He said this is when I should be painting, but how could I even think of picking up a brush at a time like this? I want to rip every piece of art to shreds. I want to destroy anything and everything that has ever meant anything to me. I want to kill what I love before it kills me.

I am raw. Every bone in my body aches, every bit of flesh stretched over my small, fragile frame is on fire. My heart is beating too fast, and I can't catch my breath. I can't end it. A thousand lives to live before I could even reach this pitiful existence of mine again. I envy my father. If only I could be as lucky.

You won't understand this, but I'm not writing it for you, you don't need to understand.

I just wish that someone would understand...

Original Sin