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I remember that look, I always will, that look will be with me for the rest of this miserable existance I call my life. Four years old, looking into the mirror at a bruised and bloody face, deep and empty sad eyes. This wretched little child will look back at me every time I blink.



It's June-mid June, the sun is high overhead and the hour hand on the clock is right up there with it. Twelve O'clock, in school, my teacher-Mr.Krimer-drones on and on about the different types of writing styles and the various writers that were "made famous for using them." I pull out my sketchbook and start flipping through the pages and that same face-that same damn look-is spread scross every page. I flip to a blank page, a fresh start, and put my pencil to the paper.



(I haven't really set a title yet, if you have any suggestions tell me.)