East Pennsboro Area High School Student Newspaper

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Under Her Portrait

Wednesday, 04 June 2008

December 17^th, 2060

I am writing this in my hospital room, awaiting my inevitable fate, which is being prepared for me as I write this. This packet of papers was given to me by the guards outside my room along with this single pencil to write whatever I chose. They suggested many things to me, including writing to my family my apologies and good-byes. How little they understand me if they believe that I still have a family to write to. No, I will not use this paper to apologize, say good-bye, or do anything of the sort. This will be my only biography.

My childhood wasn’t anything special except for the fact that I grew up among the wealthy. I was taught manners, respect, and went to the most influential schools. I wasn’t special in any subjects, and my grades ranged from A’s to C’s. my mother taught me household chores, such as cleaning up around the house and cooking. My father was a lively man, owning a company and pretty much supporting our family, and taught me how to have fun.

My life didn’t really have much meaning to it until after I graduated high school. Going to a prodigious and expensive college, I majored in arts and literature. My parents were shocked at this, for my father wanted me to take up business studies while my mother thought it’d be best for me to settle down and have a family. I didn’t like their ideas of my life and chose what I wanted, and in the end they simply ignored me. I tried to call them, email them, but it was all a futile effort. They had ditched me because of my own personal wishes. To this day I don’t even know if it was worth it or not.

It was during my art class that I met the love of my life, Adalia. She was a beautiful woman, long blonde hair with piercing green eyes. She has also grown up in a rich environment; indeed, the only difference with our childhoods was the fact that her parents supported her with her studies. We became rather close, but that took years since I had always been a very shy kid. Adalia’s smile always brought a certain warmth to my heart, and I soon fell in love with her. We both graduated college and settled down in a large estate, and a year later we were married. Those were the happiest years of my life.

We lived by the painting portraits, landscapes, and fantasy creatures. She loved to pain surreal and fantasy-related paintings, and I painted more realistic concepts. The money was good, and the time put into it was memorable. We’d sit around all day and do nothing but paint; sometimes drinking when we knew the panting wouldn’t sell. One time she spilled red wine all over the canvas and painted a butterfly using the red wine and black paint. Needles to say it went into the trash can the next day.

One day during the summer months, I asked her if I could paint her portrait. Dressing up in a lovely blue corset and clack skirt, she sat in front of the fireplace and let me paint her picture, which took more than a few hours. I wanted every detail to be perfect, just like she was, and it took so long that she joked whether or not I was painted her or another woman in my mind. When the painting was done, she asked what the price of it would be. I simply answered that it wouldn’t be sold. Putting it in a golden frame, I hung it in the library where we painted most of the time over the desk, saying that even if she wasn’t there, I’d still have a nice face to look at. I remember how happy she was with the painting, saying it almost was too realistic.

That was when things began to go downhill. A few months later, I noticed her sudden weakening. She slept in late, didn’t eat or drink as much as normal and her hands seemed to shake her at times. I immediately rushed her to the hospital, and the doctors did many exams on her. The feeling of going home while she lied in a hospital bed was the worst feeling I had ever felt. I usually didn’t drink much, but that night I had downed a bottle of wine in less than an hour. Going back the next day with a rather large headache, the doctors stated that they didn’t know what her condition was. The only known thing was the she would die within a week, maybe two.

I had asked, pleaded, and begged them to do something about it. How angry I was when they simply shrugged their shoulders and said it was apparently her time to go. I had asked them how many years of training they had gone through just to tell me they didn’t know what happened to my wife, and it was Adalia’s persuasion that let me stay that night at the hospital. I stayed there the entire week, never leaving Adalia’s bedside unless to go to sleep. It was just as the doctors stated; within a week, she was found dead.

The funeral ceremony I will not write much about except for the fact that it was and will forever be the most depressing thing that happened to me, even with this fate handing over my head as I write this. I went home and sat on the couch in the library, looking up at her beautiful picture. Sometimes I still cant believe that she is really gone.

My sadness eventually turned to anger. How had the doctors not known what was wrong with her? So many scenarios went through my head of how it was possible. Did a new disease appear? Had her drinking done something even though she hardly drank at all? Did the doctors not tell me what was wrong just to delay my sadness and disappointment? My anger pushed my to my limits, and going back to the university, I took up anatomy and classes on the human mind.

