Awakenings- Chapter 1

A young woman was walking the streets of New Orleans one Saturday morning. She had just eaten a breakfast that consisted of beignets and a cup of cafe au lait at the infamous Cafe Du Monde and was now walking towards the French Market.

It was a beautiful summer morning and the temperature was perfect. Though it was warm, it wasn't blazing hot like it could get sometimes. Besides, it was her first day off in a long time, so she savored the moment. In the sunlight, her dark eyes sparkled and her mahogany hair appeared luminous due to the brightness of it's rays. As she walked, the woman absorbed her surroundings like a cloud absorbs moisture.

Just then, a rather large group of people crowded onto the same sidewalk she occupied and she quickly hopped aside to allow them to pass. But right before she had a chance to get back on track, she heard someone behind her go, "pssssst!"

In a whirl, she spun around and was confronted with an old man, perhaps in his seventies. He had paper white hair and eyes as blue as ice. The woman was enchanted by his eyes! They seemed to have knowledge of another world and of powers greater than God himself. The old man motioned for her to come forth and she mindlessly obeyed.

Behind the man was a sparkling fountain and to his side was an easel with a blank canvas on it. In his hand, he held a palette and brush. He smiled at the young woman and said, "My dear, you are so beautiful. It would be quite a shame if you wouldn't allow me to paint your portrait." The woman thought for a moment and replied, "How much will this cost me?" The man's mouth twisted into a mischievous smile and he replied, "It will cost you your soul." The woman bust out laughing and the man joined in, "Of course, I jest! The beauty you possess has no price. I will paint you for free." The woman thought again and reluctantly agreed.

He motioned her towards the fountain and she sat upon the edge with one foot up and the other dangling over the side of the fountain's wall. She was wearing one of those long, black skirts that sways when graced with one of those rare summer breezes. Her burgundy lace tank top contrasted magnificently next to her pale skin.

Following the old man's instructions, she placed her elbow on her raised knee and rested her head on that hand. After making a few adjustments to her hair, the man stepped back, admiring her from afar, sat down and began to paint.

They weren't in a busy area, so there was nearly nothing to distract either of them. As the man touched brush to canvas, he inquired, "What is your name, sweets?" Careful not to move, she answered him, "My name is Rose." Without looking away from his painting, the man proclaimed, "That is such a lovely name. Are you named after anyone?" The woman was surprised at the question because she was, indeed named after someone, "Yes, in fact. I was named after my mother." She replied and then her eyes lowered and focused on the ground.
"She...she died right after I was born."
"Oh, I am sorry. How unfortunate."
"Yes, I know."
Her eyes had a distant look to them, soaking up imaginary memories.

They carried on conversation and she practically spilled her heart out to him. There was a look in his eyes that showed such compassion, she pressed on and told her life story. Somehow, she felt the need to tell him everything, and she did so without taking any notice. All the while, the man just continued painting and nodding along to her stories.

After a while, she began to feel famished. "It's probably the heat," the old man suggested. She nodded and carried on while he absorbed the information greedily behind serene eyes.

The woman was simply posing and chattering as he painted. She had no idea what he was painting. True, he was painting her. But he was painting so much more than just her body. Into this painting of his, he captured her mind, her heart, and her very soul and embedded everything she was confiding in him into the canvas. The painting was becoming more than just a portrait of a woman sitting on a fountain. It was the woman's life he was painting.

He was nearly done and the woman was feeling extremely weak. However, she couldn't move at all. She could speak no longer. She was completely petrified, it seemed. It was then that the man explained his cruel intentions: to capture her soul, drain her of life, transmit it all into the painting, and claim her youth. Though she'd heard him all to well, she had no reaction to give back. In return, she could only stare at him with empty eyes and frozen lips like a porcelain doll.

The man carried on, showing no guilt whatsoever. His goal was to drain this beauty of her life and claim it for his own. And that is exactly what he was going to accomplish. With a few strokes of his brush, he completed the painting and the woman collapsed into the shallow fountain. In a flourish, the old man picked up the portrait and dashed away from the crime scene. There were no witnesses other than himself and (the now dead) Rose.
....or so he thought.