Ever since we got the thing, I never liked that vase. My wife had brought it home one day with a haul of other things she had purchased from an auction, something she does far too often. She thought it was 'art' while I utterly detested the thing, and in the end my protests of it being displayed in the living room fell on deaf ears
.
How she could ever think the thing even slightly beautiful still eludes me. Nine rings wrapped about the vase, each one a mural more gruesome than the last; depicting acts of violence, massive orgies, and worse. Even glancing inside of the thing left me uneasy, feeling as if I might fall into its black shadowy depths.
But I think I understand now. Why she was so obsessed with the thing showing it off to all of her friends; why I'd catch her staring at it out of the corner of my eye. Now she's gone, dead, and the vase is being taken, on its way to the auction once again along with much of her 'art' she had collected over the years. As I look at it now I notice something; something that hadn't been there before, something I would have noticed, a picture within the seventh mural.
I can't say anything, because they'll think I'm crazy. I can't stop them from taking it, selling it to some other poor unsuspecting person. But I know it's her, my wife's face. Hanging there from the bleeding tree amongst the score of others in the Ring of Suicides.
Listen and watch as TalesoTim narrates this story while illustrating, Here!
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