Chapter Text
Large gallery rooms echoed with slow hollow steps. Each pair of shoes tentatively clicking on the cool stone flooring as they explored the spaces. Hushed voices bounced off the walls and muddled into the rest of the quiet white noise. Marbled stone slabs were inlayed into the flooring, delicate gold webbing and cracks spread like roots of a tree through the tiles. The flat white walls extended to the high heights towards to the ceiling, which was decorated with an antique copper embossed filigree. Various spots grazed by hands over the years were aged with a green patina. Bright spotlights lit up and showcased the art, like bright stars of the show. Various styles of paintings of differing sizes and shapes were hung delicately on the walls, while sculptures were carefully scattered on pedestals throughout the rest of the gallery.
Some of the paintings were realistic, others much more abstract and some in between. Sculptures of nude figures in varying body forms were dressed with lights fabrics carved out of stone. The entire gallery housed hundreds, thousands of artworks. All to be enjoyed, reveled, thought provoking, rage inducing by the visiting guests; and to be protected around the clock by a single position.
The security guard.
The premise of the job is quite simple; to protect someone or something. Keeping people safe and guarded was a difficult task for most; they can be unpredictable and chaotic. The circumstances dangerous and impossible to predict what could happen. The situations could vary from extravagant parties or simply transporting a person from vehicle to vehicle. The idea of risking one’s own life for someone else is always put into question.
Who would be willing to risk it all?
Guarding objects that were fixed onto walls were much more easy to guard. And because of that fact alone, it was much more boring.
And that was his job.
Leon’s dirty blond head of hair dipped downward. Nodding off in the early morning and waking up as he felt the ‘feeling of falling in your dreams’ that caused him to stumble his steps. More people began to march in and out of the gallery section he was stationed in. Some of the patrons much more interested in the arts than others. Some were clearly invested in the pieces, taking time to drink each one in before muttering some sort of commentary on how they felt about the piece then moving on. Some spend mere seconds before moving onto the next piece, lazily dragging their feet from painting to painting before making some sort of innocuous comment.
While some of the more unruly guests were only interested in finding the most private areas for more private activities. Leon rolled his eyes at another couple he saw sneaking off. His quick steps reaching them before they had a chance to do anything nefarious and escorted them back into the main hall with a stern and disciplinary expression. He wasn’t going to kick them out entirely; he wasn’t that heartless. But a single look was warning enough to show that he was going to keep his eyes on them; at the very least until they were out of his sights.
It was only 11:47 AM, not even close to his first scheduled break. At least being on a day shift meant that he was able to see people. The noise and scatter of people kept his mind occupied, and almost made standing still for hours on end somewhat tolerable.
Night shifts were the worst, with only the artwork and the walls. Nothing else to occupy his mind. In the dark of the nights, the gallery had a haunted feeling. Noises that were unexplained and doors that seemingly opened on their own. In the early hours of the night, anyone could swear they heard something or saw something. In nightmare like delusions Leon swore some of the paintings eyes move, or even the positioning of their faces changing. But when the morning sun hits the horizon, the light orange filling the windows as it always does; only then was the dreaded night shift over.
Occasionally in the dark mornings as he waited for one of his coworkers to arrive, he had the rare spare moment to look at the artworks as closely as he wanted. Sometimes tempting fate by leaning inches away from the paintings and before setting off any potential alarms. So close he was almost able to see each individual brush stroke in the pieces, or fingerprints of the artists laced in the acrylic.
In his few scrolls around the gallery at nights, he was always drawn to this one particular painter.
Paintings of splashes of muted pastel colours showcase meadows of florals, touched by the oranges and pinks of sunset. Portraits of couples in the throes of passion. All of them were emotional, painted with love but laced with a darkness that creeped in from the corners. As if the frame was the proverbial wall that contained each piece. Keeping it merely stuck in stages of a feeling, never reaching out, never breaking the mould.
Set in the east gallery was a privately donated collection, the artist unknown. Leon could spend hours looking at the pieces, trying to speculate what they were trying to convey. Was it romance? A dark passion filled tryst? A lovers quarrel? He could never be sure, as it always felt like something was missing from them.
Each brush stroke was careful and precise. Even though the final results were so lush and free feeling. The darker qualities of them gave off an eerie feeling in the nights, as if the pastel colours were to trick him into a false sense of security. While the faces of the portraits grew more menacing in the lingering dark of the nights.
