can’t seem to stop replaying what happened that night. Over and over, like a broken fucking record. Again and again, it sneaks into my head and spreads on top of other thoughts like a

en like red. I’m a fan of cool colors, blue and green. But right now, I can’t help stroking along the lines of yellow with red, giving birth to some orange. Hot, fiery. Wild. So fucking wild and everything I’m not. Art has always been my damnation and salvation. I have no clue what the hell I’d be without sketching and brushing strokes on a blank canvas, but at the same time, the extent it can go to scares the shit out of me. When I was two, I was doodling small stars anywhere I could reach. The floor, with Mum’s makeup on the walls. On Landon’s forehead, chest, and back while we giggled and hid away from our parents. Then those stars morphed into sketches of our family, small dogs, and the cutest cats. Now, my artistic style has settled on landscapes. Flowers. Trees. Seas. Gardens. Fauna. This is far from a landscape, my brain whispers, getting freaked the fuck out, but I can’t stop. If I do, I’ll have no other way to cope. I’ll really have to resort to purging that ink from my veins. Again. Are you sure seeing the end result of this is safer than purging? My hand suspends in midair. The door opens and I startle, my heart lunging in my chest. Fuck. I forgot to lock the door. Lan strolls in, completely unruffled, comfortable in his own skin. Despite him being a bastard with not a humane bone in his body, a distant sense of comfort washes over me whenever we’re in the same room. The sad truth is that seeing Lan’s face is the only way I can see my face looking peaceful. We’re identical twins, but Lan is a bit more muscular than me. His eyes are meaner, too, and he wears this permanent provoking smirk. Despite having the same physical image, we’re worlds apart. He’s clinically diagnosed with narcissistic and antisocial personality disor