A Ghastly Short Goth Story
There’s a painting on the wall. It’s a print, actually. A portrait of a woman, in a soft Renaissance brush stroke, pallid pinks and deep dusty blues. Her eyes have that ubiquitous quality allowing the sparkle in her chestnut brown pupils to follow me around the room from underneath her heavy eyelids.
Wherever I am, she looks at me.
A tall nose stretches out from the arches of her thin, carefully groomed eyebrows ending neatly in a delicate dip above the cupid’s bow of her upper lip. Her lips, plump and of a delicate earthy rose colour, fold gently into the hint of a smile, without lifting her full, blushing cheeks or in any way upsetting her calm and proud countenance.
Her most striking facial feature is perhaps her chin, proportionate to the length of her nose and forehead, and full and round.
When I enter, she’s there.
When I sit, she stares.
When I stand, she sees me square.
She looks at me in the mirror, when I comb my hair.
When I hang from the ceiling and spread my wings, she’s the only one who doesn’t care.

