The school bell rings again. So many memories and painful regrets from the past. I knew that living in a small town would be something totally different for me. Born in Brooklyn, raised in hell; I had no idea what I was doing in this deadly place in New Jersey, announcing a new death every week. Alienated, I walked slowly to class, looking up at the jet-black sky above me. The air smelled so fresh, so full of my personal agony, that it was unbearable to be outside. Clumsy steps, which didn't seem to follow my crazy mind, sooner or later took me to class. People stared at me. Their eyes burned into my flesh like blasphemous fire. All their looks like butane on my skin; I silently prayed to wake up from this intoxicating nightmare and die. But instead I pushed my long black and blonde hair back and stood up. Belleville Evening Art College. Perfect. It seems like the ideal place for all these creative losers from broken families who have to work all day to get money for a shot of vodka and cheap cigarettes. Enthusiastic and happy, they will come at night and indulge in their passions, I thought sarcastically. My life is a fucking black comedy. An alcoholic mother abused by her younger lover, who leaves New York to start a new life in this shithole; a good person but not a good mother; mother of a nihilistic, drug-addicted, hardcore-loving vegetarian anarchist, called Audrey Midnight as a joke, with a simple Farrell at the end - a surname after her so-called mom, as she doesn't want to remember her father's face. Not like I didn't know the truth. All I ever was was a side effect of his well-paying job. Ellen was a prostitute, known as Nina. A wonderful start for a little girl who suddenly becomes an eighteen year old... middle of paper... step by step, I settled into the seat right next to the enigmatic singer. He looked at me but his expression was absolutely blank. Jared's puzzle was so brooding and compelling that it was almost supernatural. With curiosity, I looked at his painting and from that moment I knew that it must be some kind of charm. The unfinished work presented a dark scenario, enhanced by the dim light of the candles, which seemed to scream pain. The surreal image that captured every negative emotion was penetrating; from alienation to self-destruction; from burning hatred to sweet revenge and inventable contrition. A fallen angel covered in blood with stained wings and inky black tears, tearing his insides apart that transformed into monsters and zombies in the jet black sky crying in torment. The face seemed somehow familiar, and the depth hidden behind it was incomparable. I felt exactly like her.