Talk About Broken.

I follow the attractive store clerk to the canvas area, where there are dozens of sizes and shapes of the frames. His faded blue jeans fit him perfectly, there are pencil and paint stains all up the legs. His form fitting black tee has small rips in it. His muscled arms are very pale and covered with paint marks. I look over at my right, there is an exit. I glance over to my left, there is an exit. Behind me there is an exit.

He leads me back into the warehouse, his tall frame towers me by a foot and a half. His converses look extremely huge. He stops in front of me, looking disgusted. Giving me a once over, my combat boots have different sized studs on them, and have black unlaced laces. My ripped fish nets, that are topped with my jean cut offs with the pockets hanging out. My Hulk tee shirt is loose, but fitting. My hair is in a very sloppy bun, bits and pieces are hanging out to frame my face, but barely any was contained in the elastic. My eye makeup was probably smudged, a simple cat eye with liquid eyeliner and red lipstick on my average sized lips.

I just woke up an hour before from my art studio. I have my own studio in the city, with huge windows that I have drawings plastered all over. It is simple, but with a huge living space. It has no actual rooms, just one huge room. I have many art supplies lined up on the tables I have placed around. Many easels are lined up with my drawings and paintings. My so called bed room is by the kitchen, that has all new stainless steel appliances and butcher block counter tops. Right next to that I have my space. A bed that is not against any walls, and has a black canopy coming down and flowing around my bed. Dark black sheets under a black cover. The bathroom is just a small space with a toilet, shower, and sink. My dad payed for this, saying that I need to learn how to be independent after that one fatal incident. I don't know how he could leave me alone after I was raped, but I was fine with it.

I never wanted to know his name, what he looked like was enough. I have been jumpy ever since. Even at the slightest noise, someone tapping my shoulder. My dad knew everything about him, his name, his age, where he went to jail. Everything. After that, I was forced to take any form of self defense. I was physically fine, but not mentally. My virginity was lost to a guy I didn't even know the name too. You could say after that, I had a little phase that rebellious teenagers have. Mine, was somewhat meaningful. I was trying to forget what happened to me, for at least one night. That's when my father would 'accidentally' leave out alcohol. For one night I was safe from the memories of his harmful eyes locking onto mine, and his yells telling me to shut up and stay still.

I turn to say thank you to the clerk, but he was already gone. Guess I was pretty out of it. I take a hold of the piece of wood that had wheels underneath. A long strand of rope dangles from the side. A useful strategy for a handle. I grab a pile of the smaller framed canvases they have out, and atleast one of each size. I pull the cart with all my might to the colored pencils, pencils, and pen area. Where they almost have any color of pencil and pen. I grab a handful of sketching pencils, plain black pencils, and a couple packages of colored ones with all kinds of colors. Sketch books are lined up and I grab a few larger ones as long with a few medium sized ones.

Nowadays it was always the same sketch. His eyes. The eyes that are a dark chocolate, that look so warm and harmless, but turn out to be dangerous. I have black and white drawings of his face, ones with precise detail and coloring of his eyes and face. Those are the ones that I crumple up and throw in a corner every time I drew something of him. Paintings were slashed and threw over at where the pile of paper was. The only other painting I had made was dark, a small child with a dark black rain coat that fell a little under her knees. Small white socks that fold over to show the lace that was at the top, and a little pair of dress shoes. Her long hair is curled and her rounded face is looking down at the small puddle before her. She is holding a small umbrella, the perfect size for her small fingers to grasp. Then out of no where, there is a shadow following her. A random figure of a man. No body to match, just a random outline of a man on the concrete sidewalk.

I don't know if I drew this because I felt so innocent, or even scared that a person was following me. I always thought that things in the television were true, but I was too lucky to have them happen to me. No one never told me what to do when a stranger throws you up against the wall. My dad told me about stranger danger, sure. Got that. Call 911, but I felt like that girl who was so scared, she was frozen in place in the movies. The girl who was too scared to scream, to cry out for help. That stupid girl who won't run, who won't defend herself. I felt like her, I didn't even see it coming.

I bring the make do cart to a turn, and bring it to the cash register. Plopping down beside the owner Greyson, a well known artist who had a knack for helping other artists with supplies. He scans my items, counting in his head how much I owe. His photographic memory was a curse and a blessing. "Miss. Avery, you owe me...six hundred dollars and fifteen dollars in addition to twenty one cents." I stare at him in astonishment, but don't question his math skills.

"Who's the new employee?" I ask him, my voice coming out in a slight higher octave. Of coarse, he knows about my trust issues with men, but he saved me. He is the one who called 911 and ran to me when I was on the ground crying for help. I will always have a small debt to pay him for that. I trust him, more than I trust myself. His choices sculpted me, his decision to put a pencil in my hand, and teach me the real reason to draw. To free yourself from any emotion. Just with a small stroke of your hand. He taught me the steps of shading, coloring, and capturing what you see. My dad, hung up my finger painting when I was younger, now he actually has something to look at, something worth putting on fridge.

He makes an 'O' with his lips, letting out a small gasp. "Does thee Avery Pierce have the hots for someone?" Greyson laughs but his eyes show something else that is not amusement, his hand lingers on my waist. His huge hand is warm and soothing. He looks into my eyes, I don't know what he sees in me. I see every thing in him. The way his pale green eyes stare into mine when he teaches me a new art tip. How his hair falls into his eyes when he is trying to draw. The way his muscled embraces make me feel wanted, and his heart beat races as my head rests against his chest. I see a future. He can have an art career, he owns a warehouse of art supplies. With myself, I see nothing.

"I don't even know him." I point out to my young friend. He has so many successes for a man at the age of twenty-two. His eye brows furrow together as he brings me close to him. His arms encircling my waist as I lean into him. We both hear a clearing of a throat. I keep my eyes closed, I'm too comfortable to move away. Greyson sits up abruptly and pushes me behind his back. I hope it not who I think it is.

"What in the fucking hell do you want!?" Greyson booms at the figure. I take a peak, and it's him. Tears start to fall down my cheeks, first they are soft then I am full on sobbing into his back. "How can you possibly do that to fifteen year old girl? How can you force your way into a small girl and just leave her?" his voice was murderous. I step back, my steps are forced. I run into someone's chest, their arms wrap around me with force.

"I am here for her." his voice is how I remember it. Extremely sexy, but mean. I don't even try to struggle out of the arms of the unknown person. I know what happens, a hand or fist to the face. I watch as Greyson lifts his fist and punches him. I could hear the crack from behind them. Blood gushes from his nose and lip. He slowly gets up, cradling his cheek with his hand. It is going to be a full on fight, with punches, kicks and blood.

I try to fight my way out of the arms of the stranger, but I am held tighter. No hitting. Lips hit my ear and a soothing sound enters. "It's all right." he whispers. Tears still fall heavily.