The collections rotated every few months, some lasting longer than others. And the other artist collectives he saw were interesting. Some that filled the space with sculptures, some with ceramics. It always varied, giving him something to enjoy as he worked. He’d never be able to attempt any arts, his hands were built for combat. Not for something so delicate and fragile. How he landed this job was merely because of his close friend and coworker.
He hadn’t expected to take on the role of security guard for an art gallery, but the job paid well and he was more than willing to take a more passive job for the time being.
The only problem being; it was probably the most boring job he’s ever had. The quiet of the room grew impossibly silent as he notices the last of the guests leaving his section and heading towards another gallery down the hall. The swing of the heavy door latching closed creates as silence, filtered by only the hum of the bright gallery lights.
Leon glances at his watch again, a silver circular frame holds the dark face. 11:51 AM, the second hand ticks. So slowly he swears it’s taking longer than a second for each movement. My god, he was going to go insane. He leans into his ear piece, mumbling a few words into it.
A soft feminine voice buzzes in, “are you serious? You can't wait till 1:OOPM?”
The idea of running towards the staff room and grabbing a tall beautiful steaming cup of coffee was set in his mind. His body eager to take the few steps to make it there. His feet growing impatient as he tapped his black dress shoes against the flooring. All he needed were a few short minutes while the space was empty.
“Helena, no one is here, I’m-" his words are interrupted at the sound of the heavy metal doors swinging open. The weight of the door hung in place. Allowing the guest to enter until their fingers let go, letting the door slowly close shut behind them. Leon quietly groaned to himself, frustrated he couldn’t sneak away for his beloved coffee. His slouching body extends into a tall and stoic stance, his shoulders puckering up as if to look larger. His head nods reflexively, as if to greet the guest as they enter the gallery space.
From the sounds of her heels clicking on the marble, he can at least deduce that she’s a woman. Her age however, unknown as he can’t quite clearly see her. A heavy trench coat obscures her body, the dark tan colour covering most of her frame. A sheer black pantyhose covered up her long legs, her tall black heels still audibly clicking with each one of her purposeful steps. The marble echoing her heels clicks as she makes her grand entrance.
An expensive looking black beret sits on top of her head and a side satchel becomes apparent as she takes a seat on one of the benches. Leon’s brow raises, more interested in her than anything else in the room as she opens her bag and takes out a dark black sketchbook. A standard 9″ x 12″, bound in a hard cover and affixed with a spiral binding. Her head leans down into the sketchbook, a pencil appearing in her hand. She remains still, her hand occasionally dusting off the blank sheet as if to prepare to sketch. Minutes pass and she still hasn’t placed the tip of her pencil on the paper. Leon watches, entranced by her as her head stayed buried in the book. Suddenly her hand moves, the pencil making large grand gestures. Every movement is precise, as if every stroke was important. Each one was contemplated on, thought on before she takes the strike. The dark graphite becoming more and more apparent on the page as she continued to draw.
Leon had seen people coming in to sketch before. It wasn't a new occurrence. Sometimes art students came in to draw for assignments, while kids were given sheets of paper to doodle on. On odd occasions, couples would come in to playfully draw each other. Or to draw together in an amalgamation of imagery from the two. But she came in with purpose, as if she knew what she wanted to draw and how to do it. Her head only occasionally perked up to view the painting in front of her. Taking a few moments to let the art piece sink in before she was at it again on the paper. Her pencil making more purposeful strikes against the sheet.
“Leon you still in there?” Helena’s voice sang his name through his ear piece.
“You can see me on the cameras, you know I’m still in here,” he rolled his eyes, his head leaning away from the radio affixed onto his vest. His hands raise to fix his suit jacket, straightening up the best he could without seeing himself. His voice seemed to have caught the attention of his guest, as the woman in front of him cranes her head to meet his gaze. Leon greets her with a smiles, a flat one filled with politeness rather than anything else.
Her eyes are piercing, her long dark lashes fluttering as she blinks a few times at him. Even with his smile greeting her so politely, her face remains still. No emotion present as she leans back down into her sketchbook. Not paying much attention to him as she returned to her work.
