The painting

Estate sales are fascinating. You never know what magnificent antiquites or just straight up weird stuff you can find in the home of the recently deceased. We never buy anything though, I hate how I feel like I’m stealing something that doesn’t belong to me even if I pay for it. It just feels wrong to take something that once belonged to someone who can no longer consent to relinquish their possessions. The kids usually enjoy seeing the stuff and I have to admit some of the old books I have found at these sales have a way of capturing one's attention.

I was drawn to that damn painting the moment I saw it. No inclination for the reason behind the magnetic pull it had on me. It wasn’t even particularly attractive in regards to use as a piece of home decoration. I just had to get that painting though. “Hey honey, come check this out!” Leaning casually against other paintings an old painting of a crying young boy laid despondently. The boy honestly looked completely miserable and if I were in that painting I could understand why. He seemed to be in a dark room with only one source of light, his tears streaming down his face, no apparent respite from whatever was grieving him. Gabriel walked over towing our two children clinging to his legs staring distrustfully at the painting. I don’t blame them. This painting is far from the usual childrens illustrations they see in their books at bedtime.

Children always seem to sense something wrong before the adults. I should have paid attention. “Sarah, what do you think about this one?” Sarah shook her head moving behind my legs, David started crying. Gabriel gazed at the despondent painting debating on whether or not it was a good deal. Turning to me we made the biggest mistake of our lives. “It’s only five bucks and it would look great in the hallway.” I smile imagining the portrait hanging in the hallway by the front door. “That sounds perfect.” We had no idea what we were getting into.

Paying the previous owner with a five dollar bill, I place the painting in the back of our silver Chevy Venture. “Anything else you guys want to check out?” David and Sarah shake their heads no. “Let’s go home, these two look tired.” My husband kisses me on the cheek as I buckle David into his car seat and Sarah pulls the seatbelt across her lap, she almost doesn’t need her booster seat anymore. Riding back home the car is quiet. Too silent, the only noise coming from the radio softly playing Radioactive by Imagine Dragons.

“Sarah, why are you so quiet?”

She whimpers, “it's too hot mommy.”

“I’ll turn up the ac.”

They were quiet the rest of the trip.

Once at home Gabriel pulled the wretched painting from the trunk, setting it in the hallway by the front door. “I’ll hang it up after dinner.” Not wanting to damage the wall I apply an adhesive hook to hang the twine strung across the back of the painting. “Looks nice!” I kiss Gabriel. “Thank you honey.” David had fallen asleep on the floor in his room. I pick him up and tuck him into bed then head over to Sarah’s room.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“The boy is trouble.”

I laugh, “Your brother is not trouble.”

She shakes her head. “No mommy, the picture.”

Saturday while walking through the living room I saw Sarah staring at the painting. “I thought you didn’t like him?” Sarah started, her straight brown hair messy and puppy dog eyes holding distrust. “He’s trouble mommy.” I sigh. “Go play with your brother, he’s probably lonely since you’re not entertaining him.”

Tuesday I found them both staring at the painting. David and Sarah sat side by side not playing, just watching the boy cry. David took after his father, light blonde hair and blue eyes so unlike his sister’s. Seeing the two just sitting there was eerie, like a scene from a horror movie where they would turn around, hollow eyes dripping blood. Sneaking up on the two I attacked, tickling and laughing. “What are you two up to?” David smiled wide his little teeth shining. “It’s going to burn Mommy!” The things kids say sometimes. “Honey,” I laugh uneasily “the only thing that’s going to burn is the marshmallows tonight!” “Yay, marshmallows!” they both scream gleefully.

Once Gabriel got home from work we ate dinner and started a fire in the fireplace. The kids watched the flames mesmerized by their crackling and dancing. We ate our smores and I let Sarah fall asleep in my lap while David fell asleep in Gabriels. “They seem all tuckered out.” “I’m not surprised, kids seem to have unlimited energy and then they just crash like a dead battery.” Carrying the kids back to their rooms we tuck them in for the night. “Good night sweetie, I love you.” Those were the last words I ever said to my children.

A sparrow had gotten stuck in the chimney without our knowledge. Without escape, it asphyxiated by smoke inhalation. The birds corpse falling past the fluke scattered sparks and set the carpet alight. The flames inched around the room playfully dancing with their cackling laughter. They climbed the wall teasing the wall paper with hot tounges, tickling the celing. they climbed more, caressing the door frame, enveloping everything in a warm hug. I woke up gasping for breath. Gabriel was not waking up, the thick black smoke choking us, the hot tongues of flames surrounding everything. I tried to drag him out. I was too weak, he was too heavy. I thought if I could just escape I could get someone to save him, save my children. The hallway was as far as I would make it. I couldn’t breathe, I crawled but the flames burned my skin, hot cinders falling on my back setting my shirt on fire. In the hallway I saw him. I saw the boy crying in the painting. I finally knew why he was crying. Like us, he was trapped. The single source of light was the flames that sought him. He was trapped, destined to die, to burn with no escape. I watched the tears roll down his face as the happy fire encased me.

The house burned down and no one escaped. As the cooling ashes brushed past the painting footsteps could be heard approaching through the smoke. A fireman picked up the painting. “ Hey John! This is a nice picture and it hasn’t been damaged at all by the fire. He squinted at the image, curious “The poor kid is crying in this picture.” He had no idea. That painting wept for the children and families it had cursed inadvertently by it’s presence, for the lives taken by the flames, how they taunted the boy, playfully but cruely taking away the lives of others but refusing to put him out of his misery. This cycle would continue as it always did, finding new homes just to burn them down. The fires were just a coincidence though. I mean, it's not like a painting can burn down a building.