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Unrolling reality
#WritcoStoryChallenge
The painting was yellowed with rounded edges. It was a masterpiece and it was lying in my hand. “Wait, have I stolen it? I don’t remember ... my memory is drawing a blank, and feels like an abyss, one that I am scared to peer in”,I thought. I collect art, often I straddle the lines between legality and illegality. Looking at my hand, I wondered, “Have I crossed over to the land of grey?” I didn’t think so, but given the current situation, my instincts were akin to hugs in a pandemic. “Where did the painting come from? And why did I have it ? And what in tarnation have I been up to in the last 24 hours?”, I wondered. The mystery, I realized, could be solved by examining myself and my surroundings. I looked down at my hands, my right hand was still holding the folded-up painting. And my left hand had small cuts all over it- not bleeding but looked like, what seemed to be, paper cuts. I kept the painting, gingerly, down, next to me on the floor and examined my right hand. “It is a mirror image of your left hand”, my brain quipped. Even at a time like this, my brain found puns amusing. But jokes, even bad ones, apart, my right hand, too had paper cuts and they were more in number, that the ones on my left hand. Slowly, rising, I looked around if I could figure out where I was. I was in a medium-sized room, with huge windows, curtains drawn, where the sun was shining in, primarily guilty for waking me up. The room...
The painting was yellowed with rounded edges. It was a masterpiece and it was lying in my hand. “Wait, have I stolen it? I don’t remember ... my memory is drawing a blank, and feels like an abyss, one that I am scared to peer in”,I thought. I collect art, often I straddle the lines between legality and illegality. Looking at my hand, I wondered, “Have I crossed over to the land of grey?” I didn’t think so, but given the current situation, my instincts were akin to hugs in a pandemic. “Where did the painting come from? And why did I have it ? And what in tarnation have I been up to in the last 24 hours?”, I wondered. The mystery, I realized, could be solved by examining myself and my surroundings. I looked down at my hands, my right hand was still holding the folded-up painting. And my left hand had small cuts all over it- not bleeding but looked like, what seemed to be, paper cuts. I kept the painting, gingerly, down, next to me on the floor and examined my right hand. “It is a mirror image of your left hand”, my brain quipped. Even at a time like this, my brain found puns amusing. But jokes, even bad ones, apart, my right hand, too had paper cuts and they were more in number, that the ones on my left hand. Slowly, rising, I looked around if I could figure out where I was. I was in a medium-sized room, with huge windows, curtains drawn, where the sun was shining in, primarily guilty for waking me up. The room...
