My home is a public crypt. Whereas many die once hanged, I was born to suspend for forever. I am surrounded by others like me, swinging softly and creaking in gold frames, groaning from sadness and neglect. Everyday thousands of eyes come to see me and the others. They pay to come see us proudly sitting in our gold frames, but they are met with dead eyes of times past. They come in and gaze up at the high ceilings, while strolling through the lines and rows of our shells. They wear white tennis shoes, they carry heavy black cameras around their necks and constantly snap pictures of me in my shame. Some of them walk slowly amongst the numbers and listen to a voice tell them about our long gone creators. Our makers are gone, but we remain, destined to hang on a wall for all of time, serving only as a concession to visitors.
Only the best are alone, hidden behind thick panes of glass in a white room with clean walls. I am average, therefore I am among equals. I rarely get a double-take from any visitor, which is fine, I don’t need extraneous attention, especially from them. When their gaze does fall on me I always get the same reactions.
“Why does she look so sad?”
Because that’s just how my face was painted. Why is yours so sunburned?
“I love her dress, but her face washes it out. What a shame.”
The dress is the one that washes out my face.
“It says here that nobody knows who she was. Must have been rich though.”
I was rich. Far richer than you, sir in the Hawaiian shirt.
“Aw man, the boss is going to love this one.”
Everyone loves me, for I—wait, what?
“Shut up! Do you want the whole museum to hear us?”
Who do these two think they are? Mocking me?
These people standing before me look like any other. One, a man was wearing a simple black shirt and sandals, had on dark sunglasses and he took a picture of me with his disposable camera before turning to his counterpart. She wore a light blue blouse and simple grey pants, but she has a stern expression. She muttered something to the man and I saw him nod. The two of them then turned briskly and disappeared into the crowd without looking back.
People often say things before me and never truly mean it. I’ve been told that I’ll hang above somebody’s mantle so many times that it would make one’s head spin. I may as well disregard those two people, it’s most likely that they’re off having brunch in some café, laughing and talking, not even remembering me or my charm.
My day continues as any other. Mothers carrying screaming children pass by, elderly couples stroll across the galleries, an overweight man takes it upon himself to click pictures of everything down to the wood of the benches. Their faces blur together. I’ve seen thousands, and I’ll see thousands more. Before I know it the sea of colors and hum of chitter chatter becomes dark and silent. I hear groans of relief from my friends on the walls. Lock up and lights out is always a weight off of my shoulders. It’s peace in the prison.
CRASH.
A loud bang shakes the dark, making panic bounce off of the walls. It was the kind of shattering disturbance that chills bones among a sea of nervous faces. My eyes scan the room for the disturbance, but all I see is a sea of darkness. I think that I just heard a yell in the distance, but it’s far away. The museum is always so quiet at this time. Not even the mice stir, so why here? Why now?
The minutes tick by without another sound and my mind begins to drift. It was probably nothing, I got myself worked up over nothing.
Just then a steady stream of light began to peak through the doorway. The security guard perhaps? I think I hear voices. Whispering. The stream of light darts around the room, shining bright on certain pieces while the rest of us drown in darkness. The light settles on me and lingers. Footsteps begin to echo through the room as the light gets closer.
“That’s it.” A male voice says.
“Yeah I remember, I have eyes, Steve.” a female replies.
“I could do without the sass, Ingrid.”
Both the voices sound familiar, then reality hits me like a brick to the canvas.
The footsteps come closer and the light gets more and more intense. Although I cannot see their faces, I know exactly who these people are. They worked together to take me down from my hook on the wall and the man took out a shiny knife. Slowly he pries me off of my gold frame as I listen to it creak and splinter as it clings to my canvas. I didn’t think that liberation would be quite this anxiety inducing. I can feel the panic set in as I begin rolling up on myself due to my lack of frame.
“Perfect. Let’s get out of here.”
The woman rolls me up tight and puts me in a tube-like case. It’s dark again and the last glimpse that I got of my space on the wall was that of a clean rectangle surrounded my dirt and a forgotten gold frame of the ground. In the dark I can hear the two people running, a door slam, and a car start.
“Ha! Ingrid, that was almost too easy.”
“I mean, it’s not like we took a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh. I don’t think she’ll be missed.”
I was never exactly treasured to be honest.