Essay on Born to Brooklyn, Raised in Hell

School bell rings again. So many memories and sorrowful regrets of the past. I knew that living in a small town will be something totally different for me. Born to Brooklyn, raised in hell; I had no idea what I was doing in this deadly place in New Jersey, that announced new death every week.Alienated, I walked slowly to class, looking at jet black sky above me. Air smelled so fresh, so full of my personal agony, that in was unbearable to stay outside. Awkward steps, that didn’t seem to follow my insane mind, got me sooner or later to the classroom.People glazed at me. Their eyes were burning into my flesh like a blasphemous fire. All their stares like butane on my skin; I prayed silently to wake up from this intoxicating nightmare and die. But instead I flicked back my long, blonde and black hair and stood up tall.Belleville Evening Art College. Perfect. Seems like an ideal place for all these creative losers from broken homes that have to work all day to get money for a vodka shot and cheap cigarettes. High and happy, they’ll come at night and give themselves to their passions, I thought sarcastically.My life is a fucking black comedy. An alcoholic mother abused by her younger lover, leaving New York to start a new life in this shithole; a good person but not a good mother; mother of nihilistic, drug-addicted and hardcore loving vegetarian anarchist, called Audrey Midnight as a joke, with a simple Farrell at the end – a surname after her so called mom, as she doesn’t want to remember her father’s face.Not like I didn’t know the truth. All I ever was – a side effect of her good paid job. Ellen used to be a prostitute – the known as Nina.Such a wonderful start for a young kid that suddenly becomes an 18-years-ol…

…wing step by step, I settled at the place right next to the enigmatic vocalist. He eyed me but his expression was absolutely blank. Jared’s enigma was so broody and compelling that almost supernatural. With a curiosity, I looked at his painting and from that moment I realized it must be some sort of fascination.Unfinished artwork presented the dark scenery, enhanced by dim candle light seemed to be screaming pain. Surreal picture capturing every negative emotion was piercing; from alienation to self-destruction; from burning hate to sweet revenge and inventible contrition. A fallen angel covered in blood with stained wings and ink-black tears, ripping apart her insides which turned into the monsters and zombies on the jet black sky that was crying in torment. The face looked somehow familiar and the depth hidden behind it was incomparable. I felt exactly like her.