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same purchase every time I am there. All their eyes on me while I picked up yet another machine from the shelf and brought it to the register. All their eyes on me, because of her. If they could only see what was underneath my sleeves, because of her.
    Why was my mother the only one who could send me into such a stream of self loathing and hatred? Why did I hack up my body on a regular basis because of her? What the hell was I thinking? My mother, the one person who should love me, was the cause of such disgusting behavior. It was so easy to blame her, almost too easy. However, I knew at this point I knew it was a cover, a lie I had been telling myself for far too long. I knew it was my fault. It was me who allowed her to have such power over me. It was me who put the blade to my arm. It was me who let her win. It was me who was feeling like this. Guilty. Obviously the plan of skipping this stage didn't work and I collapsed to the hardwood floor as the guilt overtook me.
    I don't know how long I stayed on the floor in a pile of nothingness. Long enough to ease the guilt so I could move without a wave of emotion pushing me down again. In a haze, I finished getting ready for my day. Hair and teeth brushed, bag packed with the necessities of the day, I was ready to go.
    When I walked out the door, the cold air took me a bit by surprise. I had expected it to be much warmer with the sun shining so brightly through my window. I still decided to walk to the gallery instead of taking my Jeep. It was only down the road a bit and the cold air might wake me up from the stupor I was in. So I walked quickly down the road past the alleyways where the transients stood around barrels with fires lit inside. It always amazed me that the tourists never took notice to just how many people were homeless in this little town. It seemed to me to be an overwhelming amount for the overall population of 3,327 in New Jollie. Maybe I noticed because I could very well be one of them someday. I mean the paintings I sold in a month was definitely enough to keep me afloat but at any moment the people who came to this place could stop buying my art, then what would I do?
    I tried picturing myself on a cold day like today huddled around a burn barrel and going to the local shelter for some hot food and a cot to sleep on. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was one that often crossed my mind. I never took my job for granted. I knew the minimal success I had here, was never warranted. The first time I had sold a painting at the five-hundred dollar base price, I was beyond shocked and that feeling never went away each time I went to pick up my check.
    The gallery was almost like my second home. Not because I was there a lot, but because every time I brought a painting to be hung and sold, I left behind a small piece of myself. Miss Morgan, the director, gave me a spot in her gallery when no one else would. She praised me each time I brought in a painting saying how talented I was. More than once she told me that I should bring my art to a bigger gallery to have them sold. Someplace to truly make a name for myself. To be completely honest, I couldn't imagine a life outside of New Jollie. I was okay with the idea of spending the rest of my life here.
    “ Hi Willow,” Aaron greeted me as I entered the gallery. He was a tall and skinny guy a few years older than me that has worked at the help desk of the gallery since before I started there.
    “ Hey. Have a lot of tourists today?”
    “ No more than usual. Here's your pay,” he said as he handed me an envelope. I opened it and took out the note inside. Two paintings sold this week. Good job. Next week there's four spots reserved for you. Miss Morgan .
    I smiled as I waved goodbye to Aaron and returned to the streets of New Jollie. Miss Morgan must have known that I had taken a day off. To ask any other artist featured in the gallery to produce four paintings with decent quality in one week would be absurd.