The Stolen Horizon

I have always played it safe. I dislike people who are bad and violent; it’s just not my scene. I’m more of a nature person, preferring to avoid conflict and anything that might cause trouble. I align more with the Buddhist side of life and always advise my friends to relax, meditate, and manage their anger effectively. We live in the present, not for what is going to happen but for what happens now, at this moment, and in that way, we learn to appreciate each day and our existence.

Those were my thoughts as I spoke with Tara, the lady and her dog in the park. It was just one of those lovely, relaxing afternoons, and we got chatting. Dogs always bring people closer together. We just hit it off, and before we knew it, we decided to meet for a coffee, seeing as we each lived close by.

It was a good feeling to meet a new friend. She seemed nice, with a slightly posh accent. She didn’t fit in around here. She was from London and had divorced, moving up to this area because the houses were more affordable, she said. Even so, I thought it was strange. I mean, I lived in this rough part of town, but I had also resided in other areas of the city before. Anyway, I didn't want to judge her, and before I knew it, she had invited me over to her house for a glass of gin and tonic. We sat there smoking cigarettes and chatting about everything. It felt good. I hadn’t had a female friend in a long time.

As the weeks flew by, Tara and I became better acquainted. Then one day, while I was visiting her for tea, she inquired about my veganism. It’s not usually something I discuss with people unless they ask me. I am an animal rights activist to no small extent. I regularly go out to campaign, and I have been fighting for animal rights online for thirty years. I have observed the supermarket shelves transform from being filled with just one carton of soy milk to a wide variety of delicious vegan foods over the years. Things have vastly improved. But I was shocked that afternoon when Tara turned to me and said, “It won’t change, you know. Nothing is going to change.”

“What do you mean?” I asked gently.

“Well, people are never going to stop eating meat. It’s just the way life is, one of those things.”

I didn’t want to prolong the conversation or ruin the positive vibe, but she appeared to be seeking my response with her inquisitive facial expression. I chose to be honest and politely disagreed, stating that many changes had already taken place. I felt it was possible that one day we could be living in a meat-free world, and I expressed that as my opinion, but she was entitled to her own view.

I thought she would drop the subject, but instead, she seemed to intensify the matter and to my surprise, raised her voice, saying, "I think what you are saying is ridiculous," and icily declared that we no longer had anything in common, adding unnecessary and surprising vitriol and insults to her remarks. Feeling uncomfortable and alarmed, I craved to escape, so I said I would leave and walked swiftly out through the front door, feeling this was not the right time to discuss anything with her. She slammed the door behind me and, in a chilling manner, began to turn off her lights and close the shutters.

It wasn’t until I stood outside, directly in front of her garden gate, gazing at the "home sweet home" sign, that I suddenly turned to face the front door, realising I had left my handbag containing my bank cards and other personal items inside. Accompanying this was a beautiful landscape painting I had brought for her to see, and one that she wished to purchase from me. When I initially arrived, she said she would pay me in instalments. As she was a friend, I was more than happy to agree. We had admired the floral canvas displayed on her dining room wall.

“It looks so real. It could almost be a photograph,” she remarked.

“Yes”, I replied, “it took me a great deal of time and patience.”

“So, I can see,” she replied enthusiastically, gazing into the picture’s horizon as if that was the world she longed to encompass. I was pleased that my work had been purchased and now adorned a friend’s wall, where it would be appreciated forevermore.

So, there I was, standing before the front door. I knew I had to knock to retrieve my handbag, which was of utmost importance. After a few more knocks, she finally opened the door, shoved the handbag into my hands, and then swiftly shut the door in my face. I walked away, relieved to have my bag but feeling somewhat sad and still in a state of shock. I relayed these events to my husband, who asked me about the painting. I said I would call her in the morning to ask if she still wants to purchase it; if not, I could come and collect it.

The next day, hoping that Tara was in a more reasonable mood, I called her and explained that I was somewhat surprised and taken aback by her behaviour. She acted as though it were no big deal and that I was overreacting. Not wishing to be gaslit, I suggested we take a few weeks apart to allow each other some space. She didn’t take kindly to it and retaliated by saying it was over, that she wasn’t paying for my painting, and that it wasn’t worth the price she had accepted. I asked if I could come and collect it then, but she hung up on me. The absolute cheek!

I felt angry about her response to the painting. The canvas had taken me some time to finish. I had to carry an easel along with all my materials to a remote area in a wildflower meadow in the countryside. I intended to keep it for myself, but she convinced me that it was the painting for her. And now, not only was it stolen, but it was also in the hands of someone who had been unkind to me. It felt like a close friend who had been kidnapped. I envisioned it on her dining room wall, and the many times she would look up at it and relish how she had wronged me. My painting didn’t deserve that. It had been born of meadow and butterfly. It was part of my soul, and now it was being mistreated. I had to retrieve it.

I waited for her to calm down. After not receiving any signs of contact, I visited her house, but there was still no response. It was clear she was avoiding me. A month later, I realised she would not part with the painting. Though reluctantly, and with a satisfying sense of revenge, I resolved to devise a plan.

I didn’t have a choice. It was one of those situations you never expect to find yourself in. I ought to have known better, but sometimes in life, events unfold that are beyond our control, and we must make the ultimate decision of whether to take matters into our own hands or not.

The month had slipped into early October. It was a cool, dark, clear night. I knew in my heart that if I did not undertake this mission, I would never forgive myself. I had never experienced such an overwhelming desire to reclaim something I once possessed. Hiding behind a few rubbish bins, I watched from the end of her street as she got into her car and left for her weekly yoga session. I recall how she mentioned that she sometimes left the back door open when she was out, so her dog could go into the garden. Hopefully, it was one of those nights.

I hurried to her front door, my heart pounding and climbed over the small barrier adorned with pot plants, being careful not to disturb anything. I then walked around to the side door and peered through the window to ensure that no one was present. Only her little dog, "Buddie", was asleep, and he began to stir and growl as I turned the back door handle; to my delight, it opened smoothly.

Buddie calmed down after I gave him a treat, and he settled on the couch, watching me with curiosity as I carefully took down my original painting of the stunning view, as if it were alarmed and replaced it with an exact photographic replica. I had used a photocopy mounted on canvas. I was confident the paper wouldn’t buckle for a long time. Perhaps if it became damp, it might start to peel away in the future, but for now, it was secured to the canvas firmly. It should hold up quite well and cost me under a fiver to make. Still, it was worth every moment. I stepped back to admire the image on the wall. It looked perfect; it was almost indistinguishable from the original.

Tara once mentioned how she could hardly tell the difference between a realistic artwork and a photograph, which made me smile to myself. It warmed my heart to think that when she returned home, she would have no idea that I had made the switch, and she might never realise it. She could truly enjoy living with the photocopy on her wall forever, blissfully unaware of what had happened and how her little crime had morphed into my secret satisfaction.

With a sense of accomplishment, I picked up my original painting, stroked Buddie as he observed me quietly make my way outside, being careful not to disturb the plants. I then walked home through the enchanting night, my beloved painting tucked safely under my arm.

21/05/2025

1,671 words

Prompt line: I didn't have a choice.