Paint Me a Picture

I always wanted to be an artist, a painter. It was a dream of mine. No one really understood me. My brother didn't understand; My Mother didn't understand; My father didn't understand. I guess that's why I was the victim of the family. The one everyone came to on drunken nights. They all beat the hell out of me; they all betrayed me; they hurt me. I painted on the canvas what they did; they made a mockery of me; they made me their own personal canvas. I was the girl they could take all their emotions on. Life was just so fucked up for them I guess that they had the right to assalut me. My brother and father ganged up on me one night when my mother was gone. What dignity did I have left?
I lived for the art; I breathed it at it's purest form. It was my sugarcane; in other words, it was my heroine; It was my drug. At least my addiction was healthy; At least it wasn't killing me from the inside out like the cigarettes and booze my family lived upon. I hated where I was. I hated going home from school to drunked faces: blood-shot eyes and sunken in faces. They were all ugly and I was just as ugly. That's whaat they all had said to me as they beat me. They had ripped my pictures, my dreams, and had thrown away my paints. They told me I would never make it. They said I belonged on the streets. They tried to make me drop out of school and become a whore. They wanted more money for more drugs, for more booze. I hated it with a passion. I hated them with a passion.
The only reason I stayed was because I had nowhere else to go. I had no friends. Who would want to be friends with the kid with cuts and bruises all over? They all thought I was emo. They all thought the bruises were self-mutilation. They all thought I hated myself and they didn't care. Yet I found healing in the walls of the school because there I was alone. I could use the school paints, the school paper, the school pens, pencils, and everything else you could think of. Though the art teacher had quit months ago I found myself in this room. The art room that was quickly gathering dust. It was all I had. So when I was told there would be a new art teacher my heart stopped or quickened. I was never quite sure anymore about that kind of stuff.
My life felt complete. I finally had a reason to go to school. I would finally have a person, an adult around me who would understand the passion of art. How it was what made up the world, the colors. It was just the most exciting thing I had ever experienced. It was the best thing that happened to me or that's how it had been before I met the teacher himself. The beautiful Mr. Way.