Leon’s brows knit together, somehow offended that she didn’t smile back at him for some reason. A loud exhale blows through his noses, his shoulders dropping as his straightened back slouches again. His eyes fall down to his wrist, looking at his watch as he twists his arm. That damned second hand taking its sweet time to make its way around the clock.
11:59 AM.
The quiet morning leads into a quiet afternoon. With only a few more guests coming and leaving. But the woman in the trench coat and hat remained. An hour or so into the sketching session does she remove her beret. Her dark black hair is finally clear to him. A sleek bob that’s styled sharply and cleanly, as if it were a fresh haircut.
He wonders if she’s getting too warm, the heavy trench coat wasn’t appropriate for the weather they were having. It was soon becoming a balmy day as the sun rose to the highest point in the sky. The large glass windows overlooked the sky and brought in more light in the entrance of the gallery, making the space warmer and warmer. Which inevitably made the air con kick in, blowing in cool air to keep the space a comfortable temperature.
The clicks of her heels gather his attention each time she crosses her legs, the tips of her shoes pressing into the marble slabs of the floor and echoing a clear tapping sound.
The late afternoon rush finally comes in and the doors swing open with a large gathering of students. All much too loud for his liking, and apparently so for the teachers as well as they attempt to quiet the rowdy teens. The doors are propped opened by Helena as she ushers in the teens; bringing in the noise and chatter along with the rush of heat from the crowds of students. Leon gives Helena a nod as she walks in, their heads almost synchronized as she takes over at his spot and allows him to move into a grazing position. His slow steps wandered in a particular pattern on the gallery floor to have ultimate coverage.
The teens are mostly loud while some are quiet. The benches are littered with them as they sit and slouch on them rest. Loud, annoyed and exhausted groans echo from them as if they were at the tail end of their trip. In his pathway, he eyes all the benches for her dark head of hair. Without realizing it, he had already lost track of the woman in the trench coat. Each bench he glances at is filled with another student with their backpacks all haphazardly laying every which way. Some of them already on their phones and giggling to each other to find some sort of stimuli. He blinks twice, imagining that he never actually saw her. As if she were an apparition that was never there in the first place. The doors had already swung closed and no one else entering or leaving.
Somehow she had already slipped away without a trace.
The next week he’s stationed again. The same spot, the same pieces of artwork, the same walls. His schedule was consistent, that he made sure of when he took the job. The gallery was closed on Mondays, and he worked every day except for the weekends. Tuesdays he took the main hall since seniors often visited to take advantage of the senior's discount. And management thought he had the nicest face to be the greeter. The pretty boy on Tuesdays were wildly popular. Wednesdays and Thursdays were common for school trips with students, while Fridays were wild cards. It was either extremely busy or extremely dead. Rarely in between.
11:00 AM on the dot and he’s positioned in the east wing. The same gallery he’s grown accustomed to. As the heavy doors swing open, Helena’s lush head of brown hair catches his eyes. He sees her hand giving him a wave and ushering in a few early guests. Her hands switches as she not so subtly begins to point towards the woman in a red tight knit turtleneck dress and tall stilettos. The same blunt cut bob with her beret on her head and satchel on her shoulder.
Leon’s eyes leave Helena’s immediately. His gaze following the woman in red as her loud heels click on the flooring. She returns to the same bench she sat at the last time he saw her. He definitely saw her last week. He watches her carefully as she takes some time with her bag, rifling through it for the same sketch book she had last week. Holding it in her hands and gently prying it open as if to find the correct page in one turn. His eyes squint, trying to see what page she revealed but he’s much too far away to see any discernible image.
A heavy sigh leaves his chest and he feels the familiar shove of Helena’s hands as she nearly pushes him a few inches to the left, making him lose his footing entirely.
“Stay sharp,” she teases, pressing her tongue at him.
“Jesus Helena, scared the shit out of me,” his heavy foot stomps on the marble as he catches himself.
“You being a stalker again?”
“Excuse me?” he stands straight and adjusts the lapels on his suit jacket.
“You watched her almost your entire shift last week,” she elbowed him, a wide smile on her face as she greeted another guest that peered in closely to one of the installations next to them.
“It’s almost like it’s my job to watch the guests,” he retorted with a quick raise of his brow. His hand lifting to brush aside some of his hair as he tucked a stubborn strand against his ear.
