done the trick.

After his umpteenth warning not to head south of Chidery (where he believes the “hooligans” lie about), he gave me this journal as he was out the door for work. Father said I should start documenting my thoughts on paper so that I won’t forget anything important. I think that’s just lovely of him to do, but he did seem the slightest bit sad when he gave me this. I wonder why.

Sincerely,

Penelope

23^rd January XX15, 16:14PM

Winter air tickled my warm nose; it was so nice to be outside again. I looked absolutely adorable in my new outfit, just as I thought I would. It’s going to be a while until I wear nice things out again. Father has me under house arrest for venturing into south Chidery again. It was worth it, to see the decorative cafés in the heart of the district. It’s no wonder why Father wanted to keep me out of there; it’s the most artsy district in all of Chidery. The theaters and shops abstain from the latest technological norms and continue their antique practice; it’s like stepping into a time machine set years into the past. The folks walking about can stop to stare at anything. While the streets are nice, it’s the art museum that’s my absolute favorite place to be.

I walked in near the beginning of the exhibit; artists stood with their works proudly. Excitedly, I moved from one to the next: a teen bashfully stood with a gracious watercolor of Brazil’s timeline, a tall woman towered intimidatingly with a sculpture that looked like a squid but a turn of the head and it became a caged person, and finally a person with wild hair talked fast about their colorful self-portrait. They reeled me in and explained different genders, how it was more than just a role assigned but more a state of mind a person decides.

“I’m genderfluid,” they said, “It means I feel like a boy some days, a girl others, and sometimes it’s something in between and it’s just who I am and how I work. In the past, people were afraid of being who they felt they should just because others couldn’t handle things that were different. I’m really glad it’s improved somewhat today, don’t you think?”

I enjoyed talking to them, even if I messed up the pronouns a couple times, they respectfully corrected me and let the conversation continue. I kick myself right now for not asking them to hang out afterwards; I don’t see a lot of other people my age and it would’ve been refreshing to hear more from a mind unlike mine. Once I continued through the exhibit, a painting without an owner caught my eye and left me dead in my tracks.

It was called Cosmic Love.

It was a large rectangular canvas, more than 10 feet long and 6 feet high. Acrylic paints were used, but the way they shined and the roughness they resembled, it didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen. It was a scene in a ballroom with a ceiling that extended through the cosmos. Dark blues faded in to the pink greys of the ballroom where a young woman in the softest blue dress I’d ever seen moved with her partner, a tall person with a sharp cut and long legs. All over were the stars, fiery red shooting stars and bright yellow ones twinkling. Colors I’d never seen before were used for universes in the distance, some as small as dots. The ballroom seemed endless, but my absolute favorite thing about the painting was the woman and her partner. They both fit in each other’s arms, as if they had done this a thousand times. The look of bliss on the woman and her partner gazed at her as if she were the most precious pearl in the sea.

They were in love, and so was I.

I stared at the painting for so long, I hadn’t realized an hour had passed until I heard my name, angrily called by a steaming old man sticking out like a sore thumb in the art museum. I couldn’t believe he found me again! Disappointed I couldn’t stare at it longer, I snapped a quick photo of it to keep on my phone. Father dragged me out, lecturing me about the neighborhoods that lie nearby full of “burnouts that have wasted their talents”. On the way home, I continued looking at the painting, which felt ethereal, like I was looking at a memory. As I stare at it right now, something tells me I’ve seen this picture before. Perhaps it will come to me later.

Sincerely,

Penelope

23^rd January XX15, 20:09PM

I can’t stop staring at this painting. After that last journal entry, I moved it to my WallLaptop so I could see the painting as big as the original. Father called me for dinner, but I merely took a cup of warm chai tea to my room and camped out for hours. Hours of staring and admiring, my legs went numb but I kept still.

Every second, I notice little details, stitching on the clothing, every eyelash there and accounted for, and the galaxy perfectly resembles our own as a spiral. The woman looks like me, I’d like to think. She’s short and big, with short bobbed hair like me. Her partner looked neither like a woman or a man; they had sharp auburn hair and a small mole under their lip.  There’s so many things I want to know more about them, but my eyes have been hurting from gazing at it. Writing about it puts me at ease, but I can’t tear my eyes away from it, like a moth to a light.

Maybe I’ll feel better once I sleep.

