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wanted to talk to Mom. Get her advice about how I should approach this whole Ethan thing. Unlike most teens, my Mom and I were extremely close. We talked about everything. She never judged. She never yelled. One of the best things about her was she knew when to be Mom and when to let go and let me make my own mistakes. Even when she was right, she never once said I told you so .
    I tried hitting her up on the cell, but it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. I don’t leave messages. I tried Dads cell. His just rang a couple of times then went to voicemail. I’ll just try them later tonight. Well, maybe not later tonight, considering I’ll probably be just a little wasted.
    Tomorrow then.
    I dug in the back of my closet, shifting through the mass of clothes I’d acquired until I found my easel and paint supplies. I was in the mood to paint. Put my feelings onto a canvas for the entire world to see. My brother had his comics and plays video games, Dad works on The Rolling Stone , Mom likes to watch boxing and I, well I paint. That’s what I do to decompress. I was pretty good at it. Art was something I picked up when I was young. Aiden was always into to comics as a kid, that’s how he learned how to read I think.
    We used to draw together, make our own comic books and stuff. He would write them and I would draw them out. That was our thing. Then he found out what a PlayStation was and I discovered oil paint. People used to compliment my talent, but it was always just a recreational thing to me and today I was in the mood to be recreational.
    I plugged my iPod into the speaker system and started to blast Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin , throwing on my favorite worn, black leather jacket that I always painted in.
    I don’t know what made me do it, chose the subject matter that I did. In the beginning, I didn’t even know what it was I painting, it was more or less me putting oil to canvass, yet as I continued, as I slipped into that zone that I get into when things just perfectly click and I’m just there doing what I do, no longer checking the time to see how long I’ve been at it, but rather, just doing what needs to be done, I finally realized what it was I was painting.
    It was the man from my dream. The one that’s been chasing me every night for the past thirty days nonstop. I’m not sure why I chose him as my muse. Honestly, this was the first time I’d ever gotten a clear and defining look at him. I could never really remember his face upon waking, even though he haunted my every move at night. Yet there he was, in all his wicked glory, staring at me with those lifeless glowing orbs.
    I continued to paint, going into detail now, the forest behind him, the dark clouds swirled together just moments before the lightning struck his body. I poured my soul into it, oblivious to the outside world around me, only focusing on the task at hand. I tried to get every detail I remembered into the painting, every little snapshot that had escaped me before, poured out onto the canvas.
    “ Whoa, that’s kinda fly.” Abigail’s voice made me jump. I almost dropped the paintbrush I had been using on the carpet.
    I exhaled, catching my breath. “Jesus, you scared me.”
    “ I’m sorry, Madison, I thought you knew I was here.” She replied sincerely.
    “ No, I just...when I paint, I kinda just get into this, I don’t know, zone I guess. I just block out the world and nothing else exists. How long have you been standing there?”
    “ Few minutes I guess.” Abigail crossed her arms, taking a few steps forwards. “It’s beautiful.” She admitted. “Who is he?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t know really.” I admitted. “Just some guy…I guess.”
    I hadn’t told anyone about my dreams. Not even Aiden. I’m not really a confessional type person, plus, my dreams were intimate, personal. They were mine; they belonged to me and only me. Some things you just don’t really want to share with