AmethystRose
Planetoid
- Joined
- Feb 19, 2016
(I’m looking for someone specifically interested in story telling for this one. I like to explore characters and plot, makes everything else so much more enjoyable then)
Both our fathers are very rich. Yours came from a privalliged background, born into money and power, whereas mine came from nothing. But has nonetheless helped your father make his name and wealth on his own away from his family.
Your father had always been interested in art, and while on a trip to Venice as a young man (on one of his many escapes from his wife and young son), he came across an extremely talented artist and his 2 year old daughter living in a tent on the outside of the city.
The man whose untrained art showed remarkable talent even then, was practically giving his work away in exchange for scraps of food to sustain himself and his daughter.
Knowing he was in no position to refuse, your father made mine his protege, paying for him to get into all the right schools and marketing his story and work to the right people. So that now, 14 years later, our fathers had made multi-millions together. However, despite the fact that your father started his own gallery funded by the millions my father made him, your father had never made him a partner of the firm.
We met for the first time when I was two and you were four, so we’ve known each other all our lives, and in that time, you never ceased to make my life a misery or let me forget my roots.
By the time I was twelve and you fourteen, you had started to become obsessively attracted to me. But since I was older now I always opted to stay away from you as much as possible, begging my father to leave me home alone away from you where we had spent so much time growing up.
Furious that you could feel your control on me slipping, you complained to your father and on my 16th birthday I was told that when I reached 18 we would be married. Your father loved the idea that as I was just coming into my own as a young artist, helped along by my status as the daughter of one of the richest contemporary artists, that I would be his shiny new toy and addition to the family. You loved the control that gave you over me. And my father loved the fact that he would finally become a partner in the firm from agreeing to the arrangement.
It’s the day after I was told about the engagement, and the only time you’ve been able to see me for months is at school where I am far more popular than you, and always do my best to make sure I’m surrounded by a group of friends in order to keep you away from me. Today, however, completely distraught and not wanting to go home, I stay behind in the studio after school, working on a piece for my first ever solo exhibition.
I have my back to you, the slight curves of my body shaking from the soft sobs. My long, thick dark hair falls in glossy sheets down my back, sopping at the waiste band of my denim shorts. My long tan legs on display, the right one splattered with just a tiny bit of paint.
The piece I’m working on is of an angel with a shackle on her ankle and a sword in her hand, faced with a choice of cutting her own leg off in order to free herself, or choosing forever to remain in misery in her guilded prison.
Sensing the door close behind me, the hairs on my neck stand up, and instinctively I reach for a sheet and move it over my painting to hide it from you, wiping my eyes on the back oh my hand quickly before turning around to glare at you. My big blue eyes blazing in a cold hatred “What are you doing here?”
Both our fathers are very rich. Yours came from a privalliged background, born into money and power, whereas mine came from nothing. But has nonetheless helped your father make his name and wealth on his own away from his family.
Your father had always been interested in art, and while on a trip to Venice as a young man (on one of his many escapes from his wife and young son), he came across an extremely talented artist and his 2 year old daughter living in a tent on the outside of the city.
The man whose untrained art showed remarkable talent even then, was practically giving his work away in exchange for scraps of food to sustain himself and his daughter.
Knowing he was in no position to refuse, your father made mine his protege, paying for him to get into all the right schools and marketing his story and work to the right people. So that now, 14 years later, our fathers had made multi-millions together. However, despite the fact that your father started his own gallery funded by the millions my father made him, your father had never made him a partner of the firm.
We met for the first time when I was two and you were four, so we’ve known each other all our lives, and in that time, you never ceased to make my life a misery or let me forget my roots.
By the time I was twelve and you fourteen, you had started to become obsessively attracted to me. But since I was older now I always opted to stay away from you as much as possible, begging my father to leave me home alone away from you where we had spent so much time growing up.
Furious that you could feel your control on me slipping, you complained to your father and on my 16th birthday I was told that when I reached 18 we would be married. Your father loved the idea that as I was just coming into my own as a young artist, helped along by my status as the daughter of one of the richest contemporary artists, that I would be his shiny new toy and addition to the family. You loved the control that gave you over me. And my father loved the fact that he would finally become a partner in the firm from agreeing to the arrangement.
It’s the day after I was told about the engagement, and the only time you’ve been able to see me for months is at school where I am far more popular than you, and always do my best to make sure I’m surrounded by a group of friends in order to keep you away from me. Today, however, completely distraught and not wanting to go home, I stay behind in the studio after school, working on a piece for my first ever solo exhibition.
I have my back to you, the slight curves of my body shaking from the soft sobs. My long, thick dark hair falls in glossy sheets down my back, sopping at the waiste band of my denim shorts. My long tan legs on display, the right one splattered with just a tiny bit of paint.
The piece I’m working on is of an angel with a shackle on her ankle and a sword in her hand, faced with a choice of cutting her own leg off in order to free herself, or choosing forever to remain in misery in her guilded prison.
Sensing the door close behind me, the hairs on my neck stand up, and instinctively I reach for a sheet and move it over my painting to hide it from you, wiping my eyes on the back oh my hand quickly before turning around to glare at you. My big blue eyes blazing in a cold hatred “What are you doing here?”