One of my friends was once an artist, and upon my request, painted a portrait of me. After months of labor on her part it was finally finished, and I immediately fell in love with it. The scenery was full of lush bushes and trees, delicate white roses bloomed all around me. I was leaning against a tree with a small book in my hand, my black hair tied into a braid that reached just below my breast. A crisp white colored shirt with matching skinny jeans hugs my body loosely, a wreath of blue carnations rested on the circumference of my head. The sunlight peeked through the trees almost shyly, it was altogether a very atmospheric painting. As soon as I received it, via sudden delivery on my porch, I went about hanging it up in the main area of my home. Where it could be see by all who entered, by the front door or by the garage door. There it stayed for a few weeks, the centerpiece of my small home.
I loved it, every day I would see it and a large smile would appear on my face. But one day I noticed a blemish on it; immediately rushing forward, I expected the canvas to be ripped. However, as if it was painted along with my body, was a small cut across my cheek. A small trickle of blood running down the smooth skin perfectly, terror overtook me and I ran from my home. Work wasn't the same that day, I was distracted and oblivious. To the point where a few of my coworkers and my boss questioned my health, I just told them that it wasn't something they should worry about. Yet all the while I had that image in my head, the thin cut spread across my flesh. I shivered as I walked blindly down the hallway of my office building, clutching a stack of random papers to my chest.
I didn't notice the man running out of one of the conference rooms at full speed, a large plastic binder in his hands. He slammed into my small frame, the binder cutting into my cheek, I blinked at the pain. Once I gained my bearings I realized I was on the floor, an my face was bleeding. I gingerly reached up, touched the injury in shock. It was in the exact spot as the cut on the painting, I barely remember anything after that. Until I woke up on my couch at home. The portrait sitting on the ottoman in front of me, the cut in the painting was gone.
I was scared, yes. But I couldn't get over the fact that I loved it, so I hung it back up and pretended like nothing had happened. But this illusion was short-lived, a few weeks later what looked like a large dirt stain appeared on the pants leg... That afternoon I ran into a desk and got a large bruise on my right thigh, a month after that the head had lolled to the side. I got a concussion after falling down a flight of stairs.
I'd finally had enough and I put the painting in the closet hallway, only to hear the rattling of the doorknob and soft shrieks emitting from it for hours on end. In the morning, when I opened the door, the painted version of my was curled into a ball. Braid undone and hands clutched in the raven colored hair, as if in terror. The terror that I was currently in was unnameable. I screamed and backed into the wall, staring at it. Claw marks covered the canvas as if someone tried to get out, blood streaked some of the markings. The nails of that were threaded through my hair were bloody at the tips.
Of course I tried getting rid of the painting, throwing it away or giving to a friend. But it always ended up back at my house, hung up in the foyer. As though it had never left. Eventually, I gave up. I just left it there, watching day after day as one injury or another showed up on the canvas. Day after day, I received those injuries. No matter how I tried to avoid it. I always got hurt in the exact same spot as the me in the portrait.
One day, I was putting on my coat when I noticed something move out of the corner of my eye. Quickly looking up, I screamed hysterically, blood stained the crisp grass and the limp body stared blankly back at me. Still screaming, I noticed her throat was slit, an angry red line against the normally bright colors. The braid had once again come undone, hair falling over the lifeless face. I slid to the ground, sobbing as I stared unblinkingly at it. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, I couldn't do anything but sit there and cry. When I was able to move again, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and tore apart the canvas. Flakes of paint falling to the ground and hitting my cheek, the woven cloth tearing quiet easily once I pierced it with the blade.
I haven't left the house since that day, not for any reason at all. I'm writing this to you know in hopes that you will know how to dispose of... of, IT! For you see, the next night I woke up to the sound of shrill gasps. As though someone was in immense pain, I of course went looking for the sound and what I found plunged me into a new fit of hysterics. The painting was hanging where it normally did, but there wasn't a single hole in it. The scene was as it was previously, with the body lying limply on the stained grass, but this time the arms were stretched out towards me as if begging for help.
I don't know what to do anymore, I can't look at it out of fear and I can't get it out of the house. Nothing seems real anymore, like I'm constantly living a dream. I'm scared, so scared. I just... I don't know. Please, help me.