“Not like that, you’re not. You were watching, waiting,” she grinned wide.
“It’s kinda creepy Leon,” she mumbled and grabbed an elastic hair tie that was bound around her wrist. The little black elastic was pinned between her teeth as she gathered her hair into a loose half updo. Her fingers methodically pull out a few face framing pieces after she finished tugging on the little ponytail to loosen it up.
“Yeah well… she’s not exactly sunshine, I mean… what was with the trench coat and the whole get up. And that big bag, you know I should really search it, or something-"
“I already did a bag check on her before she came in, normal stuff. Seems like she’s some sort of artist. Just a fuck load of pencils and brushes in there,” she paused and gestured not so subtlety again, “and that sketchbook she’s got out.”
Leon was quick to pull her hand down, trying to stop the obvious pointing.
“You wanna be a little bit less obvious?” He mouths between his clenched teeth.
“I will, when you will,” she puffed up her nose at him.
Leon’s expression is quick to change to an offended grimace on his face, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Helena rolls her eyes so far to the back of her head she can almost feel it, “Come on- you need to date someone already, you clearly like her-"
“I do NOT like her,” he grits between his teeth.
“Okay so you just decided to stare at her for your entire shift, okay,” she cocks her head to her shoulder, waiting for a response.
“Right- I’ll ask her out then,” she makes a loud and playful step towards the lady in red.
“You will not,” he firmly grasps at her arm, pulling her back into place.
The radio buzzes between the both of their ear pieces.
“Will you two knock it off? go to your stations!” a stern voices jolts the both of them.
“Got it, sorry Hunnigan,” Leon apologizes quickly and shuffles away from Helena.
“Hey! This is your station!” Helena whines, a large frown on her face.
“Not for today it isn’t, you take it. I’m taking yours,” he gestured with a raised hand. Fanning her away and briskly walked towards the other side.
He takes over what was normally Helena’s station. A different perspective was all he needed. A fresh spot to view the guests, and so he could have a closer look at the woman on the bench. From this angle he could more clearly see her sketching. Her delicately manicured fingers held the pencil carefully as she drew more lines on the paper, sometimes pausing to place a multitude of dots. He still couldn’t make it out exactly what she was drawing- but he could see her profile better.
He had no idea what she looked like underneath that large trench coat. Seeing her without it though, his eyes lingered on her form fitting sweater dress. One that hugged her curves just a bit too well. He nervously looked at the floor, staring at the golden cracks in the tile and kept his head down until found a break in the gold webbing before looking back up at her. This time more subtly as he stared at his surroundings before falling back onto her. Her heels loudly click as she crosses her legs again, positioning the sketchbook on her lap. Her pencil clasped between her fingers playfully taps against the edge of her sketchbook before she draws more lines into the paper.
Other guests come up to him, asking a few questions on where to go in the gallery. How to find the restrooms and how to exit. To which he always gestured with a wide smile that reached his eyes and a polite hand that directed them where they needed to go.
His hand reached to tuck away his hair again, that stubborn piece that alway seemed to fall into his face. It was only then did he catch her eyes.
A warm shade of brown, the kind that glowed when the sun hits it at the right angle. She blinks twice at him, gazing curiously at him. He gives her another smile and a polite nod. But again she remained the same, not returning any expression at all.
Maybe she’s just not the type to smile at people. That’s fine.
An hour or so passes, and Leon can tell that her hand is getting covered in graphite. The page growing darker and darker as she worked on whatever it was in her sketchbook. The gallery space was relatively empty with only a few stragglers in Helena’s section.
The clicks of heels alerts Leon as the woman stands up from the bench. Stretching a bit as she did so. She fixes her beret and begins a trek over towards a corridor. One that Leon knew was in the direction of the restrooms. She had merely left all of her things on the bench. Her sketchbook, pencils, and charcoal sticks, all laid out on a thin metal tray. He listened for her heels to fade away, and the swing of the restroom doors opening and closing before he walked over towards the bench.
He eyes the black sketchbook and frowns when he discovers she had already closed it shut. Hiding away whatever she was working on. Peering down the corridor, he estimates a few minutes before she’d return. He wasn’t the type to be so curious he’d look through a stranger’s sketchbook. On the other hand he was legally able to search her bag... The satchel looked extremely loved with splatters of paint along the strap. The inside folds dirtied with black as if so much graphite and charcoal had grazed against it to dye it the darkened colour. Some small pins decorated a few of the lapels of the pockets. A small pin in the shape of a butterfly shimmered, and looked like the types that moved somehow if you played with it.
