when i was little, i used to write on the walls. i don’t remember ever doing it, but i’d wake up and find my name scribbled all over the house. i would blame my brother, because i truly never believed that i did. they took away my crayons, my colored pencils, my paper. i remember i wanted to bring a picture i wasn’t finished drawing at school home one day, and i wasn’t allowed. this made me angry, so i fought with my brother. i ended up in therapy. somehow, eventually i had gotten my markers back, and i colored and colored and colored, and never again was my name found on the wall. we moved into a new house, and it was decided that i wanted to be an artist. now, i know that will never happen, but then—it was my dream.. i never had a place to paint, so i’d paint on the floor of my room. paint would get onto the carpet, some on the walls. i made sure to keep my room messy, so my parents would never want to come in, and never have to see that this time—it was me, who spilled red paint on the walls.