Post by The Artist Mora on Jan 26, 2022 21:39:39 GMT -6
[CW: MILDLY GRAPHIC]
The art "The Artist" had painted across the columbarium stood, proud as it was, with feeble splotches where buckets of paint had been thrown over where the image of the Vack Label was, depicted as the grim reaper the Label had come to be. The scythe in the painting was too large to be covered completely with the few buckets of paint that had been thrown so far over the mural, and the edge stood still over the images of Chilean families. Truly, the mural that the Artist Mora had painted was proud, revolutionary, controversial.
After it had gone up, nobody else could find the Artist. They checked her loft, they searched for her, but it was like she had vanished without a trace. Almost fitting for the woman's power. The city that lived under the fear of the gang that the Vack Label commanded kept on... keeping on, live moving day to day like it always had.
As weeks passed by, more and more buckets were thrown over the controversial mural, as if to try to erase that it had happened at all.
Soon enough, more and more murals were painted over, almost as if they were trying to erase Carmina Mora herself. To remove her artwork and her legacy, and reduce her legend to nothing. Like Carmina Mora had never existed in the first place.
After months, it was almost as if she had not existed. The city in Chile had only the private pieces of hers that were either captured by photo or the canvas itself bought, the only remaining pieces of the memory of the revolutionary to be had. Even those were sought out by the Vack Label as they bid higher and higher to take the pieces and destroy them.
To kill someone's legend, their memory, and their images, truly, is to kill the person after they have died, after all.
After three months had passed, the town continued… like normal, really. Nobody went out of their way to visit the defaced mural. The name of Carmina Mora was not uttered by a single family out of fear that they would be persecuted. Life had resumed as their new normal was, after Carmina had come, and gone, and changed the town. A small family (a child and his parents) walked by the now- wildly defaced mural, and for the first time in months, looked up. The small boy’s mouth dropped open for a moment, in shock, and then he screamed.
Hanging in the middle of the mural was the decayed hands of Carmina Mora.
Carmina found herself waking up in a place most unfamiliar to her.
She looked, side to side, taking inventory of the crows around her. Two, three, four. Not enough to create a true murder.
She brought her forearms up, looking at her wrists–the wrists that stood half-mangled. The hands she no longer had. She opened her mouth, swallowing, and found a dull ache where her tongue had resided, as well as difficulty actually swallowing. Her breath picked up, the once-fearless Artist’s chest now heaving as the panic and terror sank in from what she experienced what felt like not too long ago.
Her head ducked, her forearms coming up beside her head, and she let out a low groan, rocking back and forth in her spot, loose dress dragging along the ground as her throat rasped with each heave of her chest. This happened; it was not a horrific nightmare, it was not a dream, it was all real. Tears fell out of her eyes, down her cheeks, as she let out another low, horrified, hopeless moan. This was real. This was real. This was real.
The panic shook her shoulders as she struggled to come to terms, and let her fear subside through her racing thoughts. Once she was able to take a few, deep, normal breaths, she brought her shaking arms back in front of her face once again, the tears that continued to race down her cheeks finally turning cold as she came unfurled from the ball she was in.
She studied the stumps where her hands used to reside, looking at the blackened ends as if she could will her own hands back into existence. She lowered them, brushing the ground, and felt a sharp, shooting pain race up her forearms from her wrists. She looked back down in horror, dreading to see the stumps starting to rot–
Instead she found strange, black, pointed fingers and hands growing from the stumps. She watched with curiosity as they grew, longer and jagged, and finally stopped, about the length of one and a half of her old limbs. She curled one finger, finding that she could barely feel–but that feeling still there. Much more than she ever expected from the tragedy that was the end of her life.
Her new fingers dragged along the ground as she put her arms back down, waiting, hoping, that a new tongue would join her after her arms did.
She waited, and waited, and waited.
The Artist, the poet, had new hands, but would never be able to speak in the traditional sense again.
The art "The Artist" had painted across the columbarium stood, proud as it was, with feeble splotches where buckets of paint had been thrown over where the image of the Vack Label was, depicted as the grim reaper the Label had come to be. The scythe in the painting was too large to be covered completely with the few buckets of paint that had been thrown so far over the mural, and the edge stood still over the images of Chilean families. Truly, the mural that the Artist Mora had painted was proud, revolutionary, controversial.
After it had gone up, nobody else could find the Artist. They checked her loft, they searched for her, but it was like she had vanished without a trace. Almost fitting for the woman's power. The city that lived under the fear of the gang that the Vack Label commanded kept on... keeping on, live moving day to day like it always had.
As weeks passed by, more and more buckets were thrown over the controversial mural, as if to try to erase that it had happened at all.
Soon enough, more and more murals were painted over, almost as if they were trying to erase Carmina Mora herself. To remove her artwork and her legacy, and reduce her legend to nothing. Like Carmina Mora had never existed in the first place.
After months, it was almost as if she had not existed. The city in Chile had only the private pieces of hers that were either captured by photo or the canvas itself bought, the only remaining pieces of the memory of the revolutionary to be had. Even those were sought out by the Vack Label as they bid higher and higher to take the pieces and destroy them.
To kill someone's legend, their memory, and their images, truly, is to kill the person after they have died, after all.
After three months had passed, the town continued… like normal, really. Nobody went out of their way to visit the defaced mural. The name of Carmina Mora was not uttered by a single family out of fear that they would be persecuted. Life had resumed as their new normal was, after Carmina had come, and gone, and changed the town. A small family (a child and his parents) walked by the now- wildly defaced mural, and for the first time in months, looked up. The small boy’s mouth dropped open for a moment, in shock, and then he screamed.
Hanging in the middle of the mural was the decayed hands of Carmina Mora.
Carmina found herself waking up in a place most unfamiliar to her.
She looked, side to side, taking inventory of the crows around her. Two, three, four. Not enough to create a true murder.
She brought her forearms up, looking at her wrists–the wrists that stood half-mangled. The hands she no longer had. She opened her mouth, swallowing, and found a dull ache where her tongue had resided, as well as difficulty actually swallowing. Her breath picked up, the once-fearless Artist’s chest now heaving as the panic and terror sank in from what she experienced what felt like not too long ago.
Her head ducked, her forearms coming up beside her head, and she let out a low groan, rocking back and forth in her spot, loose dress dragging along the ground as her throat rasped with each heave of her chest. This happened; it was not a horrific nightmare, it was not a dream, it was all real. Tears fell out of her eyes, down her cheeks, as she let out another low, horrified, hopeless moan. This was real. This was real. This was real.
The panic shook her shoulders as she struggled to come to terms, and let her fear subside through her racing thoughts. Once she was able to take a few, deep, normal breaths, she brought her shaking arms back in front of her face once again, the tears that continued to race down her cheeks finally turning cold as she came unfurled from the ball she was in.
She studied the stumps where her hands used to reside, looking at the blackened ends as if she could will her own hands back into existence. She lowered them, brushing the ground, and felt a sharp, shooting pain race up her forearms from her wrists. She looked back down in horror, dreading to see the stumps starting to rot–
Instead she found strange, black, pointed fingers and hands growing from the stumps. She watched with curiosity as they grew, longer and jagged, and finally stopped, about the length of one and a half of her old limbs. She curled one finger, finding that she could barely feel–but that feeling still there. Much more than she ever expected from the tragedy that was the end of her life.
Her new fingers dragged along the ground as she put her arms back down, waiting, hoping, that a new tongue would join her after her arms did.
She waited, and waited, and waited.
The Artist, the poet, had new hands, but would never be able to speak in the traditional sense again.