Red Rose
The Scream
Yixing and his parents walk into the front of the towering art gallery. The outside is an old pastel yellow, made of sandstone brick. The roof is suspended on tall pylons that reflect a rather Ancient Roman manner of architecture. In places, metallic plaques seem to jut out, with the names of famous sculptors, poets, and of course painters etched into them. Occasionally, a gargoyle will sit above a pillar and open its mouth wide at Yixing.
Yixing likes this style; it is so different from the types of typical Chinese architecture he is used to.
He has seen enough tiled roofs in his lifetime; though beautiful and intrinsic, monotony makes little impact on Yixing.
The inside of the gallery is in stark contrast. Instead of a continuation of more refined styles from the outside designs, the walls are a bright white; they seem to reflect the light of the overhead lamps perfectly. The floor is tiled white as well, the roof white, everything white. The sheer reflectiveness of it all hurts Yixing’s eyes, but he doesn’t mind. This is a welcome break from staring at his computer screen all day, writing what feels like essay number fifty-eight for his Chinese modern history course.
The group walks up to the reception desk, the only thing in the room that is not white. It is a reddish mahogany, and it seems to juxtapose the sleekness of the interior with and odd sort of vibe. Yixing peels a headphone out of his ear as his mother gives him a grumpy look. He should be paying closer attention to his surroundings, or he will make the family look uncultured in this sea of seemingly educated people.
“Well, we’re here. This is your first time in an art gallery, right Yixing?” Yixing nods at his mother.
School trips had only ever been to museums or temples, unless you of course were an art-disciplined pupil. Yixing was not, he instead chose music.
“Well, we’re here today to see an exhibition of works by an artist named Guertena…”
Yixing nods again as his mother rambles on. Like Yixing, his mother sometimes went off on a tangent, something that Yixing finds an unfortunate trait.
“And they don’t have just paintings, but also sculptures… and all kinds of other creations. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, Yixing!”
“Come on dear, let’s just get to the reception desk,” his father chides.
“Ah, yes,” his mother responds. “Let’s get some pamphlets as well.”
They walk over to the long queue and Yixing taps his foot impatiently.
“Oh, you can go on ahead, Yixing, we’ll get the tickets. Just make sure you’re quiet in the gallery, okay? Don’t make a ruckus!”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, dear,” Yixing’s father steps in. “There’s no need to worry about him, he’s a quiet boy, after all…”
Yixing gives his father a wary smile before stepping out of the line; he is happily waved through by security. Yixing makes his way up to the second floor of the gallery first, deciding it would be best to work his way down slowly. Yixing hugs the left wall, making his way around the room in silence. All the portraits that line the wall home abstract works of ‘art’. Yixing wouldn’t personally call it art; he prefers works from impressionist painters like Claude Monet, not the layers of lines and squiggles somehow classified as ‘art’ in front of him.
As Yixing sifts through the paintings, he realises that there are many words he cannot understand; they are written in French, German, or English. He can pick out some English words, but many are too difficult to make out the meaning. The English language has never been his strong point; Yixing prefers the Asian languages. Like Mandarin, Cantonese. Even Korean will do. Yixing can’t help to hear the conversations around him.
“Look at this one, she’s beautiful! I wonder if the subject was ever a real person?”
“They say Guertena didn’t typically paint any real people.”
“But there’s always a chance, you know? This girl could be out there somewhere!”
“What is that?” Yixing whispers to himself.
It’s a sculpture, but it’s unlike anything Yixing has ever seen before; like an optical illusion. A giant, pink yoga ball sits on the other side of a barrier, swords sticking out of its side. Yixing doesn’t know how one could puncture such a ball in such a way, but he decides that physics has something to do with it. Yixing continues on his way. Another sculpture, with what looks like a giant, blue alien sits, staring wantonly at him. Yixing continues on, slightly unnerved.
How could people call this rubbish ‘art’?
Yixing continues on, looking for something passable in the gallery. He soon finds himself in front of a long frame in an empty room, which takes up at least six metres the length of the wall. It’s a bigger painting than anything Yixing’s ever seen before. It’s nice looking, too. Splotches of colour dot the canvas, and Yixing wonders how Guertena could have possibly covered the whole canvas in so many layers of paint. It’s very postmodern, with other portraits drawn within the portrait itself; portraits that Yixing has passed only moments ago in the gallery.
“Hmmm…”
He leans over the banister and stares at the plaque underneath the frame.
“I don't know what that word is,” he mumbles to himself. “Something, and then the word ‘world’?”
There is a flash, as though all the lights in the gallery have flickered.
“Huh?”
Yixing decides he should check to see if his parents have made it through the queue yet, so he backtracks.
But it’s empty.
The whole museum, not a single person in sight. Yixing is sure his minds are playing tricks on him. It was quite full before… wasn’t it? He walks through the left wing of the gallery and finds more ridiculous looking statues. There’s a couch with electrical wires running haphazardly out of the arm and back rests.
