Your art teacher was the kind who would shun students whose artwork was particularly unorthodox, and overzealously praise those whose artwork looked as though it belonged in a museum.

Gregory was the kind of student whose artwork was unorthodox. His art was typically dark and twisted. It contained themes of depression, isolation, fear, and agony. He was incredibly gifted, but incredibly troubled. He had exactly one friend and her name was Shelly, and you know that back in elementary school, the two of them were tried for the murder of another student named Tamara.

Art class was G’s favorite, and anyone who spent one moment talking to him would know that. But the art teacher despised him, and especially despised his artwork. As his table partner, you always felt terrible for him.

The art teacher stands behind him and criticizes his work. You can tell it’s both pissing him off and making him sad. The teacher tells him to start again and to do it differently. She always says this.

“Yes, Mrs. Harper,” G mutters quietly. She walks away and he pulls out a new piece of paper.