Portrait of a Lady

  Portrait of a Lady

Mark Coleman

  You stare at the portrait of the lady in profile that could have been painted by Egon Schiele. Or so it seems to you. Others might see the ability of a realist to capture the very essence of his subject. The light in the eyes that those others would claim could light up a room. To you that light is composed of malice. Not mischievousness. Malice.

  The eyes that turn toward you. That follow you with the ghosts of a million Eva Brauns. The wry smile on blood red lips. The tip of the tongue caught in the vise of pearly white teeth.

  Once you thought she was beautiful as she stood before you in her half slip. Nipples pert within her cotton white bra. Inviting you to bed her. You ached all over with longing. Positively shook with it.

  She knew as most women do the desire that was consuming you. Knew damn well she was pretty as all Hell. Nebulous in her sexuality. Angelic in face. Flaxen of hair. Her beauty at the time had seemed incomparable. Women of any other hue and measurement simply did not measure up. Placed against her they were nothing but girls swimming in women’s clothing.

  Girls who would steal their mother’s lipstick. Digging through their purses for rouge to highlight their cheekbones. Making a mess of their faces in the powder rooms without realizing that they were doing so. Thinking they were dolling themselves up when, in actuality, all they were doing was robbing themselves of any natural qualities they already possessed. 

  Moths they were, fancying themselves butterflies. Caterpillars yet to cocoon. Looking like coal miners’ daughters on Ash Wednesday. Never solemnly sensual. Always putting on airs of joviality. Gleeful as though they were dressed up for their coming out parties. Presenting themselves to society for the first time only to be nailed by sailors on leave and then left in the lurch. 

  Left to foot the bill for the hotel room, they’d slink along the corridors and retreat down the fire escape in nothing but their chemises. The sheer sort you can make out black panties and brassiere through. 

  The money that was left on the dresser confused them. They tucked it away down their fronts for a rainy day in another bar with an inn attached. An inn that knew it’s purpose. An inn with an innkeeper in the form of a madam. 

  Other girls were there too, of course, who fibbed their age and flashed a fake ID. Hoping to make a quick buck, they sank into the luxury afforded by their trade and never returned home. Some, as is always the case, were beaten. If thought aged, they were asked to do horrible things in front of cameras for the dough they so desperately sought. Thinking of their baker fathers in relation to the word would not even give rise to a smile. 

  They sought their father’s face in every man they met. Tried to hold their father’s hands again. Feel the rough callousness of skin brought on by endless toil. The hands they gripped instead only lead their own down the front of jeans where the zipper lay open. An expectant throbbing there.

  They’d look through the men lying on their stomachs and descry far off places as though through a spyglass. Oceanside resorts. They could feel the pebbles between their toes. Hear the seagulls calling out to them. Hear also the crashing of the waves upon the beach. 

  The semen they gagged down, they imagined tropical drink. However vivid these trances might be, they never truly entered cloud land. Their minds were still there with their defiled bodies.

  The sheets would be washed once a week. During this period, they would serve clients on nothing but filthy mattresses. Mattresses stained with blood where too harsh of a birching had been administered. Or, perhaps, a stabbing had taken place. 

  They all knew that their colleagues were sometimes murdered. A popular story went around concerning an 11 year old girl, who upon demanding an extra half dollar after being so severely beaten she could not see out of one eye, was promptly throttled. The man in question was of high authority and influence. His only punishment was having to leave through the back entrance when he was accustomed to the front.

  Another story concerned a girl of ripe age who had refused a homemade Spanish boot in what was dubbed the dungeon room. A room with rows of whips of every kind ranging from bullwhips to snake whips to cat-o-nines. Chains dangling from the ceiling. An X shaped rack in the corner with tan leather strappings for ankles and wrists.

  This girl upon refusing said punishment was dragged naked and wailing across a bed of nails that tore open the flesh upon her back. She was then strapped to the rack where the gentleman proceed to flay her. During this flaying, she was completely conscious. It was a slow and arduous task which took a number of hours before reaching completion.

  No one ever knew what became of the man or if they did, they did not let on. This particular instance of animalistic cruelty was well known but not spoken of. The crime being of such a hideous nature, only the bravest of girls ever entered the room again. A room that would been better sealed up as in a Poe story. But business must go on.

  And so it went on. Year after year in that nameless place where I saw her portrait. The portrait of a lady in the parlor. The lady I recognized instantly as my very own rubric for beauty. The lady who seemed to invite good will. Giving a welcoming sense. Hinting at festivities the like of which to be fair were usually of the usual sort. But if something else were required or desired that requirement or desire would be met. 

  The eyes follow me as I go on my solitary walks down back alleys. If I sit in a garden of roses, they are there watching. They are there with me in my dreams and haunt my thoughts. I wish to escape their cruel gaze but as long as others still see a skilled painter’s hand in those strokes, they will always be with me.