THE OVAL PORTRAIT:

A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE
I was married to evil in return for my beauty.

I loved my husband as he loved my charm, yet he loved me no more than he loved his art. The time
in which he spent with me fell short of that he spent with his canvas. Why could not my grace rival
a painting? Why was I unable to receive his fully-fledged attention? Why art? I could love anything
but the art that has become my rival. I wanted his time, his affection, and I wanted him to cherish
me like he did his art.

Now I sit on a chair, day and night, by request of my dear husband who hides behind that great
blank canvas. I watch the brushes stroking the pallets, jealous of the hands that clasp the brush, the
roots of my hate sprouting from the deepest chamber of my heart, engulfing any oppressing
toleration inside of me. It hurt me, tore at my heartstrings, to know that I was just being used as a
portrayal. But I do not complain. I do not hesitate. Merely a model puppet for his next
masterpiece, I do this out of love; love for my husband.

This dimly lit chamber in which I now reside permits only a young, tender ray of sunlight in from
above. I am no better than this small ray of light – shining brightly for the painting, but so very
weak. I am the image dripping down the canvas, the drawing that encompassed my elegance. He
paints for hours in his reverie, and I sit here just the same, bearing the same poise, the same smile,
the same face of which he left me. I don’t complain. My darling and his fervent, burning desire to
create a masterpiece will strengthen my loyalty. But I feel, as the days go by, the hardening of my
spirit, as the small inkling of happiness leaves me for good.

I want to cry out, I want to break free, but the energy that I once bore has left me. The blush of my
cheeks dim and wither; waiting in the dark, wasting away in the dark. Neglected, unattended to,
but I still sit here in the same chair, bearing the same poise, the same facial expression.

I continue to smile, my head throbbing viciously, pounding the inside of my brain as though they
were drums, as I feel the life slip out of me, and my soul slip past the security of my lips. I blink
once more, and I let my eyelids droop. As I look up one last time, I am staring straight into the
gorgeous twinkling eyes of my husband. He lifts his arm, his brush, and with it instills a stroke
down the bridge of my nose. I watch as my lover gapes – “This is indeed Life itself!” – I smile that
same serene smile that has danced on my lips the whole of my married life. Then he looks past me,
to the body I previously occupied; all he can do is stare.

Hang me up on the wall. I will forever be watching you, my love…