Pentimento

The flea market was quieter today.

Usually, it would be buzzing and bumbling with all sorts of busy bodies—couples, families, those with odd little shops who came here to find a good deal, old people, students looking for cheap secondhand clothes and books.

Today, however, Etty barely spotted anyone.

Sure, there was the occasional couple or two. A family with a screaming toddler. A tired-looking university student on the hunt for cheap books and perhaps another blanket to save up on heating costs. But nothing like the other weekends.

Even the vendors were different. None of them looked familiar.

Or particularly friendly.

Shivering, Etty pulled her scarf tighter as she walked between folding tables and oddly angled tents.

The wares today were different as well, she thought, as her eyes lingered on a few golden forks. At the end of each one, a faintly shimmering animal head was carved into the material. A bit of polish and they’d sell for enough to cover rent.

However, her funds for today were limited. And the thing she needed—an old painting in dire need of restoration—was the only priority on her list.

She moved slowly, weaved through the labyrinthine paths, past stacks of frayed books and tangled costume jewelry. Nothing here was art, there weren’t even sculptures, hell, not even one damn garden gnome…

Just books that looked like they had drowned twice, jewelry she’d not be found dead with, and someones entire 60’s closet.

Magazines, old ceramics, TV remotes…

The further she went into the maze of things no one wanted, the more worried she grew.

This was the thirteenth time she was visiting this market. Every weekend, without fail, she had made her way here, hoping for someone to sell a painting. At first, she had blinded herself with expectations:

No landscape paintings. Not a still life either. No fruits. No portraits.

Today, however, she didn’t really care anymore. She’d buy the first painting she’d see. Be it a lemon with a mustache or a landscape made of blue-hued dots and triangles. She just needed something to pass this damn class.

Around the corner, she almost stumbled into a dozen crates holding postcards. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but the vendor didn’t seem to pay her any mind.

“Not mine.” He had mumbled, but if he had meant her, as a potential customer, or the crates, she didn’t know.

Etty quickened her pace when she passed by another stall entirely presented in crates. These ones, however, held nothing but detached doll limbs. She didn’t let her gaze linger on those, and was about to give up and head home, when she spotted it.

Not greatly displayed. Just… leaning, half-buried behind a crooked table draped in moth-eaten shawls and rusted cutlery. It wasn’t even upright—just slumped awkwardly, as if someone had tried to bury it under enough junk to pretend it didn’t exist.

The vendor’s folding table wasn’t really one—just a thing made of a couple bricks and wet cardboard—and surely, that wasn’t quite the best impression for a vendor, but she wasn’t in a position to judge.

“Excuse me, Sir.” She mumbled and stepped closer. “Can I have a better look at the painting?”

He merely raised a brow, looked her up and down once, shrugged, and nodded at it.

“’S best ye move on. ‘S not for sale.”

Her heart dropped through her stomach. Probably shattered on the ground, somewhere between the dirt cheap vinyls no one looked at.

“Please. Just a look?”

She could haggle and waggle for the price later. Right now, she just needed to see if it was in a state she could handle. If the damages were too bad, she’d just waste her money.

The man grunted. “’S not for sale.”

“I just want to look at it.” She insisted.

The man stared at her a moment longer, then made a vague, disgruntled gesture. “If ye have to.”

Oh, she so had to. If she’d fail this class, she’d have to go back home. Back to either sorting shelves, selling overpriced coffee, or accept that her parents would always rub it in that she wasn’t good enough to restore paintings. And she’d much rather die than grant them that satisfaction.

Blinking, she nodded quickly, breaking up the awkward bit of silence she had created. “Yes, please.”

He waved at the painting and Etty took it as permission. She crouched down, carefully moved the shawls aside and gave it a good, long look.

The canvas was intact, but faded and the painting itself was heavy with dirt, grime, and smoke. At first glance, she could barely see what exactly had been painted. To her, it was just shadows in the shape of a room. But when she tilted her head, she could make out the edges of a high-backed chair standing in the center. A figure sat in it, blurred by grime or maybe just by the age of the painting itself. The face was indistinct, possibly never finished.

But the eyes? They had not only been torn off or erased, they had been scratched out of the canvas.

Where the eyes would have been, it was stitched and clumsily covered up, just enough repair to maybe—perhaps—get a half-hearted ground for whoever would be willing to try restore them.

