Secret Stories

Note to Angga : I know you're bored, but all my fans never get bored of this story *fans?* akakak. Enjoy!

“And if you look closely over there is a painting of Paul Livingston IX in 1802. The sculpture on your left is—“

Blah.. and blah.. and blah. The words which sounded more like barfing sound from Elaine—the museum guide—‘s mouth just bypassed me like (un)pleasant breeze. Phbbtt—just half an hour in this art museum tortured me like hell! I still can’t believe I gave up skateboarding to attend this stupid museum tour.

“Knock knock, Trevor?” another barfing sound approached me. I jumped in annoyance and frowned. “What now, huh?”

“Put your head on, Mister!” she scolded me in front of the others. “You should be proud being able to visit your family’s museum to learn about the fascinating history of the great vendetta between your family and Bachelors 200 years ago, young man! And I—“

“—will be very glad if you go home,” I continued that freakish woman’s sentence in a woman’s tune, as if I was her. Then I continued in my normal voice, “Okay then Elaine, I’ll run home. Chop chop!”

“No you’re not going anywhere Mister. Your father ordered me not to let you go until you can write me one piece of summary about what you learnt today. And I’m not going to give up my 200 bucks this time!”

“Oh what does that old man know,” I muttered, walking away. “Okay I’ll do my work—see ya!”

“Trevor—wait.”

“What now?”

“Be sure to meet me at the museum lobby before 6 p.m later,” said Elaine in a deep tune.

“Riiight… the museum closes at 6?”

“Actually they close it at 6:06.”

“Weird much?” I commented. “Why?”

“Pathethically people still believe that spirits of the dead Bachelors often wander around this place at 6:06—the time which is believed when the Livingstons defeated them. Just… follow orders, Trevor.”

“Funny.”

---

Wandering alone in that museum, I kept on grumbling about that wacky thingy guiding me around this suckish museum. Man!



I stared at the paintings framed in golden (which I guarentee was fake gold) borders in amazement. Yeah.. maybe the paintings here weren’t that bad after all. Another voice in my head told me—hey, I should’ve been proud being a Trevor Livingston—a Livingston whose family history was noted a 3000-bucks-a-day-profit museum.

Most of the painting kinda bored me. Buildings, houses, churches, and castles. But one of the paintings kinda showed an exact picture of the vendetta between our family and the Bachelors long time ago—a story which almost got me collapsed when Ma recited it to me.

As I gazed at the paintings, my eyes fell on the words carved below the painting.

1798, the bitter and endless vendetta between two families began—a vendetta which ended with despair and death on one side of the family—a vendetta which caused the Livingstons seem to be the richest family of Arizona today and the Bachelors to be gone—all vanished forever. The death of the Bachelors was kept unknown-- swept under the rug until today. Signed, 2002.

What the heck, I thought. Poor Bachelors, hahah. If they were still alive today, I bet they’d be around to seek revenge.

I continued walking in the empty corridor filled with paintings. Until I reached a kind of hallway, leading me to a new room in that museum.



Now why did the temperature get cooler? Ah, don’t be too paranoid Trevor—it was just the AC. I zipped my sweater and kept walking inside this narrow room.

Woosh, woosh, woosh.

Heyy, it sounded kinda like the paintbrushes in stupid Mr. Linton’s art class. Was anyone painting here? Oh, please. Put a sock in it..

Soon I saw a young girl, about my age, painting on a canvas. I couldn’t really see her face with the canvas covering part of it, but she sure was—ehmm—pre-tty, he-eh. Her crimson eyes seemed to glow in that dim-lighted room as she kept on painting.

I couldn’t really see the painting, tho. Those two crimson eyes centered at the canvas. She didn’t even seem to realize someone was watching her.

“H-hey,” I greeted. “Excuse me?”

Aha—now those two eyes were moving. However her velvetty right arm kept on moving gracefully (ahh, hyperbolic) on the canvas—she didn’t stop painting.

“Hi,” she said softly. “I don’t know you’d be interested to visit such a museum.”

“Lol,” I grinned. “Well actually I don’t. It’s just—my dad forced me to be here—he kinda—err.. grounded me.”

She didn’t seem to have any interest on what I just said so I continued, “And you—whatcha doing here?”

“Me too—following orders,” she replied without stop waving her brush here and there.

“What orders?”

“You’ll see,” she gave a thin smile.

“So—what are you painting?” I asked her again.

“You’ll see,” she said again. Patient, Trevor… try again.

“So!” I said, trying to make a cheerful tune. “The paintings and sculptures in this museum are—awesome, eh? I heard all of them were made based on what has happened in the past.”

“Correction,” stated the girl. “All the paintings here describe what has happened and what will happen.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.. the Bachelors were said to be much of genius fortune-tellers.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” I decided to agree on whatever she said, though for me, I wasn’t even sure if the Bachelors were born with sufficient brain capacity.

“Anyways—I’m Trevor Livingston. And you are--?”

Cold breeze seemed to swept over my two feet—although I was wearing sneakers and thick socks back then—as the window behind the girl shockingly wiped open. It began to get darker outside—and oh, my, God, I am so scolded by Elaine. I guess it was already 6 and I hadn’t went out!

“Violet…” she said, turning back her canvas so I could see it, reaaaal slow. Dramatic much, eh?

“…Violet Bachelor.”

I gasped in terror as all of my body felt like freezing. No matter how I tried to walk away, I simply couldn’t. My two eyes caught that painting—a picture of a girl who looked just like Violet holding a sword, pointing the sword to a boy who looked even more alike like me.

All of a sudden Violet’s words she just said began echoing in my head, repeatedly, again and again. From a soft, gentle tune as it was, it turned deeper—fiercer, meaner, and crueler, like a hissing snake.

"...spirits of the dead Bachelors often wander around this place at 6:06."

“All the paintings here describe what has happened and what will happen.”

Slowly, her voice, her face, everything, began to fade away. Somebody must have turned the speaker in my ears to a lower voice—until nothing was left to hear, to see. end