In low places

So I gave birth to two and have come to find that one has killed a bit of the other.

More to the point, my 11 year old son, for whom I gladly sacrifice on a daily basis took into his twisted little head to destroy one of my paintings... most likely out of boredom. That little shit.

For those of you just reading you won't know how much painting means to me. It means a lot. It is the only place I can occasionally touch the real me. I can touch flow.

I had poured about 6 hours into this piece snatched out of my life over the course of two weeks. I was almost done and then he took a can of spray mount (mine, of which he had been instructed never to touch) and sprayed it all over and then scratched the crap out of it. And then, when I found out what he did, he lied about it. And screamed at me. He had no empathy as to what he had done. What he continues to make life with him like.

I was so mad. And crushed. Purely heartbroken and for a moment I hated him.

And now I am just sad and afraid that a bit of that hate and hurt is going to stay with me always.