You don’t remember where you’ve seen my weary face before. Sunken eyes stare from my cracked, faded canvas; seeming to follow any passersby that dares to take a glance. My gaze is hollow, a lifetime of memories and hardships emanating from my framed visage. Though I appear to be but 4, a royal toddler draped in maroon robes and a laughable, powder-white wig; my story is centuries old. Beginning as a masterful artwork, commissioned by the royal family for the darling prince, I was hung proudly in the kings drawing room. The strokes were bright and the coloring vivid as if I were a newborn. After many years, and the kings passing, I was stored in one of the princes numerous summer homes, left to rot along with his childhood playthings that he no longer had use for. For a century I rested, my paint beginning to harden into a shell and the frame around me rusting with age. Then, waking me from my trance, the door to the storage room was suddenly broken in, showering light into my dark existence. That was to be cut short, however, as I was immediately accosted by a tribe of beige, red armband wearing militia men who took me to another place, this time deep inside a mountain. 50 years passed me by, my canvas sagged under the moisture and the eyes of the young prince dropped even further giving him a mournful gaze, that of which I felt but could not express. The final time I was unearthed, once I had been on the brink of eternal sleep for quite some time, I was taken to my final resting place. As they transported me there, I could see the modern machinery, the four-wheeled transporters and fabricated cloths, and I was astounded. My weary frame had been hidden for too long. They took me out of my holding case, and placed me on a egg-shell white wall. I was surrounded by all manner of art, an assortment of statues, manuscripts, and paintings were placed all around me, and I felt at peace for the first, and only time. Now, I hang, day after day I am seen by the world, but they do not know my tale of woe. If only they could see behind these painted eyes into the cracked, exfoliated layers of my once colorful soul.