When art is your only escape.
After her father died things had gotten worse. Her mother never let her out. Ever. She didn’t go to school. She didn’t have friends. Most of the time she was locked up in her room, like now. Her mother would unlock the door when she needed her.
Her only pleasure was to draw. To paint. The Ink. She wet the paper, as she always did. The contours of a tower took form in the glistening water. She dipped the brush in the ink bottle, took it down on the paper, moving it under the roof and down one wall where the darker areas would be. Then she let the ink flow.
She loved how it moved. It was like it had a life on it’s own, like if she was the spectator. It was magic. The tower came to life.
A girl appeared in the window. She hadn’t even…
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