He is always locked in the room he has designated as his studio.

Always covered in paint.

Always with a towel and brush in hand.

Always wearing an apron smudged and worn.

Always in front of an easel.

Always before a blank canvas.

Always in a chair.

Always standing.

Always working.

Always Painting.

What was once a hobby has now become an obsession. He would rather paint than eat. Paint than sleep. Paint than find love.

Some call him a freak. Others a prodigy. Not me. No.

I call him broken.

For what they don't know is that this all started after his little brother died. Cancer...I was told. And what they don't know is that each painting he produces has a fraction of his little baby brother within it. It will have his eyes. His smile. His favorite toy. His laugh. His Skin. His hair. He is trying to paint a collection that is everything his brother was.

So his brother will still be here in the memorial of paintings he hangs on the wall.

He doesn't paint because he wants to.

He paints so he can cope.