The Artist and the Arsonist/ Poor Little Rich Girl
Chapter 1
Beads of sweat rushed down her face, as she violently jerked left to right. Her hands gripped the sides of her mattress, as she let out a bloodcurdling scream - that surprisingly didn't wake the neighbors. Tears began to form across the seams in her eyelids, as her voice began to grow hoarse from the screams…
She awoke from the nightmare, sobbing to herself, sitting up in bed, with her back against the black wall of her apartment. Wiping away the tears, she got her sketchbook out of the drawer in the nightstand, that was right beside her bed, and she began to draw. Drawing helped rid her of any negative emotion, all her pains and worries neatly dispersed onto her canvas through the thick coal lines that slowly began to appear.
She drew of a girl in a white dress, gently crying to herself in a corner, as a man gripped a knife covered in a fine red liquid. His back turned away from a woman, in a pool of it.
"Hello, Gwen. How are you today?" asked a tenacious Doctor Taylor. "Fine," she replied looking at the beige coated walls of the room. "You don't look fine. How many hours of sleep did you get last night?" he asked pushing back his black rimmed spectacles. "Like… five or something." She continued, to stare at the walls, refusing to look at the doctor, for she didn't want to be here, and she wanted it to be over as quick as possible. "Gwen… what happened?" the doctor asked, "you were making such progress." The girl looked directly at the doctor, "I know… Can I show you something?" Doctor Taylor sighed, before smiling. "Of course." Taking her sketchbook out of a black bag, she carefully flipped through the pages, before stopping at a drawing of a little girl and handing it to the doctor. "I couldn't sleep, so I drew this."
"Is this one of your memories?" the doctor asked. She nodded her head. Dr. Taylor put the book down on a table to his right, and stopped to take a note. "The session is almost over," the doctor said, "Do you remember when you first came here? How you used to self-harm? I was able to help you through that, and I'm going to help you get through this. I want you to promise me something though."
"Anything."
"Promise me that no matter what happens you'll believe you can get past this. I want you to believe in yourself, I want you to believe in me, and I want you to believe in others – that's the only way you'll get better. I believe in you Gwen."
The timer sounded, indicating the end of their session. The two stood up, the girl getting her sketchbook along the way. "I promise to try. Thank you doc." "No problem kiddo. See, now you're hugging me without a fuss. That's progress."
*Flash Back*:
He lay down in bed, isolated from the rest of the boys, as he waited for the passing minutes to become hours. His thoughts circled around in his brain, as he contemplated when the time would come that he would be aloud leave. He longed for the smell of the fresh air, after being locked up like a loon, and denied any fair human treatment, after being punished for defending himself.
His criminal activities had lasted him since childhood. He was 17 continuing to make minor offences such as; arson, vandalizing, theft, and hardly ever getting caught, but this time that wasn't the case; he was wrongfully imprisoned for self-defense. The boy was tried as an adult. He plead that he was attacked, in the court room, but who would believe a seventeen year old?
The years passed, and he was soon granted leave as long as he was to take therapy. Although he was against it, it was worth getting out.
Click
"What is your name?" the doctor asked.
"Duncan."
"I'm Doctor Taylor, nice to meet you. Now tell me Duncan, what is your reason for being here?"
"Court order," replied the green and black haired man.
"I see that you were in a juvenile detention center as a child, not too long ago. Why were you in juvie?" pondered the doctor.
"Because the Canadian system is corrupt, and prohibits the use of self-defense in life threatening situations. I swear this country's run by a**holes," he said calmly.
"Language. Why did you need to use self-defense?"
"Because, I didn't want to play b*tch, so that my dad got to smack me around like an animal."
"Did you… kill him?"
"… No, but I should have."
"Do you know why your father abused you?"
"He was a drunk police officer, with daddy issues. Who knew what was going on through that f*cked up brain of his?"
"Do you ever feel like it was your fault?"
"Why should I?"
"Where was your mother through all of this?
"Probably out banging some married guy."
"Did she know this was going on?"
"I don't know. I don't think she even gave a sh*t. She'd always been going on about how I was a mistake. How she should have had an abortion. How she wished I'd never been born. She hurt me, and she didn't even need to lay a finger on me. She hates me."
"What makes you so sure?"
"She said she tried to lose the pregnancy, smoking shit and what not. She said she drank so much one night, trying to poison me, and the most she got was a nasty hangover, while I was fine."
Beep Beep
"We're out of time kiddo. You did really well, this being your first session and all. I want to go further into this topic in our next session, though. I know this might be hard for you, but I believe in you, and I'll be there for you every step of the way," Taylor said. "I want you to believe in you, but also in others. I fear that the trauma you've faced in your relationship with your parents may have damage your sense of trust, and I want you to learn how to trust others. Also, try and watch your language.
Journal entry
Should we let our past mistakes define us, or should we let our future actions? Should we simply forgive because we know it's right or forgive because it feels right? Should life be spent worrying about all the evils in it, or rejoicing about the good?
- A troubled soul'
I closed the cover of my black leather book confining all the secrets of my life. Picking myself up off my bed, I walked to my wooden easel, and grabbed a brush.
Dipping the brush in a black paint, I slowly brought it over to the white canvas, leaving my print.
I backed away from the no longer white canvas, marveling at my work. I had painted a tropical paradise half flourishing - filled with plants and animals, but then when you got to the other side, the life appeared to be sucked out of it, resembling an old desert, Many colors appeared in the tropics, each one representing an emotion, larger quantities of a color representing the abundance of that emotion. And in the left hand corner; my initials. G.M.
Her attention was fixed on two cold-blooded reptiles in terrariums; her babies. It was time that the two should have gotten fed, only there was one problem; there was nothing to feed them. She had to go to the pet store. Quickly grabbing a black coat, her house keys, and money, she left the comfort of her apartment, only to go out into the coldness, of the cruel world.
He was finally home. Finally free from the cruelty of law officials, finally safe. "Hey, Scruffy Wuffy, my reptilian friend. How ya doing today?" the man said to his green and black tarantula. "You, must be hungry, don't worry, I can fix that," he said walking over to his cupboard – empty.
The ride to the pet shop was horrible, considering she didn't particularly enjoy being confined in small spaces for long periods of time. She arrived on the bus, wearing a black jacket and gloves attempting to protect herself from nature's cruel elements. The desire to gain some warmth greatly influenced the speed she used to enter the shop. She pulled open the door.
The store welcomed her in with the chiming of bells, and the cold atmosphere was quickly replaced by a warm, friendlier one. The woman walked over to the section of the store reserved for reptiles, quickly grabbing what she needed and heading back to the counter – where she would then pay for the food.
He could hear the chiming of bells, as the door in the pet shop was fearfully slammed shut, by the ever increasing wind, denying the cold air entrance. He rubbed both hands together, trying to get their escaping warmth, to return. Unfortunately, he hadn't been paying attention to where he was going, and he walked directly into something – which actually proved to be someone. "Hey watch it!" shouted two voices in unison. After being knocked down to the floor, the man quickly got up and reached a hand out to the person he had just bumped into. The woman grabbed his hand after moments of hesitation, and was pulled up by a strong force. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Don't worry about it," said the man reaching over to pick up their items. "What kind of pet do you have?" said the man eyeing the bag of dead insects and fruits. "I have two lizards, their names are Angus and Vampyra."
"Oh that's cool. I don't know many girl's who'd choose to have lizards as their pets. I have a spider. Name's Scruffy," he replied, "I'm Duncan." "Gwen."
"Nice to meet you Gwen. Btws you're hot," he said winking.