It was a bright day in April, the clocks were striking noon. The dark figure swiftly made his way through the narrow alley in an effort to escape the summer wind. Slipping through the wooden doors of an old dilapidated mansion behind, he entered along with a swirl of gritty dust.
The mansion hallway smelled of a ragged mat. At one end of it a coloured portrait, too large for an indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than 2 feet wide, the face of a man of about fifty: heavy grey mustache, a turban, and a wrinkled face. The figure made his way up-stairs. It was no use staring at the portrait, for it seldom spoke. It had been years already since that dreadful night.
He slowly loomed over the stairs, breathing heavily with every step. On each landing, opposite the shaft, the portrait with an enormous face gazed from the walls. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow as if watching his every step. Inside the rooms, rang a cranky voice reading out a detailed list of experiments, sounding like a metal plaque being hit upon a dulled mirror.
As he reached the rooms the voices subsided, but there was no way of subduing them completely. He moved over the window, a small- frail figure, the meagerness of his body merely emphasized his fall. His hair was turning white, face naturally sanguine with slaps of time hitting it hard, the skins roughened with the course and the eyes hollow as death. After all, it was this dreadful day that the man had passed away. Even though the window pane remained shut but the stare remained cold like a whirlwind tearing dust and paper alike.
Everything seemed colourless except for the portrait. As the eyes moved, his hollow eyes were met by the dark eyes of the portrait itself…
by boringbug
boringbug.com 
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