She dug her nails into her soft porcelain skin fighting the tears that were now streaming down her face. She bit down harder on her lip, drawing blood as she felt her body give out under her weight. Her heart shattering as the silence around her grew louder and louder. She felt just about ready to burst and then nothing. Nothing was left, just emptiness. Tears and mascara on a canvas of skin and bones flailing into an abyss.





* * *


“She’s beautiful,” claimed a nearby admirer. “Outstanding!” sighed another. “The finest!” exclaimed an elegantly dressed man, who introduced himself as the Wealthiest Art Collector in all of France. The others stared in awe at his magnificence and at the way he carried himself. He motioned for them to stand where he was, “her beauty is astonishing, from where I am standing.” They stood next to him admiring the creature on display that looked remarkably like the queen of France.

Jean-Pierre smiled to himself as he heard the “ooh’s and ah’s” of the crowd. Priding himself for having created the masterpiece and for having sold it to the Finest Curator in all of France for Fifteen Million Francs, he stood in the back, basking in the admiration of all art appreciators: critics and collectors alike.

There she was. Displayed for the world to view, in her glass casket. Wearing only a light blue satin camisole, she lay among red rose buds. An air of delicacy surrounded her. Her long blonde curls crowned her face, giving the beauty a sort of innocence only found in the children of today. Perfectly shaped teardrops, exquisitely glistened on her cheeks, which were predominantly pink on her rather pale complexion. An astonishing, young woman. “Sleeping Beauty,” the work was called… A beauty forever frozen in her young, fragile age, broken-hearted alas her prince would never find her.

“A real beauty, and only for a two million Francs, good gentlemen of France!” Roared a voice over the loudspeaker. The voice identified his self to be Paul-Henri, the Finest Curator of all of France. “This darling piece came to me from the artist himself, Jean-Pierre, only six months ago. And now my good men I’m auctioning it off to the highest bidder, and the piece starts at two million…” “I give it 3 million Francs,” shouted a voice in the back. “Three million. Do I hear 3 ½?” “3.6 million,” another bidder shouted. “Four million,” says the same man in the back. “Four million…four, do I hear five?” “Five million says the same man.” “Five, do I hear six? Going once, going twice.” “Six million,” called the Wealthiest Art Collector in all of France. “Eight million francs,” called the mysterious man in the back. “Eight million? Do I hear nine?” Silence echoed. “Sold to my Goodman in the back! Good sir please come and reclaim your prize!” The mystery man stepped forward, clad in a black coat and grey beret, shielding his eyes were glasses and covering his mouth was a twitching mustache. The man introduced himself as an art collector from England and claimed his masterpiece.

In the comfort of his living room, Jean- Pierre, smiled, overjoyed by having retained his prized possession incognito—sleeping beauty was his once again. He relished in the thought of unfreezing her and of making her his bride. Oh the possibilities, he entertained in his mind were endless. “Sleeping Beauty” or Marie Antoinette, as the kingdom knew her, would be his forever.