My apartment was small, or as my mom would have called it, cozy. But at least I didn't have to share it with a stranger. The art school I had wanted to go to was to far away from home to drive everyday. So for my last year of high school, since I was eighteen, I moved right next door to the art school I wanted to attend, while still going to my high school. I had to leave a lot of my friends behind, but the ever loyal Jennifer convinced her parents to let her come too, so we roomed together, and she actually found a small time designing job in town.

I interned at an art museum in town, I was pretty much just a secretary who also got everyone's coffee, but it was a start.

I tossed my back pack on my twin bed, before setting the fresh canvas my smaller easel, for it to dry. I turned to the bigger easel, the large canvas that sat there was still blank, I hadn't been able to figure out what to paint on that one.

Jennifer suddenly walked into our door, "Callisto? You find out what you're going to put on that one?"

I frowned at the canvas, one thing I had learned from an early age is that painting what you wanted to paint on a canvas hardly ever worked. I had always been able to listen to the paint and the canvas, as they told me what to do. It was all about what the canvas wanted, not what I wanted.

When someone paints a picture, they don't make anything. As an artist, I don't make things, I find them. The image is already on the canvas, I just have to show everyone else what's there.

"Love." I said, "This painting is about love."

Jennifer Squealed, "Ee! You're gonna be in love!"

I rolled my eyes, "Whatever Jenny, look, I've gotta get going, so you're on your own for tonight."

She plopped down on her bed, taking out her pink nail polish, "Well, where are you heading to?"

"I'm going scouting." I mumbled, pulling on my grey hoodie, grabbing my bag, and walking out the door.

"Have fun with your depression." She said, waving as I left.

Scouting was when I walked the streets, looking for people or scenes to draw. I would sketch pictures of street kids, playing a game in their filthy clothes. Hobo's standing around a trashcan fire. Dogs fighting over food.

I didn't paint pretty things, I painted the truth. I painted what people wanted to forget, so they no one would forget.

My scouting would usually take all night, considering it was Friday. Walking the streets all night seemed to be a better option than going to sleep. Pitch would be waiting if I went to sleep.

So I walked the streets, watching people go by until I saw an abandoned apartment building. It's windows were boarded up, and mold grew on the bricks. It was ugly, and I wanted to make it beautiful. I set my bag down, pulling out a folded easel, and oil pastels. I set the easel up, and placed my sketch pad on it.

I took out my paints, squirting out dark green, several browns, a little red, and black. I put one headphone in, and turned my Ipod to shuffle. As I started to outline the building, two kids ran up to watch. As I colored the walls brown and red, one of them walked closer, comparing my drawing to the original.

"That's pretty good." He said, smiling at me as he straightened his scarf.

I grunted, shadowing one corner. I looked back up at the building to get another glance, then returned to my painting with a newfound fury. My brush danced across the canvas, mixing the green in to show the molded bricks. The other kid tugged on the first one's jacket sleeve, "Come on Jamie, let's go."

He shook his head, "You go ahead, I'll come play later."

"But what if Jack's there?"

Jamie shrugged, "Just tell him where I am, and that I'll be there soon."

I was used to people watching as I did this, but they usually weren't kids. Kids didn't stick around to see the ending, they didn't have the patience.

Jamie, however, was mostly silent as I worked. I finished the building, and started on the background, going with a midnight sky, and no stars or moon. Then I drew the street in front of the building, and the silhouette of the buildings next to it. My hands worked by themselves, rushing over the canvas of their own accord. I didn't even know what I was doing as I painted. I just let instinct take over.

Jamie sucked in a breath, "Whoa, it looks almost… 3D! How long have you been doing this?"

"How old are you?" I asked.

Jamie stared at me, "Uh, eight, why-"

"About your age then." I answered.

"How old are you?" He asked.

"Eighteen. So ten years." I said, staring at my painting, "It's missing something. Why is it always missing something?"

Jamie stared at me a moment, before shrugging, "I guess because you can't fit the whole world on one canvas."

