Something perfect

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I'm not as good as they say I am. I didn't feel that way. It was always falling apart, or so it seemed. Was it supposed to go that way or the other way? Why did it seems so hollow and full of life? Why did it feel like a vacuum sucking off at whatever energy I had within me. I had tried to paint something pretty asides from all the horror I created. I had dipped my brush in a bright yellow and swiped at the canvas. It looked horrible, so why did they keep complimenting me? Why do they lie to me!?
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‎It didn't seem that way. Jerry always complimented how detailed my art was. He'd especially compliment the thrilling feeling they'd give. Micheal would always yap at my back, calling my drawings weird and muttering that I was possessed. He'd stare at the clawed hands with disdain and face another direction abruptly whenever I caught him. What a jerk, I thought. Not like I wanted my art to be public anyway. I hated the attention of being in public, of doing things in public, of showing the public. He was just jealous, they'd say to me. But maybe, he was right. Maybe Micheal Barratheon knew what he meant when he said I was filled with something evil. The animated slit looking eyes staring at me from the canvas did nothing to beat the allegations. Its edge slithered like a serpent and stopped immediately. Maybe it thought there was noone here. The art room was quiet, it was past midnight and I had stayed in whilst they locked the entrance behind me.
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‎I didn't know why I stayed asides from the fact I didn't want to go home to meet a couple of bear bottles on the table in the living room of my house. I didn't want to see my mother sprawled on a couch, with a bottle of alcohol on an arm hanging over the couch. I didn't want to hear her drowl as I passed on my tiptoes.
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‎The pandemonium, the fucking pandemonium, Micheal would always say when he was pissed. I resisted the urge numerous times to repeat his words whenever I was at home. The stench of alcohol was something I could never get rid off in the house. It was everywhere, at every corner and every hallway. I wish I was brave enough to run away from it all. To leave the filth behind me and go somewhere, somewhere better. Somewhere that didn't smell of alcohol and dead rats or dirty plates. Oh, fuck the old man who said "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride". Because he was damn right.

Thanks for reading.

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