Silently she stood in a corner, unnoticed by all that walked slowly through the new exhibit. It was a new one, quite modern compared to the traditional art that was placed around it. Thats why the artist had picked the spot. So they could compare. So they could notice how much disreguard she had for the traditional.

Mostly it was photography, though sometimes she delved into oils of old. But . . . they weren't used in the usual way, depicting winged babies and silent mothers.

Some people could appreciate the brutal truth of the images. They accepted that this was life, this was what happened in the world. It was a tribulation of the fact that life isn't perfect. A few of the people stared at the images, apalled, and quickly walked on, image seared into their retina's whether they wanted it to be there or not. They'd dream about it, worry about it, dwelling on it until they were forced to return and get a closer look.

A slow smile spread over the girl's face. It was exactly what she wanted. Her pictures weren't made to be beautiful. They weren't made to be loved, or considered the best. They were meant to be remembered.

Lia came to attention as she heard herself mentioned, though indirectly. There was a middle aged couple, standing quietly next to a black and white painting of a broken mirror, a reflection of a crying eye in every pain. In some of the cracks leaked blood that had been added with a thicker medium and left to trickle down the picture frame beyond. The woman was tenatively touching one of the driblets that looked as though it was about to drip to the floor, the man looking on with narrowed eyes, hands in pockets. The woman spoke. "I heard it was a young girl." She took her hand back as though burned.

"The artist? I heard the same. What do you think happened to bring her to imagine things like this?"

Lia smiled grimly. "You have no idea . . ."