The painting was beautiful. It was a dream. Gary loved looking at it. He could only imagine how wonderful it would be if life was really like that painting.

It was a painting of a person running through long grass on a bright sunny day. Gary could see the joy expressed by the face, could almost feel that joy, and could understand the dream the painter was trying to depict. It was something he dreamed about often. To be away from the life he was living would be the greatest thing to ever happen. And every day, after school, this was his only enjoyment, getting to stare at the painting.

The sun was setting, and Gary knew it was time to go home. He had been in the museum since three, and it was now six. His parents were used to it and they didn’t say anything, which was fortunate for Gary.

He said goodbye to the watch man, who smiled warmly back, and Gary winced as he tried to smile. Instead, he just waved again. The man’s name was Mr. Lyons, and he led Gary in for free every day as long as he promised not to get into any trouble.

Gary began walking home, slowly as possible. He wanted to delay his arrival as long as he could. The last place he wanted to be at was home he wanted to be free and happy like the person in the painting, his painting. He wanted to be carefree so he could run through grass and enjoy the sunshine. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t run because his ankle was sprained, and he couldn’t smile because his cheek was bruised.

He looked in dread down the street where he saw his house. It looked like a normal house in a normal neighborhood, but Gary knew differently. Slowly he walked up the steps and turned the doorknob. He paused, waiting to hear a yell of anger or a crash of breaking glass, but there was nothing. He stepped inside.

The living room was a mess. Papers were scattered all over the floor, papers with numbers and papers that looked important. A glass of water was spilled on the coffee table, and Gary was sure he saw a small spot of blood on the couch. He turned away and walked to his room.

Once inside, he sighed. He was glad no one had been there to greet him. Something had happened while he was gone, but he figured he’d rather not know. He could picture plenty of things that he didn’t need to see again.

Gary lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. As his eyes began to close, violent images flooded his mind and he couldn’t push them away. Fists and hammers and glass flashed through as he tried to imagine what happened in living. All of those were probable. But he didn’t want to think of that. He wanted to think of his painting.

The real artist and was unknown to Gary; it had been an anonymous painting, but he always considered it his. If he could paint, that’s what he would paint, his dreams. He would never paint his realities, the horrors that he lived every night once he went home, things he had no control over and could do nothing about. Things not even his mother could protect him from.

The grass and the sunshine filled his mind, and he began to feel the warmth. He imagined himself running, running forever and away from everything, heading for his paradise in the grass. And he saw it, and he ran into it. He didn’t stop, though; He just ran and ran, thinking the energy bursting inside of him would never allow him to stop. And then...

“Gary!” Someone yelled. He was yanked out of his daydream by his father. “Gary, get out of that bed!”

Gary leaped out will be only instead looking at his dad. “Sir?”

His father walked over to him and grabbed his arm. He began to drag Gary out of the room. “I can’t believe what you’ve done!”

“What, dad? What’s wrong?” To Gary was scared. He knew what was coming.

His father dragged him into the living room. “This! This is what’s wrong! What could have possibly given you the nerve to pull a stunt like this! Look at the mass, and there’s blood on the couch!”

Gary looked at the papers again and noticed some more insurance papers and some had to do with taxes. There were other various things, and Gary thought he noticed a playboy amongst them. He turned away, blushing.

“How do you explain yourself, Gary?”

“I didn’t do it.”

Gary looked on the couch were the blood was and saw his mother sitting, crying, with a cut on her face. Her eyes were read and puffy, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Gary knew she couldn’t help him through this. She was as weak as he was.

“What do you mean you didn’t do it? No one else could have done it!” Gary could tell that time was coming.

“I really didn’t, dad. Maybe you or mom did, by accident, of course. I just got home…” Gary wished his dad was listening to him.

“Don’t lie to me!” His father yelled. He struck Gary across the face, hitting has already bruised cheek. Gary gritted his teeth and tried to bear it. “I don’t ever want to catch you doing that! Do you know how much you’ve ruined? I have insurance papers and everything there, not to mention you ruined the table by spilling that water, and you stained the couch with that blood!” he hit Gary again, and this time Gary wasn’t able to keep from crying.

His mother was on the couch, and she started to mutter something and then was quiet. Gary wasn’t angry. She had had her share for the day and now it was his turn. He didn’t expect his mother to step in and volunteer to get hit more. He didn’t think he could do it for her, either.

“I’m not lying, dad, really…”

“Shut up while I’m talking to you!” he hit Gary in the nose and blood began to pour out of it. “You listen to me…”

Gary tuned him out. He had to get out of this place; he needed somewhere to go. Today he couldn’t bear being hit. His father’s words disappeared, and he was numb to the pain as his father repeatedly hit his already wounded body. It was too bad no one noticed Gary; maybe this could have been avoided.

He thought hard about the painting. The painting with the sun shining and a happy person and the blue sky. He thought about the birds that would be singing and about the breeze that would be blowing. Every single detail was thought of, not one left out. It was the most vivid image in his mind.

And suddenly he felt like he was inside the painting. And he stayed there ‘til his father was finished. Then he went to bed, exhausted from the beating, and was tormented by nightmares of his paintings of reality.

The next day after school he went straight for the museum. Once inside, he sat in front of the painting, this time all by himself, and stared at longingly. He reached out and touched it lightly, making sure no one was looking, and used his other hand to touch his bruised up face. He closed his eyes, continuing to hold his hand on the painting, and imagined the picture is vividly as he had while he was with his father. Every single detail.

And when he opened his eyes, he found himself there, inside that paradise picture. He reached out in front of him in the world scene to stretch as though he actually were pushing on the canvas are outside, and he could see the museum from a new angle.

He felt the sunshine and heard the birds. Then he saw the person. He was running, but the expression on his face was not of joy but of horror. Behind him was a black cloud Gary had never noticed before and the man was forever running, stuck in a hell by an artist’s hand. And then Gary realized it was just another painting of reality, and there was no escaping it.

3/24/98