Sincerely,

Penelope

23^rd January XX15, 23:55PM

Still looking at this painting. All the lights are out in the house right now, but I’m under my covers just mesmerized. I’ve been tossing and turning for a few hours, “sleeping” like a log. After a while, I gave in and loaded it up on my phone. It’s hauntingly gorgeous, really. I swear I’ve seen it before but nothing is coming to my mind! The artist, Lyric, lives in the city and has made several works but this exhibit was their first. If I had seen their works before, I would’ve known. Nothing has ever kept me awake with the feeling of being lost.

My eyes are red and tired; I really can’t stare at this anymore. I need rest.

 

0:23PM

            When I close my eyes, I see the painting. I only open them because I’m dying to see it again. It’s a chain locked around my sanity. Something about this painting, I can’t put my finger on it. I need to meet this artist. Lyric, whoever you are, I swear I need to find out why you made this painting. I’ll do whatever it takes; I won’t let this go for anything.

Sincerely,

Penelope

24^th January XX15, 10:38

            This morning, I felt dead, just barely being revitalized by my delicious omelet with tomatoes and bell peppers. The skies look like a grey spectrum of clouds that don’t begin or anywhere, as if it might rain, snow, or a nasty combination of both. The weather won’t stop me from my goals. I’ve resolved to go search for the artist of Cosmic Love after a terrible night of sleep. Just looking at my journal entries, I was a complete mess last night.

            The tricky part will be getting around Father. He’d implode if I asked to return to south Chidery, let alone if he knew it was to find an artist. Nothing bad ever happens to me while I’m out, other than the fact I’ve got a painting giving me insomnia. Perhaps if I calmly explain the situation, he would accompany me on this wild goose chase. Here’s to hoping!

Sincerely,

Penelope

24^th January XX15, 10:59

            I can’t believe him! Not only did he refuse to listen to anything I had to say once I showed him the picture, he confiscated my phone and left me here without an explanation! I know he does this for my own good, but goodness, I wish he explain why he got all huffed up when he saw the picture. It was like showing a picture of a crime I committed; I feel so discouraged…

            Cosmic Love has been nothing but trouble for me, keeping me up at night, getting Father to take my phone away as if I were a child, and now I can’t even look at it. Sometimes I wish he didn’t worry so much. Then maybe I could have friends, a job, and a life like a normal girl at 19. Instead I’m just here, alone in a locked house without anyone to be with and no way to leave. Why do I have to listen to him…?

Wait, why DO I have to listen to him?

Sincerely,

Penelope

P.S. Remember, Father is a very successful inventor and scientist! A broken window will be a minor dent in his finances.

24^th January XX15, 13:04

            The view outside the mini-train is so calming. I take a look at the city, refine grey buildings with brightly colored people walking at their own pace. The snow has already begun to melt, leaving a cold air and wet patches where they used to be. Winter really is my favorite season. Some may say the cold brings death, but I say it’s a wonderful break from the world being so bright. Then, we can see how humans shine even brighter.

            Staring out the window is easing my anxiety since I’ve been glancing over my shoulder ever second or so, in fear of Father showing himself. No signs yet; I have a pain in my gut, so worried that I’m doing something terrible. I just need to calm down and remember what this is all for. Once I settle this, I’ll have a spat with Father, lose privileges for a couple months, and things will be well back to normal. That’s alright, I guess…

            Right now, I’m heading into the neighborhoods of south Chidery. They look as bright and creative as the rest of the district. How my Father gets “useless waste of time” from these gorgeous sculptures and murals I’ll never understand. Maybe he’d be happier if I liked the things he liked, but I wouldn’t be happy at all.

According to the exhibit’s artist information, Lyric lived in a makeshift studio at the end of the district, incredibly far away from my house. Getting closer, I thought I’d be more excited, but instead anxiety is a pit in my stomach that won’t let up. Maybe Father was right, something bad will happen while I’m in the neighborhoods. The train is about to stop. There’s isn’t any time for doubt now. It’s now or never.

Sincerely,

Penelope

 

 

24^th January XX15, 15:28PM

            Running it all through my head, it still seems so unbelievable. Earlier, making from the train stop, the building was in view. The venue was gallant and antique, something so grand yet quaint. A mural of a forest fire was painted on the side and a rent sign stood in the front. I knew I had found the right place. Soon, every step I took morphed into stride and I approached the building. Oh finally, I would know all the things I wanted to know.

