My heart was pounding, and I began sweating. There was something about this face... something familiar.
I knew that face. I could remember some faint memories about it.
A mix of blurred color on canvas.
A hand reaching out to touch something.
There was a rustle of leaves, then shouting.
Then it hit me. I knew who it was. It was me, before the accident had occurred. The shouting was my young voice, shouting for my mother.
I felt the tears come to my eyes once more. My mother. Ever since my real mother had disappeared, my father had become more and more intolerant of me. He just wanted to be rid of me, and my stepmother was worse. She used to keep me in the house before school everyday until I was eight, making me recite all my times tables. If I had gotten anything wrong, she would hit me with a cane until I got it right. But I always got something wrong, and was late to school everyday. My stepmother didn't care if the teachers hit me for being late. She just hit me again.
And then there was the day that my stepmother had found out that I had been painting when I was supposed to be studying. It had been my stepmother's birthday, you see, and I thought that I would make a painting for her as a present. I spent weeks on it, painting that painting, and I had used up most of my free time to do it.
I had nearly finished when my stepmother had found it, and her birthday was the next day. My stepmother was so furious that I had been painting something instead of studying that she ripped it up just like my father had done in his fit of rage.
My parents had a lot of rages. I sighed. It seemed like I could do nothing right.