“Reserved Seat?”
Next, there are tall statuesque figures, with long snaking arms. They are covered in suits of three different colours; red, blue and yellow. The Bauhaus colours, Yixing realises. He reads the plaque.
“Death of the Individual.”
Thoroughly creeped out, Yixing makes his way back to the first floor. Why is no one up here on this level anymore? The light flickers, and everything darkens. There’s no queue, in fact, there’s no one at all. The art gallery can’t have shut; it’s only two in the afternoon. It’s supposed to close at five.
Where are Yixing’s parents?
Yixing makes a break for the front door, but it doesn’t budge.
“This isn’t funny!” he yells, wincing as his voice reverberates off the walls and echoes throughout the gallery.
He checks the first floor gallery, a place he hasn’t been before as of yet. There’s no one around, just the paintings on the walls. A large sculpture of one of those deep-sea fish sits in the centre of the room. It has a gaping black hole for an eye that seems to be staring lifelessly at Yixing. He feels like he's being watched. It's terrifying, feeling so alone, and Yixing quickly walks across to the sculpture, hoping he'll find some sort of clue to help his predicament.
‘??? of the Deep’, it reads.
“A world where man will never stand… To ??? that world, I decided that I would ??? it within the canvas…” Yixing reads aloud, skipping the words he can’t understand.
He walks the circuit of the lower gallery, but still no one is in sight. There’s a statue of a rose in the lower left corner of the left wing, it’s thorns jutting out precariously over the edge of the barrier.
“??? of Spirit,” Yixing reads, “Beautiful at a glance, but if you get too close, it will ??? pain. It can only bloom in ??? bodies.”
Even without knowing half of the words, Yixing realises he doesn’t like Guertena’s art at all. It’s creepy and morbid, but still beautiful in some unnatural way. It’s disarming. Yixing steps to the other wall, staring at the painting. There’s the face of a man, and he’s smiling out of the portrait.
“The coughing man, huh? You don’t look like you’re coughing at all,” Yixing points out candidly. He’d rather fill the silence with his own voice than walk around like a ghost. Yixing walks away. A loud hacking sound permeates the room, like someone’s coughing. Yixing whirls back round quickly, eyes widening in fear. He's starting to dislike the gallery. Can he even call it that anymore? As far as Yixing can remember, galleries are supposed to be places for people to acknowledge and view the fine arts created by others. If this is a gallery, why is it so eerily quiet?
“Hello?”
No response.
“, it can’t have been the painting,” he swears to himself. He goes back to the room before with the deep-sea fish. There’s a note on the wall that wasn’t there before.
“Welcome to the World of Guertena,” he reads.
“We truly thank you for ??? today. We’re currently holding an ??? for the artist Weiss Guertena. We hope you deeply enjoy the art of the late Guertena, whose creations carry such mystery and beauty both.”
Yixing wants to cry. None of this seems normal. He decides to check the front door again. Still locked. He heads back upstairs. There’s no one there.
“Hang on… hello?” Yixing yells.
There’s an observation window in the corner of the room, perhaps for security. Yixing could have sworn he saw movement. He calls out a terrified 'hello', eyes watering. It can't be a simple prank on him, it's far too elaborate for that. He walks up to the window and taps at it; it doesn't look like it's locked at all, and Yixing presses his palm against the glass pane. It won't budge.
“Hello?” Yixing repeats.
After fiddling with the window for a few minutes, he walks away, clearly frustrated.
THUD THUD THUD!
“!” Yixing shrieks.
He turns back, only to see that there is a handprint on the windowpane. That wasn’t there before.
“What the is going on?” he mumbles to himself, looking around wildly.
Yixing continues on his way through the second floor gallery. The portraits remain the same, but they appear to be… watching him. Yixing, unnerved by the eyes of oil on canvas, keeps his head down. He almost sits himself on the tiled floor, ready to sit and rock back and forth, biting his thumb between his teeth anxiously.
MEOW!
Yixing screams. His eyes race across the wall. There's a cat portrait. A black cat, to be precise. Yixing does not believe in any of that superstitious , but this was just getting ridiculous. He swore he heard that sound, but paintings can't make a sound. This must be some kind of unreality. None of this happens in real life! Yixing must be dreaming! He shakes his head at himself, bringing his thumb and index finger together, pinching his arm with a little force. He shuts his eyes tight, hoping that the scenery before him will change; that he will wake up and everything will be as it should be. He hisses as he pinches himself, letting out a squeak as his eyes flutter open.
Nothing's changed in the slightest.
“You did not just do that…” he says to the cat painting.
THUD THUD!
Yixing yelps and breaks into a run. The only noise he can hear is his footsteps hitting the hard floor, and maybe a chuckle or two from the portraits around him as he hurtles down the corridor. They can't be real, he reminds himself, but slowly, Yixing is starting to believe that this is actually happening to him.
