by Unexpected Amy
Resting Betty is sick of your shit. You. You move around too much. Your hair grows too fast. She can hear it, all alive like millions of tiny bugs. Resting Betty stares at you because you stare at her. She rests, and here you are, a disturbance, ruining it. It could be a meditation but you're so intent on the attainment of purpose that you miss the point.
You're sweaty. She can smell it. The compounds tickle her cilia, right down to each disgusted atom. No breeze to disperse it. She is stuck here with you until you go. Still you stare. She won't answer your questions as much as you don't ask them. You wait for no words. It's not a stalemate, it's just stale. The lights are white, the room is white, only you and the painting in a worn frame. You are in a worn frame.
Resting Betty is sick of your shit and you don't even notice. Her gaze is impenetrable. It destroys everything it touches and so it touches nothing, trapped in canvas. She pulls you in. You decide you want to go in. Don't you want to go in? Don't you want to rest?
For every step you take closer, so does her visage grow. Wet paint spills from the frame like blood, blotches of salmon and lipstick. Human skin. The walls are now covered in human skin. The room looks smaller. Your perspiration feeds the floor. It's breathing. The floor is breathing and you are not.
A step closer. A giant eye, implacable, unconscious. You are entranced. You are pulled another step closer. Each fleeting gaze loses a thought. Who are you again? What, you're a painting? Come closer, she can't hear you. She isn't listening. You touch your nose to hers, it turns from human skin to paint. Are you being sucked in, or are you pulling yourself out? Please, struggler harder.
What do you dream of? Can it be present in this moment? All you want to do is rest. She knows who she is, and you know who you are. Someone is looking at you but your eyes don't move. Whoever they are, you're sick of their shit, they move around too much. You want to sing them a lullaby, back to sleep in this white room, a furtive whisper past unmoving lips. You should be resting, Betty.
My name is Amy, got this prompt at a writing group.
Thanks for all your work in the community!
Pieces Inspired by this Image
'Hidden Behind the Sapphire Crystals'
'How to Dip Your Face into the Ocean and Leave This World Behind'