Suddenly, the pit in my stomach return. I heard footsteps following my. Not daring to look back, I kept walking in fear. This was it, I thought, Father was absolutely right! I should’ve never left. Now I can’t even call on my phone for help. I should’ve listened to him. Please, please let me get out of this. I nearly shrieked when an arm grabbed me, only to be shocked by who it was.

            Father. He had followed me here. He pulled me aside, looking angry yet tired, more so than usual. There was a trace of remorse in his face, but maybe I was imagining it. He demanded I come home this instant and how worried sick he was. Still shaken by his approach, I almost agreed immediately until I remembered why I was there. Trying to persuade him to come with me, he insisted that nothing was here for me and that I back with him to safety. I pleaded with him that I’m old enough to not be scared, and then I noticed it. In his other hand, a box marked WYPER. I asked and he replied with a long sigh. For the first time in his life, he explained himself.

            “Penelope, you know everything I do for you I do out of love, to protect you from harmful influences. These Wypers, they select specific information from the human mind and deletes whatever is select, kind of like a computer.”

            Frozen out of fear for his next words, I asked with my voice shaking, “What does that have to do with this…?”

            “Penelope,” he spoke, with sorrow, “You were in a relationship with this artist you’re pursuing. You were with them without my knowledge and when I found out…” He pauses to swallow his shame, “I erased all memories having to do with them.”

Everything inside of me shattered. After 19 years of trust and care, I thought Father was the safest person in the world. I believed everything he said about the world, how people would take advantage of me, try to hurt to me to get what they want, and how I was safer away from people and instead inside home. He continued with empty apologies and explanations how it was for my out good. In a fit of rage I grabbed the box and threw them to the ground, crushing them with my heel. Tears ran down my face, blurring the sight of my father aghast as his perfect creation lied destroyed on the ground. Once I finished I fell to the floor and screamed.

Father knelt before me and moved to pat me on my back. I wish I could say it felt comforting, but his touch felt ice cold. I couldn’t look at him. How could I have not known how controlling he was? His dismissal of my interests, my house arrests, limited contact with other people, and the entire time I found it normal. Normal fathers don’t cage their daughters.

I sent him away, after he pathetically picked up his crumbled Wyper. Right now, as I sit on the steps of the ballroom building, wiping my hot face as the cool air burns it, I wonder what I can do now.

Lyric is closer than ever, but how do I even begin to explain this. What if Lyric isn’t what I think and my father really was protecting me. Everything I’m going right now could be a big mistake and I could get hurt badly. After looking at my father’s silhouette in the distance, I realize this was what Father was protecting me from: life experiences. If I stayed and listened to him, I would’ve never faced the pain of anxiety, shock, and doubt like I did today. It doesn’t work like that though. If I keep myself chained to the fear of the past and shield myself up, I’ll never experience anything worthwhile. Happiness is only known because sadness exists. Maybe meeting Lyric will be a disaster, or maybe it won’t. I’ll never know if I don’t take that first step.

Sincerely,

Penelope

~

            After letting some of the pages dry from the tears that fell on them, I shut my journal closed and slide it back into my purse. Patting my face dry, I take a deep breath, turn towards the door, and place a hand ready to open it. You have to do this Penelope. For Lyric. For you.

            Pushing it open, I meet an empty hallway. Faintly, I hear the sound of music. Following it, I hope to find someone. One right turn and it catches my eye, like it has done for the last 24 hours: the ballroom in the painting. Instead of cosmos and galaxies surrounding it, there are painting, large and small. Some of trees, flowers, people, animals, creatures no book has ever described all in colors so complimented and serene. The works of art itself form a universe of color and expression. I’m in the painting.

            At the end of the room, I see a figure sitting down, next to an old music player, echoing a slow acoustic song sung in Spanish. The person sits hunched over a blank canvas as big as they, with a paintbrush’s end in their mouth, so focused that they haven’t noticed I’ve entered the room.

            “H-hello?” My greeting echoes louder than I expected. However, the person drops the brush from their mouth and they slowly turn the music off. By doing so, I barely make out their next words.

            “It can’t be...”

            They slowly rise from their position turning to face me, revealing a tall person who looked neither like a man or a woman. They had sharp auburn hair and barely a mole under their lip.

            “The dancer from the painting,” I gasp softly.

            “Penelope,” They walk slowly towards me, their face just frozen in shock. “You’ve come back.”  

