• Prologue:

    Another stroke of the vibrant green paint that coated the thick bristled brush mixed with the dark brown on the canvas. Many lines, horizontal and vertical, followed right after that. If you took a guess as to what I was painting, you'd probably say a forest, or something close to that.. And, surpringly, you'd be right. It's the dead of winter here in Livona, New York; I'm dying for the spring, or at least some warm air. Even for a little bit and I'd be the least bit happy. But, alas, you can't always get what you want. Maybe you know that already. I learned it was true when I was about twelve, on November 16th; the day that made my life a living hell.
    Before that day my life was perfect (compared to how it is now, at least). I had a mom and dad who we're together, I was an only-child, I had a young and care-free life. People said I was spoiled; they were jealous of me. Looking back now, I get jealous myself, to be honest. On November 16th, my parents got offically divorced. If my mom never cheated on my dad with this guy at work, who is now my dickheaded step-father, my life would be way better than it is now. Only if she didn't marry him maybe I wouldn't have to deal with his son everyday. Maybe even my dad would still be alive.
    I've always liked my dad better than my mom. My mom was the working type. She was only home for a couple of hours for sleep. Sometimes on the weekends she had some time off. Even then she didn't spend time with me nor my dad. My dad was a painter, as well. His paintings were so awe-inspiring, so creative, so beautiful. He always sold them, so it wasn't like he didn't make money; because he did. And he made a good amount with each painting. He always taught me about art. Eventually, I wanted to know more advanced stuff. And he gladly taught me. I was so determined. I praticed the techniques everyday for hours on end. It got harder to learn more and pratice with my dad after my parents divorced. I barely even got time to spend with him. I saw him once every week; twice if I was lucky. When I saw him, that day was the highlight of week, and I hated leaving.
    My dad died when I was fifteen and a half. Not suprisingly, I lost all hope after that. I had to go to the hospital and take pills from depression. I was always the talkative type. I made friends easy. After he died, I never spoke, unless necessary. I rarely went anywhere, I just stayed in my room and painted. I even taught myself guitar as a hobby. I don't have a computer nor a T.V. My mom never approved of letting me use them. And my step-dad doesn't let me either, only because he's a b*****d. They don't know I use my best (and only) friend's computer anyway. I'm so lucky to have her. She was there for me after everyone else left and my life went downhill. It's actually quite easy to hide from them. Since they're rarely ever home; thank god. Although, I still have to deal with the real devil in the house - my step-brother.