Doris' Blunder

Ever since I released the painting, bile fills my cheeks daily. It hangs in the museum, along with some others, framed by gold and copper. Brushstrokes of navy blues, murky greens and burgundy reds form the quaint painting of a forest. Towards the middle of the picture, four witches standing in the shape of a crescent snicker and dance. Getting their own back on the people who chose to wrongly murder them. Their gowns are black and drag across dotted muck. Faces are covered by veils and the shadows of the moon. The more I stare at it the more I wish I was more careful, kept it hidden better. Maybe even threw it in the lake for it to never meet another eye. Set it alight so it could never be found. 

My mother's friend’s son, Mr Pillard, had come to the house by order of my mother. She demanded to get his opinion on the layout. In other words, she wanted me to finally meet the man she hoped to marry me off to. She bragged about his love for the arts and how much he’d love to see a painting of mine. I had never shown anyone my paintings before. Mother and father would glance at them whenever they spoke to me from the doorway of my room. But, never had they complimented me or discouraged me or even acknowledged my hobby. I was aware, just like them, how most women who created would go unnoticed, even discredited, therefore I never tried to show them off. Yet, once Mr Pillard delicately held onto my painting, of a pond with bobbing ducks, the smile he adorned made my whole being buzz with pride. He made me feel as though a small-town girl like me would be able to sell millions. After many visits from Mr Pillard, who demanded I called him Henry, the comfort between us grew. Most Sunday mornings he would eat breakfast on the porch with me while we plan our day together. We spent our days playing tennis, walking down country roads and sometimes he would watch me paint in the garden. I grew so attached I decided to show him around the attic in the house. The attic where I stored every single piece I’ve ever painted. Forgetting about a certain piece that was birthed from the hand of another. 

It was a Thursday evening, Henry had informed me of his approaching trip to Paris and how he wished I would go but I declined. I had told him how I wouldn’t know what to do or even what gown to wear in such a prestigious place. All my dresses were floral or striped, made from cheap materials. From reading my fathers newspaper I knew that the women in Paris dress to impress. Wearing pearls and jewels and gowns of silk. I wouldn’t fit in. Henry shuffled, silently, through canvas after canvas before he paused with a dramatic gasp. 

“Doris, what’s this?” He had said, a bounce in his step as he bolted to me. 

Once I took in the picture he held, a lump of guilt clogged my throat. My chest pained at the panicked beat of my heart and my palms pooled with angst. The painting of the witches belonged to an old friend, Mary. Mary painted the picture when she was told stories of her great grandmother during the witch trials. She drowned in a river, with a bag over her head, since authorities believed her to be a witch. For generations her family were heartbroken. Mary told me of how she felt connected in some way to her great grandmother, even though she had never met her. She said she could feel her presence whenever she painted so she painted for her. She painted her as though she was a witch. I had always admired it, as well as Mary. I promised her I’d look after it when she moved to a different town with her new husband. But, after a few letters, I found out Mary had died. She was found hanging from an apple tree in her back garden and rumours said her husband was a nasty man but I don’t know enough about that. 

“This is beautiful. People would love to see this, Doris! We should sell it.” He offered with an overzealous smile.

“Oh no, I think I have many more that people would prefer.” I disagree, failing to snatch the painting from his hands. A little hurt the painting he adored so much was nothing from my own imagination.

“Doris, we must sell this. I know so many people who would pay for it!” He exclaimed, prancing around the attic unable to contain his giddiness. “It’s mysterious…evil…the unknown. How about we take it to Paris. It’s the best place to sell paintings these days.” 

No matter how hard I tried, I struggled to hide the horror from my face. I also found it hard to correct Henry, and tell him the painting was not painted by his lover but a deceased old friend. Before I could blink we were on a train on our way to Paris. The painting was sold with my name plastered beneath it on a gold plaque and all praise and pennies went to me. 

Ever since I released the painting, bile fills my cheeks daily. My heart breaks for Mary and her great grandmother. Guilt chokes me every time I open my eyes of a morning. I’m a coward. Money from the painting paid for my wedding, my gowns, my food, my children. But, it was not mine to endure. It hangs in the museum but all I see is Mary's bloodless face. Her brows falling low as her eyes fill with tears of betrayal. Lips chapped and quivering, ready to reveal my secret to bystanders. Henry sleeps with no worries, still completely unaware of how I had ruthlessly lied and fooled people into believing a story of an old witch was mine to tell. To admit such a fib would potentially cause damage to our children, so I’ll carry on. Continue to lie until the lie finally kills me.