She was Jealous of all the people who walked by her canvas.
All the people that were flesh and blood, real people.
It put her into depression, then searing hot rage.
She was mad at them for being real, actually breathing.
She was mad at Guertena for making her.
Everything she wanted was tauntingly out of reach. Right in front of her.
She actually had a name, Mary, thats what she was called by the people in the gallery.
Ib, she was her chance to have a friend.
Garry, he was her chance to leave Guertena's world.
Failure, anger, sadness they brought more of these feelings, but one feeling stood out the most.
Happiness, Mary was happy for a short time.
That happiness however was short lived.
All she wanted was to be happy, but she should have known, her dream wouldn't become reality.
She should have known that she couldn't be real and escape this place.
She should have known that everything would be just out of reach.
She should have known that family and friendship would never come.
All because Mary was only paint and pastels.
All because Mary was only a painting.
