ANONYMOUS
From where Jen stood, the hands were wide as truck tires, and the hot white palms became at the wrists a tangled mass of red and blue vessels traveling into a deep violet silhouette. Ten feet or more above, there was no head. Cut off at the neck. But Jen somehow knew the face.
"Who painted this?" she asked.
An elderly woman in a navy blazer came over. "'Anonymous'."
"I saw that," Jen said. "Do you have any more information? Is there anyone here who might?"
"No. Actually, we’ve been trying to find its author for some time. It’s made quite an impression."
* * *
Then Jen was trembling. Her pupils huge, lips parted to let in air.
"Do you need me to get help?"
Jen shook her head sharply.
"Can you breathe?"
Jen nodded.
"Breathe."
* * *
Later they sat together on a bench in an adjacent hall.
"I used to have nightmares," Jen said. "This recurring nightmare where I’d be in bed and the door would open and the room would be full of light. And there was this person, with arms reaching out. Huge veins, like my grandmother. And everything else was black, or… violet. I’d say 'who are you?' and it would start cackling like a crow’s call. I’d jump out of bed and run, but the walls in the room were curved all of a sudden, so there wasn’t even a corner to hide in. Every place I ran, I was running back into its arms.
"I was about six when those dreams started. 'Til I was nine or ten. Every detail of that painting was exactly as I remember it."
"Could you have painted it and then… forgot?" the elderly woman smiled faintly.
* * *
"It’s strange. I wanted to be an artist when I was younger. If I could find them, I have drawings from when I was six or seven, or older, of that. Even after the dreams stopped I kept trying to draw it, because I wanted to figure it out. It felt significant somehow. Now…" Jen gestured limply. "It’s like someone took it from me."
"I’m not sure what to say," the woman said. "It’s a shame you stopped drawing, but I suppose it found its way out, regardless."
Jen looked up.
“It really is a masterpiece.”