“Looking for something?”
Leon’s body jumped out of his skin at her voice.
He hadn’t expected it, not hearing her heels somehow. Rather he didn’t expect her to be back so soon.
“Sorry ma’am, couldn’t help but notice you sketching,” he sheepishly grinned. His hands fixed onto the lapels of his suit jacket and nervously grabbed the ends of his tie.
He watched her as she rubbed her hands together, seemingly having only stepped away to wash her hands before returning.
“I’d assume you see lots of people in here sketching. It is an art gallery, is it not?” She finishes rubbing her hands together, seemingly satisfied and takes her seat again.
“Right… I’ll let you get back to it then,” he nods, a wide grin still on his face.
She narrows her eyes at him, her hands ready to open her sketchbook but it remains closed. Her finger pressed against the section as if to bookmark it, patiently waiting for some privacy.
Leon scurries away with a few large steps. Noticing that the woman never opens her sketchbook again until he’s positioned far away from her. She sits, more turned away from him this time and focuses on an entire new section of the gallery. Her book opened to an entirely clean new page.
Another week passes.
Each day almost the same. As Friday comes closer, he secretly wonders if that woman would return. And like clockwork, she returns with the morning crowd. All a bit bitter and annoyed with the morning shower that had rained on a majority of them as they waited outside.
Shoes squeak on the marble, wet jackets are slippery sounding and drips of water seem to echo in the space. She returns with the same trench coat from earlier. Her black wool beret seemingly safe from the rain, and with a more much sensible pair of heels on her feet. The shield for her beret; a small umbrella that is shaken clean of the rain water and shrinks into small shape as it collapses into itself and is tucked into a plastic tote.
The rain hits against the large glass windows of the gallery. Giving a constant white noise sound with each droplet echoing and pattering on the glass. A shuddering sound rumbles, the storm growing louder and more ominous sounding.
Leon’s stationed in his regular spot, being able to see her again from the front this time. The same sketchbook is out, however this time a paint brush is in one hand while a small dry palette sits in her other hand. He wants to tease her, say something about the rain and the water colour palette she has- but he can’t think of anything suitable to say and merely sighs.
A bright white light cracks in the sky, and with a half second delay; a loud thunder crash shakes the building. Hushed startled voices fill the empty space as the rain water pelts against the windows. The hail now sounding like pebbles and stones were being thrown into the glass. Leon didn't hate the rain, he found rain to be soothing most of the time. But with another crash of lighting and thunder, it was clear he- along with a few other guests, didn't like the storm either. He opts to focus on her again, and his eyes widen with the sight he sees.
This is the first time he sees her staring around herself. As if she were suddenly aware of where she was with her eyes scanning her surroundings. Watching as the other guests tried to enjoy the art pieces on the walls despite the tumultuous storm outside. Her face seems to struggle with expressing some sort of emotion. Tension in between her brows forming. Another rumble of thunder echoes and her eyes lightly snap closed. He can’t quite make out it out. Is it fear? Apprehension? Stress? Annoyance?
He watches as her hands struggle to put the brush down onto the paper. Her hand losing steadiness as it wavered above the blank sheet. Her fingers loosely gripping the paintbrush. Her shoulders slump, her hands dropping off the brush and the palette into the metal casing she’s carried with her each visit. Leon watches her as she packs up just as quickly as she unpacked and walks away from the bench. Gathering her umbrella and readying it as she opens the heavy doors and leaves the gallery space.
His feet carry him closer towards her as she slips away. The storm growing louder as he reaches the windows overlooking the entrance. An umbrella pops up and sure enough, it begins travelling quickly and slips away from storm.
The rest of his shift passes, with the storm clearing after an hour. And despite the fact that she left, he secretly hoped she would’ve come back once the storm ended. After his shift ends, he’s greeted with wet pavement and drops of water slowly dripping from the lush green leaves. The gallery still coated in a gloss of rain and the grey clouds still hovering above him while the street lights flickered.
He stares out into the street, somehow hoping to see her.
But she's not there.