The sound of a gun firing echoed through the house. And then. . .silence.
That was six years ago. I was 11. At 17, I'm still reeling from my mother's death.
After, I was sent to live with my aunt in New York. That was where I discovered art.
My aunt, predictably, hated it. She wanted me to act like a good little girl and become a lawyer like her.
So I did what any misunderstood teenager would do. I rebelled. I snuck out so that I could keep painting.
The councelor my aunt sent me to said that I was acting out of anger toward my mother, that watching her die like that when I was so young had damaged my psyche.
Eventually, my aunt just gave up. She kicked me out when I was 14. I went to live with a friend. That friend got me hooked on drugs.
3 years later, and I was living in South Hampton and hopelessly addicted to Heroine. It was the lowest point of my life. It was also where my story starts
