Pastel Bones

Artists are the ones who turned their knives inward, and called it art.

We were born with blood in our brushes, taught to make beauty out of pain before we could name the thing bleeding inside us. Some of us mold our grief in clay. Others carve it into bone.

We don’t scream, we paint.
We don’t run, we compose.

And when it hurts too much to breathe, we put it on a canvas and dare the world to look away.

At Alaria University for the creatively damned, art is survival and reputation is currency. I know that better than anyone. When whispers start swirling about my past, my secrets, and what happened the night everything changed, I end up at the center of a rumor mill sharp enough to gut someone.

And then there’s Dorien. Cruel in all the right ways. Always knowing exactly where to look when I’m trying not to be seen.

We were there the first time everything went wrong. Neither of us ever said what that did. Maybe because we’d have to admit how close it came to ruining us.

I told myself I’d never survive it happening again.
And then it did.