Look at me

By Linda Wang (age 12)

You had always liked to be alone, but now, as you walked through the restricted floor of the art gallery, you wonder if it would have been better with someone. You’re not scared, that’s for sure, you’re never scared, it’s just the paintings in here, how interesting they look. 

The floor was nothing like the others that you’ve seen, it’s not something that you like to admit, but you spend more time than the regular person in the art gallery. Sure, once in a blue moon you will find a piece that you don’t find flavourless, but most of what you are most attracted to is the gallery itself. It’s like a giant piece, with its windows that bend the light, and how it’s so easy to get lost in the places. It makes up for a lot of how boring the actual art is.

This floor though, is not much maze-like, without the signature forks and extra stairs that lead to nowhere, it’s more like the place is directing you where to go. But of course, that’s not what you do.

For once, you want to see the paintings.

Since you were small, your eccentric sister had drilled the whole ‘artsy’ image into you. Her creations were something that you would pause and look at, if anyone was ever enough of a sadist to show little kids the kind of things she did. Her paintings for one, told her idea of the apocalypse. She made sure that her canvas was cut into ribbons and always had people who had eyes that would follow you around. They weren’t even that dark, with bright warm colors and vibrant neon, yet that somehow made the whole deal worse.

These paintings would make your sister’s look like preschool finger-paintings.

Currently, the one you have your gaze on, is a girl. She’s pretty, in a plain way; she wouldn’t stand out much if you saw her in real life, so you decide to move on. But, something tugs at you, a feeling that says, ‘Look at me,’ something only great artists can accomplish. So you do take a closer analysis of her. Her expression has a look of urgency; her eyes show such deep anxiety and something that makes you want to know more about what she feels. Taking quiet steps towards the painting, you suddenly notice that you can’t seem to take your eyes off of her face. The eyes you think. Her eyes: plain, no special qualities, were staring straight at you, glazing and holding. You swear she wasn’t before.

Come to think of it, the eyes look similar, possibly the most familiar pair of eyes to you. And then the realization hits you, they should be similar to you. After all, they’re your eyes.

Your hear speeds up, Where did that thought come from, you think. But as your heart calms down, you can see that those eyes aren’t yours. They’re just a reflection of yours. With a sigh of relief, you sneak one last glance at those eyes. Her face is contorted in victory.

You turn back to the other paintings, and you gasp as they change. The strange scenes from before melt into kids, kids that have a look of triumph and twisted happiness, almost as if the paintings they share have melted into their eyes. The girl you turn back to look at - her eyes are no longer ones that mirror yours. They’re completely different, and just like all the other kids, her real eyes are stormy.

You freeze, not in surprise, or like how stupid people in movies stop even though they have to run, you literally cannot move. You can’t blink, yet the children in the pictures are moving, the walls closing on you. Their eyes focused on you, as yours on them.

You’ll never be alone, after all, we are one.

Nothing matters anymore, you’re empty and you’re hollow, and you know you want one sole thing.

A new kid wanders into the gallery, and their eyes just barely graze you.

Putting all of your might into a command, you think. Look at me. As their eyes connect with yours, you know you’ve won.