I looked down at him, fiddling with my paintbrush. Jamie continued, "You're an artist right? You could paint your whole life, and you wouldn't be able to paint half of the things you wanted to, not nearly all you need to."

"Kid." I said, "That is the most accurate description of an artist's life I have ever heard. I could paint, and paint, and paint, but I would never be able to capture all the beauty on earth."

Jamie nodded, "Must be a burden."

"You're pretty smart kid." I mumbled. "But still, painting is missing something, You're so smart, help me figure it out."

Jamie turned away from my painting, looking down the street, eyes wide, as if he was watching someone run towards him. I looked, but I didn't see anything. I sighed, putting my brushes away, I wasn't figuring it out anytime soon.

"Jamie?"

He cleared his throat, "Uh, sorry, I think the painting is fine."

I shook my head, "No, it definitely needs-"

"Jack, don't!" Jamie whispered.

"What?" I asked.

Jamie was staring up at the building.

I looked up as well, and gasped. It was snowing. Tiny snow flakes fell from the sky, dotting the street. Jamie groaned, "I'm sorry about the snow, I-"

"That's perfect!" I shouted, grabbing the white paint container, and dipping my fingers into it. I didn't want to have to dig my brushed out again.

"What are you doing?" Jamie asked as I ran my fingers along the painting. I painted white piles of fluffy snow on the rooftop and window sills, and then frowned.

Jamie raised an eyebrow, "What now?"

"It doesn't look like it's falling." I said, "It has to be falling."

I rubbed my white coated fingers together, mixing the paint well, before flicking my fingers at the painting. Tine white specs dotting it in random places, looking like snow flakes. "There."

Jamie smiled, "Wow, it does look like it's falling!"

I nodded, "That's what was missing, it was to dark. It needed a bright contrast, to sharpen it."

Jamie seemed to not be listening, staring off into space a little higher than my head, "Well, I think she's cool."

I frowned at him, "Who are you talking to?"

"Uh… Jack Frost."

Oh, right, he's a kid. "Well, thank him for the snow. If he hadn't come along, this painting would have looked like something out of a Stephen King novel."

Jamie pointed to a corner of my painting, "Hey, what's that?"

I followed his finger, and immediately saw the problem. At the edge of the building, halfway into the alley, was a dark spot. The longer I stared at that spot, the more it looked like a man. A familiar man. I ran a finger through my short, spiky, red hair, white paint dripping into it. "I… don't remember painting that."

It suddenly hit me, the figure was Pitch. The boogey man that had haunted my dreams since I was a kid. The boogey man I had told to leave me alone, and had tried to ignore for years. The reason I had started painting.

"Stay here." I told Jamie, running into the alley. The minute I entered the alley, I knew it was a mistake. I told you to never ignore me.

Three men stood in the alley, a shady feeling over all of them. They looked up at me, smiling, "Hey little girl."

"Oh hell." I mumbled.

"Jack." I looked behind me, seeing Jamie standing there, fear all over his face.

"I told you to wait by my painting!" I hissed.

He shook with fear as the men drew closer. "I'm sorry."

I stepped in-between Jamie and the men, "Me too kid."

"Ya want me ta buy you a bear darlin?" One of the men asked. I could smell the alcohol on him from where I stood, eight feet away from him.

I had a feeling my kickboxing classes wouldn't do me any good against three men. One man, maybe, if I was fast enough. To men, if I didn't have a kid with me, I might be able to take them. But there is a kid with me, eight years old."

"I'm under aged." I snapped, "And I'm pretty sure you've had to many already."

The men stepped closer, "That's not nice. But you know what would be nice?" One of the men took out a gun, and Jamie gasped. I backed up slowly as Jamie clung to my waist "A little lovin, think you can do it babe?"

"Come on, I've got a kid with me!" I snapped. This was hardly the first time I had to face something like this, but I had always been able to run before. I couldn't know, Jamie wouldn't be able to keep up.

