Vivid colors in broad paintbrush strokes give the painting away, half covered under a bed sheet and tarp in the corner of the dusty storage room. It is large and massive and tucked away behind a clutter of objects. The golden glint of its frame gives it away. Some long forgotten Still Life treasure they thought they’d never find. It has been held hostage in this haunted room this whole time. Touched by ghosts and rotting under the air of oxygen exposure. The paint has tuberculosis and the fruit depicted in it begins to rot and cough. Sliced open cantaloupe, cut right down the middle exposing orange flesh and seeds. It would do everyone well to have slice; This room is hot and humid and oppressive. Dusty attic in a wealthy home so there are windows facing the front lawn, but no one can see into them from the outside. Every step is a creak, every shift a cacophonous movement. Like a bad hangover with the gain turned all the way up that the sound is clipping to my eardrums. Vibrations course through my body. Jumanji-incarnate. Child’s worst nightmare. Terrifying versatility. The painting cannot escape and I am too small to carry it out. The house is set for demolition. I cannot stop it so we must quickly open this roof.