Etty felt a wave of relief wash over her. Not because of her lucky find or the fact that she indeed had enough talent to (maybe) give it a new life but because of— She straightened, wondering where the relief came from, but brushed it aside. It didn’t really matter. A lack of sleep, a diet of soup, and consistent, existential dread probably had its side effects at one point, right?

Glancing at the painting again, she took a deep breath.

It was perfect.

Not in the artistic sense—far from it. But for her assignment? Yes.

Aged. Worn. The kind of forgotten work that had enough of a story in its decay to justify a restoration paper.

“Are you sure you won’t sell it to me?”

The vendor behind the table—a man in a weather-stained coat, nose red with cold—looked at her. “What ye want with that?”

Etty blinked. “I’m an art student. And I need a painting to restore for the class I am taking.”

Not that it was his business, but she didn’t really have anything to hide. Nor did she have the time or will to continue looking.

She’d get that painting.

And she did.

After a good hour of back and forth, the man had gotten up, ripped the shawls off the thing and asked her how much she had on her. He’d taken the entire budget, but at least it had included delivery to her dorm room.

The room, if one could call it that, was the standard layout of her university: a small bedroom with an even smaller kitchen, a bathroom, and a connecting door to a work room that did not deserve the title ‘room’. The other door was for the professors to check in on their progress during assignments, accessed through the hallway of the university staircase.

It had been quite the thing to get used to when she had enrolled, but by now, it was actually convenient.

With a sigh, she sat down in front of the painting the delivery guy had carelessly leaned against the far wall of the cramped space, surrounded by jars of cloudy turpentine, brushes of varying usefulness, and a stack of smudged sketchbooks she never opened anymore.

To be honest, when she’d unwrapped the thing, it had looked even worse than it had done outside. The relief she felt, however, was unmatched. The moment the door had shut behind the delivery guy, she had felt a sob lodge in her throat and a sting tear at her eyes.

And while it confused her—greatly—she tried to not pay it any mind. She was stressed, after all. Maybe now, with a painting finally secured, she was just going through it.

Etty sighed again, directing her attention at the frame. This one didn’t look any better either. Actually, the longer she looked, the thing looked worse than the painting itself. All splintered and pitted along one edge, like someone had taken a knife to it out of frustration.

She glanced at the canvas and brightened her dim lights a little, which, somehow, made her feel… wrong. She could see the painting better now. But she wasn’t sure she liked that.

The figure was still there, seated in the strange chair and the darkness around it was still the same thick shadows-kind of style, as if the room behind the figure had been choked with smoke. It was hard to tell what was paint and what was damage, and she couldn’t really pinpoint what exactly didn’t sit right with her just now.

Etty stretched, letting her gaze wander across the mess she had gotten herself into, and lingered a little longer at the damaged eyes. Even without any, she couldn’t help but feel watched.

It was somewhat ridiculous, but something in her told her to make sure it wouldn’t blink. And to her own amusement, she did indeed stare at them until her own eyes watered, just to make sure.

Shaking her head, she got up and giggled. “Silly girl.”

Talking to herself, obviously, but when she stepped aside, toward her door, Etty made sure the scratched out eyes didn’t follow her. Which… was just all the more stupid.

Why would they.

“I need a damn nap.” Etty muttered, and made her way into her apartment to do just that. Her phone buzzed as she brushed her teeth. A message from Mari in the class’ group chat: ‘Found a surrealist nightmare of a pig in a bowler hat. It’s hideous. I might love it.’

Etty thought of her her own find: A blur of shadow. A faceless figure. Damage. Decay. She quickly went back, snapped a picture and typed back: ‘Mine doesn’t even have a face.’

Mari sent back a skull emoji, a thumbs up, and ‘giiiiirl, no way you’re sleeping in the room next to that.’

Etty smiled despite herself, then set her phone aside, and went to bed. Tomorrow, she’d get started: A light clean. Just enough to see what was under the filth. She’d catalogue it. Document the process. Boom. Class passed.

That night, she dreamed of the chair.

Not the painting. Just the damn chair.

It stood motionless at the foot of her bed, facing her.

High-backed, carved. She couldn’t see who sat in it—if anyone. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. Couldn’t blink.

