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One Mind Two Souls
#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. . .
He's said that a thousand times in his head, over and over again. ' I just don't remember' First it was losing his own things, then notes left in odd places he'd find, but not this - never this - the painting he held was more than that.
More than simply a painting more than two music discs or a destroyed country's flag, more than a saddle of a horse, or one brick of a lost home, more than a warrior's stolen weapon.
It was a painting yes - but also history. His history, and his peoples history, of a place he never got to witness or experience, half the people in the painting smiling and giggling, he remembers how more than half of them had died in the same year, same month, same week, same day? He didn't know if it was that close.
He didn't know a lot.
He could remember even less than that.
Had he stolen this? How? How could he even begin to explain? His mind swimmed with possibilities.
"Hello" He said - or no, not him - the Thief, not him, not him.
"How?" He questioned, "How did you even get this?" He looked up to see the Thief, he was smiling at him, they were all pointy and hard edges, tall and lean, the same height as him.
"They left it...
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. . .
He's said that a thousand times in his head, over and over again. ' I just don't remember' First it was losing his own things, then notes left in odd places he'd find, but not this - never this - the painting he held was more than that.
More than simply a painting more than two music discs or a destroyed country's flag, more than a saddle of a horse, or one brick of a lost home, more than a warrior's stolen weapon.
It was a painting yes - but also history. His history, and his peoples history, of a place he never got to witness or experience, half the people in the painting smiling and giggling, he remembers how more than half of them had died in the same year, same month, same week, same day? He didn't know if it was that close.
He didn't know a lot.
He could remember even less than that.
Had he stolen this? How? How could he even begin to explain? His mind swimmed with possibilities.
"Hello" He said - or no, not him - the Thief, not him, not him.
"How?" He questioned, "How did you even get this?" He looked up to see the Thief, he was smiling at him, they were all pointy and hard edges, tall and lean, the same height as him.
"They left it...
