Plain Elaine

By Jonathan Paul

Art. Art is an expression of colors; it is a symbol or faith. It is a representation of oneself. Elaine Milligan found art as an escape, a passion used to utilize what she feels is an important journey that will make her sane. Sometimes an image is not just an image. What glitters is not gold. Elaine has been putting on the perfect picture for her family and peers for so long she is ready to change the canvas of her image and just start from a blank page. Is it worth it? Starting over, does it make sense creating an image that has not been viewed for years? Elaine thinks it does not make sense, and she does not care anymore. She is not going back to the drawing board—what’s the point?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796033922

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Copyright © 2019 by Jonathan Paul.

ISBN:                 Softcover                978-1-7960-3393-9

                           eBook                      978-1-7960-3392-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 05/14/2019

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 1

T HE OXYGEN IN my lungs soon left my body. The chair underneath my feet was gone, and the rope strangled my neck. This was it; I was going to die. No more pain in my life, and no more feeling like an unnamed disease. I could finally be in a place where I felt I could be accepted. As I struggled to breathe, the rope was cut. I fell in midair and landed on a soft cloud. The buzzing of my alarm clock made it clear that it was a dream. I was still alive—well, breathing—and I realized my life of misery would once again begin. I always wondered why my dreams ended with me not being dead. The rope always got unraveled, someone always pushed me away from the speeding truck, and the mixed pills ready for consumption were always knocked out of my hands. I scratched my head as I thought about it while getting out of my bed. I looked in my closet for my washed-out black T-shirt and my matching pants. I kept things simple with a T-shirt and sneakers. I hate crap like scarves, belts, jewelry, or anything close to girly accessories.

As I looked at my pale skin and wild curly blond hair, I wondered if I should ask my parents if I could stay home. I got my clothes and walked to the bathroom, but I saw that my mom had laid out my clothes for me. I shouted! My mother always got me new clothes like as if I was a little baby. It was a pink dress, four-inch stilettos, a glittery belt with rhinestones, and a light jacket to top the madness off. I became furious and rushed downstairs. As I looked for my mom in the living room, I heard her voice in the kitchen. She was on the phone with her secretary, and it made me more upset. As my mom closed her cell phone, I was ready to yell. When I opened my mouth, she closed it with an insult. Wow, that’s an upgrade from the black crap you wear, she said.

I was in my pajamas. I ignored her cruel comment. Mom, please stay out of my room. I stay out of your room, I said.

I fought to keep the tears from falling from my eyes while I closed my robe. She ignored me and demanded I get ready for school. I walked away and focused on getting the hell out of there. I was not going to let my mom get the best of me, but she made it hard. I cried for a moment, but I got myself together.

My mom had many enemies. She was a lawyer, and she had no heart. She did not care if you were guilty or innocent. This could hurt when someone’s life was on the line. I hated her insensitive ways, and it made me sick. My dad was the complete opposite; he had always tried his best to help someone. All that changed, however, after he left his father’s dry cleaning business. I admired my dad for leaving something he did