She woke in the early morning hours covered in sweat, throat tight, heart pounding, a hoarse gasp caught halfway to a scream.

Just a dream.

But Etty didn’t go back to sleep. If she was awake anyway, she could just get started on the painting. And after this damn class, she really needed a break. A week of staying in bed. Maybe some actual food.

And so the days passed.

She worked on the painting in bursts: documenting initial condition, sketching its lines, gently applying solvent to lift the filth layer by layer.

But things didn’t stay consistent.

Each morning she checked her progress photos, but they looked wrong. Like she’d photographed a different painting. It was subtle shifts. A change in shadow depth. The angle of the figure’s head. At first, she blamed the lighting. Her camera. Her own exhaustion.

But then the painting started to look... familiar.

The lines of the figure’s neck. The slope of the shoulders. The tilt of the head. She stood in front of it with a mirror in one hand and held her breath.

It was starting to look like her.

At that point, she stopped sleeping. Ate less. Began leaving the light on. The dream came back. The chair moved closer each time. Finally, shaking and pale, she dragged Professor Wexley into her work room.

“It doesn’t match. I swear it doesn’t match what I’ve been documenting. Look—look at this, Professor, please.”

He scrolled through her documentation. Lifted the photos. Checked the canvas.

“Etty,” he said gently, “these match perfectly. I see no inconsistency.”

Her mouth dried. “But the shadows. The figure—it's not what it was. It's not what I painted back in.”

He frowned, concern flickering behind his glasses. “You're clearly exhausted. But your restoration work is... meticulous. Truly. You're doing fine.”

She barely waited for him to leave before she threw solvent over the painting in a panic. Thick, caustic stuff meant for stripping layers. She wept after. Shaking. Then she crawled into bed and didn't get out again.

A week later, the professor stood in the staircase, flanked by campus security.

“Ms. Elburn hasn't been to class in over a week,” he was saying. “And she hasn’t answered emails or messages. We’re concerned.”

The student’s work room was cold. Quiet. Smelled faintly of solvent and something else. Faintly floral. Almost sweet.

They stepped through the workroom, going past the painting.

The finished painting.

The chair. The background. The details refined to no fault. The figure sat tall and still. Serene, smiling, elegant. It was beautiful.

Professor Wexley stared at it before he remembered what he was here for.

Quickly, they moved along, knocked once, twice, but no one opened. So they stepped in without permission, looking through the small apartment, but the girl wasn’t here.

The campus security gave him a worried look. “I think it’s best if we inform the parents that—”

The front door clicked open.

Etty stepped in, pale and a little glassy-eyed. Hair tied in a loose knot. Lips slightly chapped.

“Sorry,” she said with a sheepish smile. “I lost my phone. I was sick… after… after that meltdown… you know. I just... forgot everything for a bit.”

She laughed softly, breathy, almost like a sigh. “I should’ve emailed. I’m really sorry.”

Both men sighed in relief, completely ignoring that Etty wasn’t the least bit surprised to see them there.

“This will have consequences the next time, Etty. Please do sign yourself out properly. We were worried.”

Etty rubbed her neck, showing a small, sheepish grin. “Yes, Professor.”

He turned, stepped out into the work room and motioned her along. “But this is stunning. I’m impressed. Could you please take a quick photo of the painting for our records, Etty? You were supposed to hand that in yesterday, but I can see why you must have gotten sick. I can’t imagine the hours you put into this piece.”

Etty beamed, rummaging for her polaroid camera with which she had done her documentation pictures. “Thank you, Professor. And I’m very sorry for the worry I have caused.”

He waved it off. “Creative people. They pour their soul into anything but guidelines. I’ll let it slide for today.”

She nodded, already reaching for her Polaroid. “Of course. Thank you so much.”

The camera clicked. The photo buzzed and slid out. Etty blinked.

“Oh,” she said, tone light. “Came out a little bad. I’ll take another later and bring it to your office. Would that be alright with you?”

He nodded. “But do so before… let’s say 3 PM.” He turned, motioning at the campus security man. “We’ll be leaving then. What’s the title, by the way?”

She glanced at the painting, crumbling the Polaroid into her fist, hiding the distorted, screaming expression of the real Etty trapped inside the painting.

“Eye See You.”

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