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The thunderous hooting of a siren pulled her out of her reverie. The warm late afternoon light that came through the window when she settled into her favorite armchair, book in hand, had been replaced by shadows. This gave her an idea of how much time had elapsed.
She cursed under her breath.
It had happened again.
The painting hung over the fireplace had caught her attention again. For the umpteenth time, she racked her brain, exasperated, trying to remember how it had come to her hands. Had she bought it? Someone had given it to her? Was it a heritage? Had she found it in the attic of her mother’s house while she was trying to find, among the chaos of boxes and trunks that filled the place, the memories of her childhood?
She never managed to gather the pieces of that particular puzzle. Those trivial details run away from her memory and comprehension, irritating her till the most profound fiber of her being. She had always found the logic to things, nothing was casual, and everything had a basis, a natural and indisputable reason.
However, the girl with the melancholic countenance of the painting defied all her beliefs. It made the foundations of her existence tremble.
That girl sitting on a rock ledge over a pond, with her head down, her eyes hidden by her abundant hair ruffled by the wind, body covered by a vaporous tunic that barely managed to hide her figure, well-turned arms, with the palms of the hands resting on the ledge, small and delicate feet that gently touched the surface of the water, disturbing it. She managed to make her doubt everything she took for granted.
Days could go by without any novelty, days when life, normal as far as possible, kept its course. But, in the least expected moment, without any kind of warning, a glance was enough, just perceive it with the corner of the eye, to enter a kind of trance. Hours passed without even noticing the passage of time, paralyzed in an instant, watching her. She only managed to return to herself when she heard loud and sudden sounds, the reason why she had taken as a strategy to program the alarm on her mobile phone so it activated in random moments. When she “woke up”, the questions came over, the ones she couldn’t answer. These only increased her despair over days, weeks, and months.
That state of permanent anxiety was causing her problems in her life, dragging her in a downward spiral into madness. From a self-confident person, with strong convictions, calm and measured, she had become someone nervous, skittish, and sometimes irascible. Always on the defensive, she became aggressive when asked how she was. But she didn’t dare to utter a word. Who would take her seriously? She imagined the skeptic faces, exact reflections of hers if someone came to her with that kind of story. She couldn’t take the risk. If she opened her mouth, she would surely spend a long vacation in a psychiatric hospital and that, in no way, would she allow it. She preferred to bear the uncertainty. She was trapped, she couldn’t deny it, but at least it was under conditions where, to some extent, she had some semblance of control.
Unlike the first few times, in which fear and confusion had taken the center stage, she got up furious, ripped off the painting from its hanger, knocking down a photo frame in the process, and headed to the backyard. Once there, she put the undesirable object on the stump on which she split the wood for the fireplace and started destroying it with the help of an ax, pouring all her frustration, her impotence, on each strike. Then, she tossed the remains in the small circle of stones where she used to lit bonfires, added fuel, and threw a lit match. She didn’t re-enter the house until she saw the last trace of the painting, mount included, reduced to ashes.
Later that night, despite feeling liberated for having got rid of the painting, she couldn’t fall asleep. Tired of watching the ceiling of her room, she decided to implement her mother's infallible recipe for similar circumstances. So she left, resigned, the comfort of her bed, and went to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk, hoping it will help her to sleep. According to the microwave clock, it was barely past midnight.
Before returning to her room, she glanced involuntarily at the space above the fireplace. “It’s not the first time you do it,” it reminded her of a mocking little voice. She put aside the impertinent thought and went on. However, as soon as she crossed the threshold, instead of the smooth polished wood, her bare feet came into contact with grass.
She was in the forest again.
The top of the trees, swayed by sudden gusts of wind, stood out against the night sky, casting shadows thanks to the light of the Full Moon on the path she was on. Resigned, she followed the familiar road that would lead her to the pond, to the girl with the melancholic countenance.
“How long are you going to continue?” she asked when she reached next to her.
“You know my wish.”
“I will not grant it to you.”
“Then you let me no choice.”
The girl with melancholic countenance sat up, her face hidden by her hair, and raised a hand toward her. The first few times she had resisted, but she had already learned the lesson; it was useless to do it, she was in the girl’s domains. She took the offered hand and they jumped into the pond. The water, crystalline and illuminated by an ethereal light that allowed her to see her companion, closed above their heads and they continued descending. When she could no longer hold her breath, she opened her mouth.
“There won’t be a next time.” It was her last thought, her last hope… And she woke up.
When the beating of her heart finally calmed, she got out of the bed. With wobbly steps, she walked to the living room, and then she saw, in perfect condition, hung in its place above the fireplace, the painting with the girl with the melancholic countenance.