His blood on my hands

Jamia eight

I rummaged around in the garage, looking for something to do. We have so many boxes of crap. It brings my mind to the millions of people who can barely afford food. I don't think about it much, because I feel ashamed. I push it to the back of my mind. Because I'm selfish. Me and Belle used to talk about it often. How we felt guilty for being rich at times. She told me that she wanted to help them, but she didn't know how. She said that she would create an action plan once she turned 19. She was always so proactive. I just said that I felt bad for them and left it at that. If everyone in the world was the same, I wish they were all like her.

I found an old record player in one of the boxes. Right next to it, a box full of records. As much as I love italian music I bring the player and a record of the Beatles up to my room. I also grab some old paint and a paintbrush.

I want to decorate my room. I put the disk in and the music starts playing. It's a bit staticy with little breaks where it's scratched but I like it. I sit on my floor and stare at the wall and at the paint. I keep looking at the white wall. And before I know it, I've been staring so long that the record is done and the songs restart. I should have grabbed a couple before I came upstairs but I let it play again. I start painting streaks of color across the wall. Light green, Orange like a sunset, yellow like a cold glass of lemonade, and purple. I continue until there are streaks of color across the entire wall. I haven't painted in so long. I had forgotten what it felt like. Like in this moment, I had control. Maybe only of a few colors on a pallet. But I had control.

I take a step back and admire it for a moment before I reach for my bag and take out one of the asters. I grab a bit of tape and stick it on the bottom left corner. Like a signature.

I walk downstairs because the same album has been playing for hours. It's already dark outside. I see my Aunt and Uncle watching T.V.

"Guys."

No answer.

"I'd just like to eat from the kitchen again." I say, although it was never a rule that I couldn't. It was more of an understanding.

"Sure. Have the luxury of eating from the kitchen after you single handedly ruined this nation. And with every bite remember that you will never be trusted, nor respected by anyone in this household. Or in any household. In all of Europe." My Uncle said, without turning away from the television.

I walked downstairs, grabbing a couple more records. I sat on my floor again, new music playing. But this time, I got straight to work. Dark Blue, purple, a bit of black. Some white here, some silver there, a tad bit of yellow. Then in less than an hour I looked at the wall. A night sky. Full of stars.