"What is peace?" I typed the caption. "What, who, or where do you regard as your peace? Inspire me.” The glow of my phone was the only thing lighting my dark bedroom. I sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the painting I’d just uploaded to my art profile. It was a piece I’d finished at 3 o’clock in the morning, when the house was finally quiet enough for me to breathe. It showed a woman with her head tilted back, her mouth pulled into a silent, jagged scream. It wasn't pretty, but it was honest. The notifications started to roll in. People loved the "tortured artist" vibe, unaware that the real torture was passed out in the living room right below me. “Peace is having enough money to never look at a price tag,” the first comment read. I let out a short, dry laugh. If money bought peace, I wouldn't feel like my chest was being crushed. I had been recognized in the art world since I was eleven. I had made plenty of money, but I never saw a dime of it. My mother made sure of
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