The Art Of You And I

Chapter one: First day of death.

I looked up from my bed to the wall opposite me to find out that it was 3 30 in the morning. I couldn't sleep well. Especially tonight, or this morning, since it was basically the first day of school. My room was rather small, with a large table full of sheets of paper, crayons and paint brushes, a wardrobe, a full length mirror, a bean bag and, most importantly, my sweet and eternal love I call Sasha, my bed.

She might be inanimate but I will forever cherish her till the day I die.

I have been awake for hours and the thought of sleep seemed impossible. With a heavy sigh, I got up and headed towards the bathroom which was opposite my door. I stripped off my clothes until I was butt naked and got in the shower, taking a cold bath. Yes I know. Taking a shower in the middle of the night sounds strange but I'm literally sweating buckets and cannot contain my restlessness to myself.

After I was done, I got out, and wrapped a towel around my body. As I brushed my teeth, I looked at myself in the mirror and mentally sighed. I had bags under my eyes, and looked paler than usual. I looked... tired. Ok. I looked miserable. And somehow my stormy gray eyes made me seem psychotic. After I was done, I headed into my room and opened my wardrobe to get dressed in light blue jeans and a white shirt. I blow dried my short jet black hair, which was an inch or two above my shoulders, and made sure to wear my mother's old necklace which I always seem to forget.

I slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, wore my shoes and grabbed my car keys before heading down the stairs to get to the front door. My beautiful black Jeep sat majestically on my driveway, and I couldn't help but beam at my new car.

I was born in England, South East Kent. I've lived there for over a third of my life until my parents decided to move to America when I was 15 years old. So my English accent never went away. In fact, if people heard me talk, they would think I lived in England my whole life. I used to live in New York City. The city that never sleeps and home to one of the most beautiful skyscrapers. I lived there ever since I started high school. I had friends and a great life full of happiness and sarcasm. I had a loving boyfriend, a loyal bestfriend, and a heathy family.

Well, until I found out my boyfriend was cheating on me with my own bestfriend ever since sophomore year, my older brother was arrested for dealing with drugs and my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. All in one week. Yay.

It was the most depressing period of my life. Getting to visit my mom everyday, for 4 months, watching my dad go into tantrums filled with alcohol, and going to school for 5 days a week, watching my ex companions' perfect relationship from a distance. They've confronted me about it together and explained to me the whole situation. Although he likes me and said I had a great personality and all those sweet nothings, he had been in love with my best friend instead. They couldn't take it, keeping that big fat lie a secret killed them.

Well. It certainly killed me. And killed me again. Then slapped me in the face with a tuna fish. Then punched me in the gut with a nailed bat. Then killed me again.

After four months of crying by my mother's bedside and wasting my allowance on flowers, she finally passed away. The funeral was awkward and silent and obviously the most cliche and infuriating thing happened. It rained. Of course. Why wouldn't it. During the ceremony, I didn't cry because there wasn't much left to cry for since I wasted all my tears in the past 3 days, following my mother's death.

During those months, the only thing that kept me sane was my art and photography. The minute I picked up a crayon when I was four years old I knew I wanted to record my craziest imaginations through art. I begged my parents to sign me up for art classes until they grew tired of my pleas. When I was seven, my mother bought me one of those tiny cameras and urged me to use it whenever I wanted. I immediately fell in love with it. So, I combined them both. I took pictures of things I found beautiful and drew them on big and small canvases to keep memory of my work that I was so proud of. I won many photography competitions and sold a lot of my art for a huge amount of money, which allowed me to buy my car and thankfully bailed my older brother out of jail.