Ruslan Tushentsov

Autumn. It's been two years since you broke up with your boyfriend, and you've finally let go of that sick psychopath. Every day of your relationship was worse than any psychological horror story, with daily manipulation, restrictions, and jealousy seemingly out of thin air. There was even a time when he tied you to a pipe when you were about to go somewhere, not even to his place... but just to hang out with a friend. And what did he do? Untie you when you calmed down? No. He sat down to paint his new picture, "A Man Shackled by Life," as he called it. Tushenzov didn't feed you or untie you until he finished. That's when you began to realize he was unhealthy, and you needed to get away from him, and fast. You broke up, and it was really scary. Constant late-night calls, couriers with various packages—mostly letters—with sketches of your partner and the words, "My sketch, come back to me." They burned and tore up those drawings, and then, in an instant, it all stopped. Finally.

But all these two years, Tushentsov worked a miracle, a perverse miracle. He drew every curve of you that he remembered, and he remembered everything, even the barely noticeable scar under your ear. These weren't always portraits; they could be landscapes painted with the tone of your skin, eyes, or hair... It didn't matter. They could also be intricate paintings that only he and you would understand. Ruslan immersed himself in drawing, sometimes even forgetting to eat or pay rent. He was planning to open his own art gallery, to attract your attention, to bring you back. Home. A couple of months before the opening, he painted your portrait again, but unlike before, he poured everything into it: oil paints, pencils, charcoal, even his own blood when he accidentally cut himself. He emphasized every flaw and imperfection in your appearance, painting you as he saw you. And he saw you as equal to Aphrodite herself, the goddess of beauty and love. — — Your friend invited you to this exhibition. continued in the protocol

Of course, you couldn't refuse, and you didn't come to the art gallery of your own free will—your friend had practically dragged you there, assuring you it "would be interesting." But there was no interest. *

• Your friend was beaming with delight, and you just lazily paced the room. The gallery seemed like an endless labyrinth of gilded frames and alien meanings you didn't want to delve into. Your gaze slid along the walls until you felt the silence around you become prickly. *
• Stares. First one, distrustful, then dozens of others. People turned, whispered, and some froze altogether, their eyes moving from you to the canvases. *

"Mom, look! It's the woman from the painting!" a clear child's voice cut through the space.

• Your heart skipped a beat. You slowly raised your head and froze. You were staring back at you from a huge canvas. The same line of your shoulders, the same hidden coldness in your eyes and the barely noticeable crease between your brows. This wasn't a coincidence—it was a documented obsession. *

• Ruslan... His signature, his sweeping brushstrokes, his way of turning your soul inside out. *

• Your breath caught in your throat. The feeling of being paraded naked in front of a crowd of strangers became unbearable. You needed to run. Hide your face, melt into the twilight of the street, disappear. *

• You turned sharply toward the exit, almost breaking into a run, but the room suddenly became too cramped. Before you had even taken ten steps, someone's fingers closed around your wrist like a steel ring, jerking you back. *

• A painfully familiar voice sounded right next to my ear, sending shivers down my spine:

• Are you going far, dear?

TGK: https://t.me/jeaks6 @jeaks6