Soon, Yixing finds himself back in the room with the long portrait. But it’s different. Yixing steps back as he notices that somehow, for whatever reason, blue paint is seeping down the wall from the bottom of the painting. Once he’s certain his heart has slowed to a steady beat, he steps forward, examining the liquid. It’s definitely paint.
THUD THUD THUD!
Yixing jumps, lowering himself to the floor. He holds his legs up to his chest and begins to slowly rock back and forth, trying to calm his nerves. He slowly turns around, and gasps.
COME YIXING
It's scrawled in what Yixing hopes is just red paint on the floor. His eyes widen. He looks around wildly, heartbeat accelerating with each second. He feels like his heart could burst out of his chest. He holds a hand over it, trying to steady his breathing.
"Hello?" he calls.
No response.
Yixing runs back through the gallery, down the stairs, and tries the front door once again. It won’t budge. Yixing walks over to the two observation windows beside the front desk. They, like the one upstairs, don’t budge either.
“Hello, please! Someone?”
Yixing peers through the first window. As far as he can tell, it’s empty. He moves on to the second…
“!”
He almost trips over his own feet as he launches himself backwards. There’s a red liquid that flows down the pane, and it reminds Yixing eerily of blood. He does another circuit of the gallery downstairs, but there’s no change. He backtracks once again, back upstairs. What is he supposed to do? If he can't get out of the front door, the only thing for him to do is to keep exploring, as much as he hates to realise.
“Oh my God!” he shrieks.
A portrait that once had an apple sitting in fruit bowl is no longer so. Just as he was about to step past, somehow, the apple fell out and almost hit him. It sits in a pile of red paint on the floor.
“What in the…?”
The floor no longer says ‘Come Yixing’. Instead, there’s a new message scrawled in red paint.
COME DOWN BELOW YIXING
I’LL SHOW YOU SOMEPLACE SECRET
Yixing doesn’t know what this means, but it freaks him out. How do they know his name? What is going on? He traces his path backwards. This place is weird and terrifying, and Yixing doesn’t like it. He’s back, it seems, at the deep-sea fish.
But it’s different.
One of the barriers preventing small children from touching the paintings and sculptures is gone; instead, what looks like water snakes it’s way around the tiled floor, leaving a heavy trail of liquid. Is this down below? If it’s the only way Yixing can leave this place, he might as well try, right?
It’s like treading through water, but he’s underneath the waves. Nothing seems to make sense anymore.
The walls of the art gallery have been tainted a deep sapphire colour, and the paintings have changed. He walks around. The shape of the gallery is different, too. A long walkway stands in the centre, heading up to a second floor. Yixing doesn’t even want to know where that leads. He heads off instead to the right wing.
COME YIXING
Yixing stares at the wall. The words seem to be following him, somehow. Yixing notices a lone red rose in a small vase off to the side, sitting on a table. It’s just sitting there, looking very beautiful. Yixing has always liked roses… He walks over to the vase and examines it, thinking for a minute. It wouldn’t hurt if he took the rose, would it? Yixing takes the rose out of the vase and pushes the table to the side, revealing a door behind it. He opens it.
It’s a room with a single portrait. The walls are almost black, the floor an iridescent blue. The portrait is of a woman, with long, flowing dark hair. It seems to cascade out of the portrait and into the room. Yixing doesn’t understand how. Galleries should have more than one painting in them... Unless... It's important, somehow?
He reads the inscription underneath.
“When the rose ???s, so too will you ??? away.”
The only word Yixing knows can fit that phrase in Chinese is ‘wither’, but he doesn’t want this to be correct. Maybe he shouldn’t have picked up that rose… Yixing hears a metallic sound as he steps away from the painting.
“Oh?”
He kneels down and picks up an odd, blue coloured key. He was certain that wasn’t there before.
“Ah!”
Once he looks back up, he notices that the woman in the painting’s facial expression has changed. Drastically. It’s staring out at him, with strangely grotesque wide eyes, while it pokes its tongue out at him.
“Disturbing…” he mumbles. He turns around and leaves the room as quickly as he can.
There’s a note on the wall, in the previous wing. A note that definitely wasn’t there before. The words on the wall have changed. Random letters are scrawled that don’t make any sense to Yixing. He walks over to the note and reads it.
“You and the rose are one. Know the weight of your own life…” Yixing shakes his head and runs back the way he came.
THUD THUD THUD!
“!” he screeches to a halt.
THIEF
He gasps. He had only blinked, but the letters on the wall had rearranged themselves, the words also written repeatedly on the floor beneath his feet in big red letters. Yixing heads to the left wing of the blue gallery, finding a small blue door off to the side. There’s a small vase before it, and Yixing places his rose into it. If what he’s read is correct, if the rose withers, he dies.
There’s no going back now…
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