I moved forward. Once we meet I look up, their shock had melted into relief and joy. They pull me in a hug, wrapping their warm arms around me, burying their face in my shoulder. I feel warm tears on my cold shoulder.

            “I’ve missed you for so long. I thought I’d lost you forever…”

            I can’t help but cry. I expected someone mean and cruel, someone that I might’ve want to forget. At least then, it wouldn’t have hurt as bad when I begin to sob and pull away.

            “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you…”

~

 

 

24^th January XX15, 22:17PM

            Lyric showed me around the ballroom this evening, explaining in detail every work I asked about. They talked about their inspiration for certain paintings coming from childhood memories in the slums, dark times during high school (“A lot of it came from people who were uncomfortable that I didn’t want to be called a boy or a girl. I used they/them as pronouns and thought ‘It’s not that hard to just respect that people!’ Ah, high school was terrible…”), the adventures they had abroad. They explained the tools they used, the time it took, and the struggle for meeting some deadlines, everything Lyric had to say seemed so passionate. I stayed quiet for the most time, listening to the amazing and full life Lyric has. It was so different from mine and I was envious, but when Lyric patted me and told me more than anything they wanted me to be happy, I felt so happy.

            After the tour, they sat me down with a nice homemade meal of enchiladas and we talked. I knew they wanted to know what happened to my memories but Lyric never pushed me to tell. For the most part, we talked about regular things: the seasons, the fashions, stories we had read, music that we love, and it was all the companionship I had been craving for 19 years. Small talk and chatting on the street never satisfied me because it was all superficial. Lyric genuinely listened to my thoughts and found it interesting. I almost began to cry because I had never had that happen to me before.

            Once the food had been cleaned up, we lied down under the skylight and I told Lyric everything. My father’s inventions, Cosmic Love, my night without sleep, my memories, Wyper, everything Lyric deserved to know, and they just sat there with an expression I couldn’t tell if it was anger, sadness, or just neutrality. I got emotional at certain parts but Lyric held my hand and waited; I can’t believe I ever got someone so kind to love me.

            “I don’t know if I can ever forgive him.”

“He was a very toxic person in my opinion,” Lyric said. “I met him one and he stared at me grotesquely, as if I were worthless. I can’t imagine how you lived with him for so long.”

I reply, “You become dependent on the toxicity because it’s all you have and it becomes normal to you.”

 Lyric put their hand on mine and squeezed it. We didn’t talk about it further.

            After a long pause, I finally asked Lyric about Cosmic Love. Even now that I know the truth, I still had to ask about the painting itself.

            Lyric smiled and said I always wanted to know how these things work, which made me blush. They tell me the painting is based on a story that’s better written by Lyric than I:

            Last year, when our relationship was still young, I asked you to come dancing with me. I wanted it to be a special day. You had worn the loveliest blue dress, like the skies on a spring day from a childhood memory. I kept it a secret, but your pestering almost got me. But my lips were sealed; it had to be a surprise. We arrived here, in the ballroom. It had been cleaned and I already planned to lease it. No one had noticed before, but when darkness falls, it’s the only place in the city where you look up and see a sky full of stars. Our favorite song played and we danced under the night.

            Gazing into your eyes that night, it was more beautiful than any sight I had ever seen. Your warm smile, dazzling eyes, and the care you gave me was like none other. We moved so gracefully and in that moment, I realized I loved you.

            Whatever Lyric wrote, it left them red as a tomato. “It’s embarrassing how cheesy I get when I write!” Lyric said as they covered their face. I giggled. It’s tempting to see but I promised I would wait.

            Lyric told me that they didn’t mind doing it all over again with me. I didn’t know what they meant until they went to their music player and played a familiar song.

            “Our song,” Lyric said as they offered their hand to me. We made our way to the center of the room. The song echoed through the room as the shadows of night surrounded us. Lyric told me to look up. I saw the cosmos.

            “You have been the greatest thing that has ever happened in my life. I only want you to be happy.” Lyric promised me and we swayed to the music.

            My face so bright with joy, I looked up to them and said “I am happier now than I have ever been in my life.” We held each other close as we moved along to the music and our heartbeats.

            The moment Lyric softly kissed my head as we danced, I felt so safe and sound. The pain of the past seemed like it no longer existed. Happiness, love, excitement, and relief filled my heart. Pain is temporary, but emotions like that are unforgettable.

Sincerely,

Penelope

 

 

Author's Note

Please give me an opinion on the story, what works and what doesn't so I can make it better.