They look at the portrait and see a happy family. The father stands behind the two ladies, a subtle smile on his face. The mother sits in the chair with an unnaturally large grin, cradling a small child, right around the age of 5, or so. They are frozen symbols of happiness, embedded into a canvas and hung above the mantle for everyone to admire and interpret for themselves a different reality of the so-called happy family.

The painting screams at her. She sees the anger in the man’s eyes, the deep sorrow in the woman’s and the fear in the child’s. She feels the bottle crash against her temple every time she catches a glimpse of the portrait. So, she hides in her mother’s arms, until the voices decide to die down.

* * *

They see an antisocial teenager. They call it a “mental illness” or a “psychological disorder”, to give it a name. They accept the term to avoid the reality of remorse. It’s an excuse, so they don’t have to truly look into it. They look at the surface. They take in what they see. They accept it for themselves.

She sees a girl, too afraid to talk, too scared to show herself, for she knows the consequences. So, she hides in her music. In the words of others who have gone through the same things, but are brave enough to admit it. She hides in her music, because her mother is too far to reach.