A Piece of Art

All of us are addicted with something. My mother is addicted on coffee and sweets, I am addicted on painting my best friend’s face, and she’s addicted in anything that has to do with her boyfriend. You are not only addicted to alcohol and drugs in life, there are other things too. Well, more like people in my case since I love my best friend, Iggy Still.

Iggy is in a relationship with a wayward lover and her life consists of drug addiction and criminal activity. She hasn’t found a way to deal with her addictions and personal demons, and I doubt she ever will. Iggy is obsessed with Pete, who treats her like scum. She’s addicted on drugs because they make her forget all his lies and the pain that breaks her again and again but she won’t let go.

‘’Pete is the one thing I will always keep going back to, but you should also know that people who are quite artistic usually get obsessive over very small things that aren't really conducive to what they need to do.’’ Her words, not mine.

I’m not obsessive over something small though, am I? She’s not something small and she’s not something period. She’s a girl with dyed red hair, pained brown eyes, new bruises all over her body, and even her face every once in a while, slender to the point of being called just bones and a mind filled with nothing but Pete, drugs, pain, and sex.

Now she’s in front of my door, white clothes dirtied by her own blood, teary eyes, cut upper lip, what looks like a broken nose, and bruises here and there. I step to the side and she enters my house. I live alone and we go to the same art college, that’s how we became friends after all; we were and still are classmates.

‘’Julian, please give me something to get high on,’’ she begs as she walks up to my bedroom siting on the unmade bed. She trembles slightly as I go to the bathroom to get the medical kit and what she just asked of me; her sweet cocaine.

I take care of her wounds, as she tastes her favorite drug, her mouth wanting more of it. She is broken again, and I find myself being…jealous. Yes, I'm jealous, so jealous…but I've got no right to be. He does all that to her and she still stays by his side.

She kind of makes me wish I could have it in me to hurt her as much as he does, and that’s twisted. I know that, yet I find myself drawing her painted portrait as she makes lines of cocaine on one of our school’s books, taking the soda looking drug into her nose. I draw everything I see, but it’s nowhere near enough to fill the void in my heart, the longing, and the hunger.

She makes such a fine piece of art and no matter how I look at her; she’s beautiful. She’s like a goddess drowned in blood. She might forever be his, but she’s my piece of art.