There was a young girl sitting on the floor, with a packet of markers and a sketchpad in front of her. Music blared in the room, heavy metal. The girl was tossing her red-brown hair about as she started drawing.
Her drawings were obscene, demons, tattooed angels and mermaids, Gothic scenes, everything alternating between the shadowy, silver-black of charcoal and the harsh, vivid, stinging colours of the markers. Some were even in the delicate, pale shades of watercolours.
The girl had a quietly confident manner, more aware of who she really was than most people her own age, uninfluenced by the media and society, unafraid to think outside the box. She was herself.
And as she worked on her drawings, she was proud of the person that she was.