3k words of a woman haunted by a portrait.

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Miriam had never been fond of portraits. Whether painted or photographed, whether the subject was known or unknown; they made her uneasy. The sort of uneasy that landed one in hospitals for dangerous heart rates. It was the eyes. She believed that eyes were windows—intimate and revealing—and it was overwhelming to see so much of anyone, let alone without their permission. It pimpled her flesh and twisted her muscles to be around such closeness. The idea that people decorated their homes with portraits and gazed at them with pride or admiration was absurd. It was voyeuristic.