Autism.

Art.

At 4pm I finally got home to see my mom getting ready to leave all in a hurry. "Mom what's wrong, do you need any help?" She sighed in relief and nodded her head quickly.

"Oui, I'm in a hurry my patient left this very important file and it's urgent I give it to her," I started having second thoughts and regretted asking her in the first place "Come with me and we'll stop at your favorite fastfood place after." She rolled her eyes noticing my reluctance.

Nodding in defeat I followed her. Why did she have to mention food, my one and only weakness. With ankles crossed and my knees leaning against the center console, I watch mom slide into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with the push of a button.

Observing her movements, a sigh escapes her lips. "Mama is something wrong?"She shakes her head smiling sadly. "Nothing," She brushed off not convincing me. "How was school today. "

"It was good, I made a new friend named Hana she's really nice." I said fidgeting with the passenger seat. "And did you find the art class by any chance?" Mom said focusing on the road.

Art is my life. How can I describe art? A work of art can be a painting, a drawing, a piece of music. A piece of art is anything that is a source of inspiration to others, something that can be heard in the depths of their bodies, right in the core of their person, where it resonates its deepest meaning.

What that meaning is, is up to you. And to me art has the ability to express a thousand words in a second, and a hundred different stories can be told by each stroke of the pencil.

Art is utterly and shamelessly beautiful.

"No." My mom's dad was an artist and an amazing one for that matter but he passed away a few years ago and maybe a little part of me started painting because that way he'd always  be part of me somehow.

It didn't take long before we pulled up at a huge house. The house looked like one of those ones rich people buy when they get paranoid about having too much money.

Maybe behind those yellow bricks they feel safe from harm, but I can't help think they've only built themselves a beautiful prison. Either way though, it's none of my concern.

I followed my mom to the front door and she knocked a few times it didn't take long for a blonde petit woman to answer.

"Hello Miss Blanc," The woman opened the door "Come on in." She had a deep British accent. "Sorry to come unexpectedly Sarah but you forgot Anthony's files....I also need to talk to you for a moment." A look of worry passed her face and she noddded her head.

"Belle your mom told me a lot about you, I'm Sarah nice to meet you, I hope you wouldn't mind to sit in the in living room for a minute would you?." She smiled

I shook my head and sat down. They scurried away chattering like little children, file my ass. I rolled my eyes and stood up walking around the room.

The house looked new. It looked like it had been finished last week. It looked almost too new in some strange way. It was as if it had rolled off a production line. The windows were huge and seemingly inspired by something truly alien.

A painting captured my eyes the tone of the painting is muted. Each stroke had a smudging quality that rendered the image watery, like a reflection in a rippled puddle.

The scene is a street, London I'll bet, the umbrella bearing pedestrians battle against rain and the red double-deckers and black cabs rumble by.

“Who are you.” A deep british accent said from behind me. I swirled around and saw that boy. He wasn't looking at me but at the floor again with an emotionless face.

"I'm sorry!"

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