The Gallery
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.
… I never had taste for art, but sometimes you get an invite to the finest gallery you could ever be invited to: free food, rich women, cheap security and expensive art. The whole situation was fantastic for a skilled ne’er-do-well such as myself. I was to walk in, collect what art I could, get an artsy girl, and stroll right out. I would cash in the art in a shady pawn shop in Utah and live the rest of my life in paradise. But things aren’t that simple and they never were. I should have known. My first major realization after walking into the Gallery was it’s emptiness. Nobody was in there and there were no traces of people putting the art up. The walls were painted a bright red that took a second for my eyes to adjust too. There were seven sculptures total that lead to a great white canvas at the end of the room. The sculptures weren’t covered or shielded, there was no glass or security. I should have walked out when I saw that stealing the art would be an issue, but instead I just observed the art, thinking that I could cart one or two of the smaller sculptures out of the building and into my truck. Now, I know, that wasn’t going to happen. The first sculpture was of a woman. She would have been beautiful, but she had been ruined. She had scars from surgery and violent acts; she had a pale purple makeup dusted along her body and her mascara was running down her cheeks. She was practically nude and had a frightening sexuality about her. She reminded me of a girl that I knew in Chicago. She was a prostitute and died a few months ago when she was at her most desperate. A man picked her up and I never saw her again. Poor girl, she might have been the best deal in all of Chicago. The second sculpture was a very fat man. He was covered in even more surgical scars. They were in places where you would expect a for a weight removal operation. Whatever operation the artist attempted to portray had failed the fat guy. He was nearly bursting at the seams and the staples of his scars. A soapy fat substance dripped onto the floor. I think he looked a little like me. I mean, I’d been called fat before, and maybe I was, but I never reached this level. I stole food when didn’t need it from those who did for sport, and I ate whatever I had. Maybe the fat guy is more like me than I could imagine. The third was even stranger. It was an old man, who was also quite bloated, but this time from a different substance. He wore a crown and jewels, but most of his riches were inside of his body. He was cut up and gold and jewelry was stuffed into his slots, like a piggy bank. His skin had a rotted gold hue, and the gold sometimes bled out from his wounds. This man looked more like me. I was happiest with this sculpture though. It seemed like I could have reached inside of his stomach and took a hand full of riches with me. I might be able to run from everything if I stole his crown or coins. The next sculpture was of a very thin man. He was legless and his waist concluded with a odd withering tail forming around his spinal column. He was sat upright against a chair and looked blankly at me. I couldn’t help compare myself to this deathly inactive being, as I never helped anybody other than myself. I stood by and watched good people die and I never have done anything that hadn’t benefited me. I’m sure the poor sucker represented here never did anything for anybody either. The next one, was very difficult to compare to any human figure. It had large eyes spread across its body staring longingly at the other sculptures. It seemed like it had only characteristics depicting of the other works of art. As if it’s only goal was to become what it saw. I was very much like this sculpture. I have always looked at richer men in hatred, maybe thats what leads me to steal from them. I show them that I am better and richer, and I leave them poor and damaged. They always deserve it. The next sculpture was maybe the most disgusting. It looked as if it could have resembled myself or someone I knew, if not for the horrible disfigurements on it. It was painted a bright red and seeped blood from its many injuries. These injuries meant that it would be impossible to steal this sculpture, because along the sculptures large muscular body were razors, blades, and nails stuck outward towards me. If I grabbed it anywhere, I would be cut or stabbed by its violent being. I saw myself in this one too, though. I have always been violent and volatile to my fellow man. I get the largest share in a partnership or someone suffers. People who work with me, might happen to end up dead. I realized who it looked like. It looked like Jimmy from Boston; I slit his throat with a razor and nailed him onto wall where his blood would drip. He got what was coming to him though; he attempted to take a fifty percent share, then the idiot tried to threaten me. The last one was odd in comparison to the others. It was a very attractive man cast in bronze. There was less horror involved, save for one thing. It looked exactly like me. He was placed on a pedestal above every other sculpture and shined a bronze so bright and separate from the red on the walls of the gallery. I think I like this one the most, I just might steal it and keep it for myself. A man as skilled as myself deserves only the best and this is the best I’ve seen, and it looks alot like me. One piece of art still remained. A large white canvas draped on the floor and wall of the back of the gallery. I decided that it was worthless while it was blank and turned around to leave. I was stopped though. Every sculpture disappeared from their placement. I was frightened and shocked. I ran for the door in haste but I was knocked down. I woke up at the canvas. I looked away from it, to see the sculptures coming towards me. I was the last piece of art. A great mural painted in sinner’s blood. Now I lay here, torn piece by piece. A monument to all great sins.
… No god can hear me repent, no matter how loud I scream. Credit To – KSS Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.