The shaking of the car as we pull into the driveway gently pulls me from my sleep. Opening my eyes, I see that it's dark. Did I go blind? Oh, no, I see light. That's too bad.

The car is barely stopped before I'm opening the door. "Rose!" my mother yells, but I choose to ignore her, stepping into the cool black night I stretch, yawn, then walk my way towards the house, my footsteps echoing beneath me. Remembering what I am here to do, I groan. Loudly. This'll be my last night here for a while. Not that I'll actually miss it much. 

I step into my warm home - or house, I should say, seeing as I don't actually feel like I belong here.Inside, the walls are littered with pictures of me, mostly from a young age. The reason for that being that I stopped being in as many photos as I got older. 

I run my hand across the dark blue walls of the foyer, leading myself up the stairs and into the hallway. Standing at the doorway to my room, I examine it. Dark red is painted on the walls, with light grey curtains and a white carpet. I walk into the room, still dragging my hand on the wall. Plopping myself on my bed, I take a deep breath and sigh. This bed is still as comfy as ever.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and see my dad standing in my doorway with a suitcase. I point to it and shoot him a questioning look.

"Yes, this is for you. Grab clothes and essentials, along with anything else you want, such as books and your drawing equipment. Some stuff will be supplied to you if you forget it and we can always bring you stuff," he says, setting the suitcase down by the foot of my bed. I nod at him as he slips out of my room and back downstairs.

Getting up out of bed, I take the suitcase and set it up on my bed, unzipping it and opening it. I head to my closet. I grab about a week worths of clothing, knowing I can trade some if I want to and they'll probably have washing machines. Next, I go into my bathroom and grab a toothbrush, deodorant, shampoo, body wash, and face wash. Back in my room, I grab my favorite book of all time - The Psychopath Whisperer. It's a great read. Grabbing my drawing utensils and paper, paint, and my phone, and putting those in my bag, I'm all set.
I haul the heavy suitcase out of my room, dragging it down the stairs and lifting it onto the table. Dad comes into the room to see me taking my paper and pencils out and sitting down.

My dad walks by and stands in the doorway for a little bit before going upstairs. Why he didn't tell me to go to bed, I have no clue.

I start to draw. The outline of a person becomes more prominent and vivid as my pencil sketches more and more on the paper. She's young, three years old maybe. Once the body, legs, and head are done, I draw the arms. Her right arm is down by her side, slightly touching her person. The other arm is extended to her left and at a 20 degree angle, a gun in her hand. The gun points to her head as her fingers have already wrapped around the trigger and pulled. Blood splatters on the opposite side of her head.

After I fix up the sketch a bit more, I start to really work on it. Her eyes are the most noticeable thing in the entire drawing. Her hair curls around her shoulders and her clothes are covered in blood.

An hour later and I'm done. It's 11:43 at night. Placing my pencils neatly on the table, I flip through my previous drawings. The first one I ever did was back when I was eight years old. There's a girl in a yellow spring dress with light and dark blue flowers, and she's on a swing. Long blue roses are entwined with the swing. The girl (same one as the recent drawing) has light radiating off of her, practically glowing. But, around her, are vicious demons. They're clawing, screeching, fighting their way through her little bubble of light but to no avail. She's too strong, too radiant.

That was back when I was sane.

I flip the page to the next one, which was when I was nine. My mental stage shows through my drawings, which my parents now always check to see how healthy I am. My actions can be predicted through art. In this drawing, there's the girl dancing. She wears nothing, except a top hat, and she's doing ballet. Her leg sticks out behind her with the other one underneath her, in the often-done ballet stance. Her face is blank - literally. There's nothing on it. No eyes, mouth, nothing.

The only light on her is a dim spotlight, and everything else is black. In the black, you see faces. Creepy faces. My parents saw this one and took me to a therapist. They thought the nudity was a sign of sexual abuse. I've never been abused.

Next, when I was eleven. This time she is in a bath full of bubbly water, in a bathing suit. The drawing is shown from the ceiling, looking down, to get a better view.

The girl, the young girl, has her hands tied together and tied to her feet. Her mouth is open and her eyes squeezed shut, screaming "Help me", as I like to imagine. Ripples form in the water as she nears death.

"Honey," my dad comes up behind me and says. I close my sketchbook and s=twist myself enough to face him. "Bed," is all he says.

I leave my sketchbook and pencils on the table and skip up the stairs. Quickly, I take a shower, change, and hop into bed. My eyes close once I lie down and I drift into a peaceful sleep.