At first, the class seemed rather boring. I remember walking in the first day and seeing a skeleton drawn on the board, thinking how awful it had been of me to take this class. But after the first few days, I had been drawn into this new world and studied extensively. Taking books home on the human body, sicknesses, diseases, and things I had never ever heard of, I would sit at the desk below her painting and read book after book. I promised myself to find out what had happened to my sweet Adalina no matter what. A personal crusade, if you will.

My professor soon noticed my rabid interest and asked me about the sudden change. I simply said that I wished to expand my knowledge, and he gave me a rather large book, stating that it would be in my best interest to read it. It was full of surgical procedures and effects of diseases on the human body, and I was so intrigued by it that I actually bought it from him. Every night I would go into the library with a glass of white wine and read the book like a monk would read the Bible, looking up from time to time at Adalia’s portrait. It was then that I found out what had happened.

I do not know the name of the disease Adalia had, but I know for the certain the doctor’s could’ve protected her. The book stated exactly what Adalia has and the simple procedure to remove what was wrong. It wasn’t a tumor or anything like that, but rather a mental stress brought on by random things. I believe it could’ve been something from her past that she didn’t tell me about, but I guess ill never know for sure. I had gone to the hospital she had died at and asked to see the doctor, who looked much older even though it had only been two years. I slammed the book down in front of him in such a rage that he nearly called security on me, and I refused to leave until her explained why he hadn’t preformed the operation. His answer was simple; their hospital didn’t have the necessary equipment, and she was bound to die anyway.

Going home an even bigger rage, I took two bottles of tine and drank myself to sleep, sitting and staring up at her portrait. It could’ve been delayed, her death, had it not been for the foolish and ridiculous excuses the doctors made. Not enough money? I could’ve bought whatever they needed, if only to keep her alive for a few more years! But no, she was bound to die anyway, he said. What if I would say that about his wife? But that would be a different story, for it would be his wife suffering instead of mine. Oh, how the anger boiled inside of me!

Studying human anatomy more and more, it became an obsession of mine. I quit painting but since everything had been paid off, I was good for a few more years. I studied harder and harder, buying more and more books until they covered the floor of the library. My knowledge expanded as well as my anger, and I soon began to resent the hospital and what it had done to my wife. At night I would picture the grotesque hospital burning down, the doctors running around in the flames. A dark and dreary dream, but I always woke up with a smile on my face.

I don’t know when I “snapped,” as people like to call it, but I soon found myself going to my professor and asking for a surgical kit. When he asked why, I said that I wanted to see what it was like. He took one out and showed me it, and before he could do anything I quickly grabbed it and ran home, not knowing what was inside. I ran all the way back to my mansion, locked the doors and ran into the library. Putting the kit on the desk, I opened it up to see everything from lister knife to a large pain of scissors. I smiled and looked up at Adalia’s picture. Tonight would be the night her revenge would be carried out.

The next thing I knew, I was in a white room with two guards outside the door. A man soon entered in a police uniform, stating that I had gone to the hospital and brutally murdered many of the doctors. Than man in front of me had arrested me while I was removing intestines out of the doctor that had worked on my wife, and I could tell by the bruises on his arms that I had put up a good fight. The neatly for such a heinous crime was as obvious as day; death.

This is where I am now, awaiting my silence. I can only hope to be reunited with my wife, though after my killing spree I highly doubt I will end up where she is now. My only hope is that I may rest in peace and that Adalia’s soul may someday forgive me for my crimes. I only wanted to make her happy, and in the end it killed us both. I’m sorry for everything I had done to hurt people, and I’m sorry for the loss of my wife. I now look over at the wall to see the only possession they allowed me and am smiling. It will be the last thing I will ever see in my life, for I’ve asked for them to hand it up in front of me when they put the needle inside of me, ending my life.

The picture of Adalia sits next to the desk, her beautiful and radiant face smiling at me. I hear the guards coming now, I must stop writing this. Good-bye would, and good-bye Adalia. I guess I’ve lied, for I am now mentioning good-byes and apologies. I love you Adalia, and I hope we can rest in peace.

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