The Artist's Secret - The Reveal

We are NOT puppets on strings. - Michelle Liew

In Parts 1 to 4 of An Artist's Secret, we encountered Clara, a mentally disturbed sketch artist with a penchant for sleepwalking. She stumbles across her neighbour, Mr. Bellamy's dark secret. Bellamy is her artist competitor - and he wants to make her a part of the secret in a macabre way.

Mentally.

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Clara stumbled into her apartment, unsure how her stumbling feet got her there. Her quivering hands pushed the thumb drive, its cold weight biting into her palm.

She saw herself moving around the room, executing robotic, unfeeling movements. They were jerky-almost puppet-like.

Then she caught sight of someone in the screen's corner - Bellamy lurked, his hands jerking the mannequin’s invisible strings. His laughter was an ominous, silent echo.

She gripped her throbbing temples. Were the episodes false? Were they orchestrated? Who orchestrated them?

She paced around the room, the minutes like hours. Finally, her thoughts sharpened. This was manipulation. Bellamy’s game. If sleepwalking was her crime, he was the warden. The Puppet Master who had crafted a muse and varnished it with lies.

Then she remembered - the mannequin’s tools. The scar. Mr. Bellamy’s obsession with artistic ‘genius.’

And with her.

He hadn’t destroyed her mind - he’d only mirrored it. Imitated her for his gain. And all mirrors can shatter under pressure.

A plan began to form.

Clara waited till nightfall to return to the garage. She crept in, her eyes darting around the room, not daring to really touch the ground with her feet, lest she made a sound.

The mannequin still stood in the corner, with glares that pierced the soul.

Then the lights came on. There was Mr. Bellamy, a smirk turning the corners of his thin lips upward, the glint in his eyes that of a deranged puppet master.

Clara faced him, a faint trace of a smile curling her lips. “It’s over, Bellamy. You didn’t make a muse. You made a MIRROR. And all mirrors bleed the truth when they shatter. You’ll see yourself in every crack left behind. “

Before he could say a word, he grabbed a hammer on the workbench. With a smooth, deliberate motion, she swung it against the mannequin’s face.

A crack resounded in the garage, its sound louder than his stunned silence. Sawdust rained, now ashes in a pyre. The mannequin sagged, caving under broken joints.

Mr. Bellamy’s face turned pale. For the first time, he looked small. “What…have you done?”

She stepped up to him, her eyes steady. “I took myself back from you. You don’t own chaos. You don’t own art. And you sure as hell don’t own me.”

She turned and left the garage, her gait steady and even. In the background was Bellamy, his hallowed cries fracturing the silence.

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To follow the story, find:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4