He could barely tolerate Mr. Lee’s art class during fourth period, so he was astounded when he learned that he would be spending the next month at some sort of gallery. Bitter? No…he was more annoyed than anything. Life and his acknowledgement of that led him to find any sort of outlet that would give him at least a smidge of satisfaction.

To simply put it, Kris was an .

He was the carbon copy of the perfect antagonist in any film or novel. He only wore black clothes: shirt, pants, socks, shoes…they were all black. His hair ran long and shagged, covered one eye perfectly. His eyes underneath a set of thick brows remained cold. Small cuts seemed to permanently mark his face, his history of fighting forever on display.

He was always caught, punished several times, but the kid never learned. He continued to live a meaningless life, not caring what would happen or who he’d hurt.

He wasn’t thinking when he got in his car with a beer bottle too much for him to take. When he the engine, he ignored the pain that shot through his head from the sound. He brushed off the fact that his vision was blurry. And when he stepped on the gas and drove off in that hammered state, he was lucky that no life was stolen. He was lucky that the electrical pole stopped him.

And that’s how he got there.

Driving under the influence of alcohol…

He was slapped with a fine, license revoked, and placed on mandatory community service at various locations that changed per month. Kris knew he deserved all that was happening, for he was aware that he stomping over the world meant that it would eventually chew him up before spitting him out.

A small elderly lady greeted him at the entrance. She was no more than four feet tall and had one or two teeth missing as she flashed him a warm smile. Kris had no intentions of playing nice. There was no room for him to befriend the staff. He just wanted to complete his hours and be done with it.

He was assigned to the indoor garden at the back; porcelain sculptures aligned the walls while other various knickknacks filled the area between. They were covered in dust and were in desperate need of a good shine. He knew he was screwed the moment he stepped foot inside. He figured that he should probably aim to become some sort of artist if it meant that ty pieces like those were priced as valuable. The cocky bastard praised himself shamelessly as he scrubbed every crevice.

“Artwork my ”, he would displeasingly grunt.

But there was something peculiar with one of the sculptures seated at the rear end of the room. It displayed itself under the big old barely tree, the leaves messily landing atop. Anyone would notice that the piece was in bad shape, as if ready to crumble in a just a small handful of years-give or take.

She was beautiful despite the hardships it had gone through; the aging would not entirely disguise its grace. It was the only product that Kris would acknowledge as actual art. And so he would devote extra time and effort, concentrating on that sole degrading piece, of a timeless woman wrapped in white fabric whose soft waves along her hair fell down by her backside. There was something in the carving of her face that set him at ease, as if forgiving how ty a life he was living. Her face was the epitome of serenity as if an enchanted story lay behind those eyes. It drew him in slowly everyday. However, despite the effort, nothing seemed to change.

She was still very haggard and beaten.

It happened on a random day, at a random time. As cliché as it may sound, a miracle happened that shaped Kris’ life.