me. In my head, in my dreams, whenever I closed my eyes, I could see it, butit was never really there. I hated it.
There is this one particular piece I’ve been doing. It’s almost perfect. I’m determined to finish it. I sat on a nearby chair just staring at it, wiping the sweat from my neck. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Patches of the white canvas pull me away from all the work I had already completed, making it seem like I’ve done nothing. The white seems tospread through the already painted areas, erasing my hard work and taunting me.
A loud slam comes from downstairs, yanking me out of my state of concentration.Footsteps stomp up the stairs; I can hear them coming closer and closer. Things are being thrown on the floor in the hallway. The steps seem to take forever to stop at the door, but they finally did. Just as soon as the footsteps stopped, my door flew open, slamming into the wall. If I could see it, I would imagine there was a huge hole where the doorknob had hit.
Standing there was my very angry mother, who looked like if you tipped her over, tea would pour from her ears. Her loud voice began to boom throughout the house, each vibration echoing off the walls and into me ears. My body