Categories > Original > Drama
“Every day I look out my window and see her there. Never have I seen such a beautiful dancer. I know she’s a dancer from the way she moves, the way she walks, the way she carries herself. If only I wasn’t confined to these small four walls, I would walk up to her. If only this stream didn’t run between us. This cursed stream.
‘So very loud is this muddy stream! It blocks out my cry! Most of the day I can’t even think as it babbles on and on and on. Sometimes, I swear I can hear it calling my name. “Henry, Henry,” it cries. Oh, why must this stream of turbulent colors torment me so?
‘My only solace is my beautiful dancer. Always alone in her room, she never leaves her golden window. Standing, stretching, and dancing. Alas, she never hears my cries as I call for her. Her. I don’t even know her name. Does such a dancer need a name? Could one so majestic be described with something as simple as a --- di-did she just look this way? A smile? She has seen me!
‘The lights are off now. It’s hard to see her window, the frame that only magnifies the contents for which it surrounds. Doesn’t she know I’m trapped here though? Sitting here forever, from when the lights turn on in the morning to when the lights go out at night. So quiet is the night. The stream is gone when the lights turn off. Silence seems to be the only good that the night brings.
‘Is that a knock at my door? At this late hour? Is someone here to see me? No one has knocked on my door in so long. I seem to have forgotten the sounds of fist on wood. There it is again. Shouldn’t a nurse or doctor open the door? If only I were allowed crutches, I would at least be able to move around on my own. “Come in. The door is unlocked.”
A large group of people stood in a lobby, babbling to themselves. “My name is Lisa; I shall be your guide for this art museum tour. Please follow me,” Lisa collected a new group and began her educational speech which she had done at the beginning of every tour. “We shall start with Henry Bunker. Henry Bunker lived and died during the mid-1800. He left behind dozens of paintings, such as this self-portrait he did while at the hospital. Earlier that week, Henry had broken his leg in a horseback riding accident. He spent several weeks in the hospital, waiting for it to heal. That is where he laid eyes upon a dancer and was inspired to paint her. This became his most famous painting. Now as we enter the gallery, you may take as many pictures as you like, just please do not touch any of the art. After ten minutes of viewing, we’ll begin again.”
viewing, we’ll begin again.”
The group entered the gallery and began to walk up and down the halls. Each onlooker pointed and marveled at the life in every brushstroke. One of the attendees looked around with a puzzled look, walked up to Lisa, and asked, “Where is the dancer? I can’t seem to find her.”
“Of course, right this way,” Lisa led the attendee to a golden yellow frame that held the dancer. “That’s not right. This is where she’s supposed to be,” Lisa’s eyes darted around the painting, “this room is still painted the same; she just does not appear to be in it.”
“Miss,” another attendee started from behind. “This self-portrait seems different than in the brochure.”
Lisa turned and took a couple of steps away from the Dancer painting to look at what could possibly be wrong with the Hospital Self Portrait. She was stunned. The Hospital Self Portrait had changed as well, except instead of Henry missing, it seemed that the Dancer had joined him in his room.
‘So very loud is this muddy stream! It blocks out my cry! Most of the day I can’t even think as it babbles on and on and on. Sometimes, I swear I can hear it calling my name. “Henry, Henry,” it cries. Oh, why must this stream of turbulent colors torment me so?
‘My only solace is my beautiful dancer. Always alone in her room, she never leaves her golden window. Standing, stretching, and dancing. Alas, she never hears my cries as I call for her. Her. I don’t even know her name. Does such a dancer need a name? Could one so majestic be described with something as simple as a --- di-did she just look this way? A smile? She has seen me!
‘The lights are off now. It’s hard to see her window, the frame that only magnifies the contents for which it surrounds. Doesn’t she know I’m trapped here though? Sitting here forever, from when the lights turn on in the morning to when the lights go out at night. So quiet is the night. The stream is gone when the lights turn off. Silence seems to be the only good that the night brings.
‘Is that a knock at my door? At this late hour? Is someone here to see me? No one has knocked on my door in so long. I seem to have forgotten the sounds of fist on wood. There it is again. Shouldn’t a nurse or doctor open the door? If only I were allowed crutches, I would at least be able to move around on my own. “Come in. The door is unlocked.”
A large group of people stood in a lobby, babbling to themselves. “My name is Lisa; I shall be your guide for this art museum tour. Please follow me,” Lisa collected a new group and began her educational speech which she had done at the beginning of every tour. “We shall start with Henry Bunker. Henry Bunker lived and died during the mid-1800. He left behind dozens of paintings, such as this self-portrait he did while at the hospital. Earlier that week, Henry had broken his leg in a horseback riding accident. He spent several weeks in the hospital, waiting for it to heal. That is where he laid eyes upon a dancer and was inspired to paint her. This became his most famous painting. Now as we enter the gallery, you may take as many pictures as you like, just please do not touch any of the art. After ten minutes of viewing, we’ll begin again.”
viewing, we’ll begin again.”
The group entered the gallery and began to walk up and down the halls. Each onlooker pointed and marveled at the life in every brushstroke. One of the attendees looked around with a puzzled look, walked up to Lisa, and asked, “Where is the dancer? I can’t seem to find her.”
“Of course, right this way,” Lisa led the attendee to a golden yellow frame that held the dancer. “That’s not right. This is where she’s supposed to be,” Lisa’s eyes darted around the painting, “this room is still painted the same; she just does not appear to be in it.”
“Miss,” another attendee started from behind. “This self-portrait seems different than in the brochure.”
Lisa turned and took a couple of steps away from the Dancer painting to look at what could possibly be wrong with the Hospital Self Portrait. She was stunned. The Hospital Self Portrait had changed as well, except instead of Henry missing, it seemed that the Dancer had joined him in his room.
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