"I'm scared." Jamie whispered, but it sounded like he wasn't talking to me. Didn't stop me from answering.

"Don't be scared." I ordered, "Jamie, you're going to be fine, understand?" My tone left no room for argument.

He nodded, tears running down his cheeks as the men got even closer

"Just close your eyes, and imagine you're somewhere else." That always helped me when I was younger. When my mother would come home drunk off her ass, and her boyfriends would get loud. "Somewhere safe. Got it?"

Jamie nodded, closing his eyes and sobbing.

"Good." I mumbled. "Just keep your eyes closed, no matter what you hear, or what happens."

The man pointed his gun at me. "Still a no, babe?"

I glared at him, "Why don't you take your ugly ass home, you cheap, disgusting, rapist, sack of shit."

His finger tightened on the trigger, and I saw my chance.

I ducked under his arm, grabbing his wrist, and shooting my elbow into his neck in a stabbing motion. He hit the ground, gasping for breath, and I gripped his gun barrel, twisting it around viscously as his fingers snapped. The two other men rushed forward, so I yanked the gun away, pointing it at them, but they both slipped over ice, falling to the ground. I looked down at the gun, it had been on safety this whole time.

I snorted, looking down at the first man, "You really shouldn't play with guns while you're drunk."

I took it off of safety, firing a shot into the air. Jamie flinched, "What's going on!?"

"Just keep your eyes closed kid." I ordered, aiming the gun down at the first man, "You really don't want to see this." Like you didn't want to see your nightmares? Didn't want to see me?

I sighed, "Damn, you really know how to lay on the guilt, huh, Pitch?"

Cold wind swept me face, snowflakes hitting my nose. Suddenly, the first man knocked my feet out from under me, and I hit the icy ground hard. He got on top of me, wrestling the gun away from me, "You little bitch, I oughta-"

A snow ball hit his face, and he tumbled off of me. I stood up, but his two friends shoved me backwards, knocking me into Jamie. Jamie grunted, opening his eyes as we hit the ground.

I stood up quickly, pulling Jamie up as well. I whispered to him, "When I say now, I want you to run as fast as you can away from here. The police station is two blocks from here, okay?"

He nodded, sobbing, "Are you gonna be okay?"

"Just pretend that you're running in a race okay? The winner get's a lifetime supply of candy bars." I instructed, trying not to think about what would happen to me once Jamie ran.

He nodded again, "But what about you?"

"Don't look back." I ordered, he was the one who should live from this, he was the kid.

"Are you gonna run with me?" Jamie whimpered.

"After I get my painting." I lied.

The man pointed his gun at me, "Run!"

Jamie took of running, and the man jerked to shoot at Jamie as he ran, but I jumped in the way, taking the bullet.

I hit the ground, feeling the immediately, fiery paint tore through me chest. I grabbed my wound as I hit the ground.

The men ran as warm blood leaked through my fingers. As the blood drained from me, it got colder, and colder.

My breaths got slower, and I grimaced at the agonizing pain. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine myself at a place far away from here. I resorted to one of the few good memories of my childhood I have. Christmas when I was six.

My mother hadn't drank that night, so we had sat in front of our tiny Christmas tree, and she had sang Christmas carols as I fell asleep.

I opened my eyes, deciding that being found with my eyes closed would make me seem cowardly. I wanted someone to tell my mother 'She wasn't scared, she faced the world when she died.'

But someone was here. A teenage boy, about my age. He had a blue hoodie and brown pants. His skin was as white a snow, and so was his hair, but his eyes were the brightest blue I had ever seen. An angel?

He was crying as he leaned over me, "I'm sorry." He whispered, "I didn't think he would get back up, I thought he was out of it. I'm so sorry."

A guardian angel then? "My fault." I told him, "Not yours."

His eyes widened as he wiped away his tears on his blue hoodie. "You, can you see me?"

I nodded, and then the cold overwhelmed me, and I saw nothing but blackness. Pitch blackness.