Ginevra
“Ellie,” I gulp, “you have to calm down because I’m freaking out over here.”
I must be tripping as I am not really staring at a painting of myself.
Am I?!
I remember the old witch telling me about a painting, but after all that happened, I thought she had been lying.
Like all of them.
As I am staring at the replication of myself, I feel the last string of sanity slipping from me. In the portrait, I’m sitting on a bed, wrapped in a gray bedsheet as I look slightly over my shoulder, showing my bare back to the spectator. I cover my naked front with the blanket, looking incredibly alluring. I feel like blushing as I remember the sheets, the bed, even the moment.
Damn it.
Even though the colors are rather dark, it feels vibrant. It feels like it is screaming something at me,
