A painting couldn't mean much, right? I was sure that there was a painting on the wall. I was sure of it. Even though my parents ignored me, or looked away whenever I spoke of it, I knew that there was a painting on the wall. I even remember that it had a dark green contrast. On this green painted canvas, there were sketches of three women with curly boy-cuts. They were so real, sometimes I'd find myself staring blankly at them. Sometimes these women scared me. They looked kind of eerie. This painting, of whose existence I was so sure of, used to hang on a wall of this corridor in our old apartment. I had nightmares about the painting and often woke up from my sleep. But my parents were never there to console me. I remember it so clearly, yet my parents walk away when I mention it. My parents don't usually talk to me, though they say my name out loud sometimes and then cry about what a disappointment I am. They wouldn't give me anything to eat, so I used to sn...
by Armaan Kothare