Running To The Stars

Chapter 1

"Oh my God, look who it is.."
"Yeah, I heard she goes to our school now."
Whispers surround me as I walk through the corridors of my new school. What did I expect? I'm all over the newspapers - the poor girl who's father murdered her mother and little sister, and barely made it out alive herself.
Starting a new school was the outcome of the whole situation, as well as being moved to a foster home. So here I am, trying to find my locker while my dad faces trial for his brutal execution of his family. Well, most of it.
The day goes by in a blur, where I'm constantly the topic of every conversation and the teachers stare at me with pity. Relief surges through me as I make my way to my last class - art. My hands itch to get a hold of some paints and find a blank canvas to lose myself in.
I've always loved art, and I'm actually pretty good at it. When it's just me and the canvas and tools, it's like I'm finally coming home. Like I'm being embraced my someone I didn't even know was missing from my life. Art is where I can truly give up all pretences and spill my soul out onto an empty canvas.
I could never afford to buy art supplies. I used to have a job at the local supermarket before I was "let go", but I had to use that money to buy food for my sister and I, and keep some stashed in case of an emergency. At my old school I used to stay behind at school on days I wasn't working and just paint. Those were my favourite days of the week.

The vibe I've had the whole day changes as I walk into art. A middle aged man sits cross legged on his desk, with green paint smeared on his cheek and a perfectly white smile. He sits relaxed, as if he's in the living room at home. He doesn't give me a pitiful stare as I enter the classroom, only looks at me calculatingly. When everyone has finally sat down he begins the class.
"Hey, I'm Mr Porter and I'll be your art teacher for the year. I'm not going to limit your creative flow by telling you what to do or how to do it. The only thing I'm asking for is your complete 100% effort. How you choose to do your art is up to you. Hell, you can do it up in a tree for all I care. Have fun with it. Just don't make me bored when I look at your art. Make me feel something." Mr Porter shoos us off as he sits down at his desk, resting his chin on his hands. Everyone rushes around the room, taking things off the shelves excitedly and chatting about what they want to do. I just stand there, unsure of what I want to do. Usually images come to my head instantly, but today there's nothing.

"Sapphire?" Mr Porter's voice reaches me. "Are you going to begin your assignment?"
"Uh.. Yeah.." My voice trails off. I walk over to a painting station, with the canvas already placed and the paints spread out around me. I take a thin brush and stare at the canvas,  but I still don't know what to paint. By the end of the class, when Mr Porter tells us it's time to pack up, the canvas is still blank and the brush is still in my hand. Art usually stirs feeling into me, but ever since that night when the worse thing possible happened, I've felt empty. I'm always just empty.

I don't go straight home after school. Instead, I go to my old house. I don't have any friends to hang out with, and my foster family cares more about the money I bring in than me, so no one notices I'm missing. The house entrance is cut off by police tape, but I know the house like the back of my hand.
Climbing up a ladder onto my roof, I mentally try to prepare myself for what I will see. The only reason I've come back is become I'm tired of feeling empty, I want to feel something, even if it's pain. I can deal with pain. Emptiness is the real thing to fear. Being devoid of emotion is like drowning, you're drowning but you don't even have the will to care.

When I reach the roof, the first thing I see are the blood stains. Now dry blood where Rose was shot, and blood where he shot me myself. No, I tell myself. Don't focus on what happened after Rose died, you're not ready. The second thing I see are the beer bottles, placed on the roof like someone put them down and are coming back any second to take them again.
I still feel empty, but I can't take a step further.
Instead, I take a beer bottle and chug it down. Then another, and another. I drink until the sun goes down and my tears have formed an ocean that drowns everyone on earth.