It started like this: When Sylvester had been five years old and painting in shades of yellows and reds, the acrylic stained their hair and clothes. They had held a messy thing in their hands, yet called it a work of art. They were untruthful, of course, if only to themselves. It was a hideous piece with no form or shape, the kind that an artist such as Picasso or Pollock would cringe at in shame. But it was Sylvester's, and they were young, and in their eyes it had been perfect.

It had been hard to feel any kind of shame back in those years. It used to slide down their back, drifting away heavy with gravity. Like taking a shower, they cleaned up and life moved on.

When the adults around them asked, they answered around the widest smile in their face:

"You'll see! I'll be an artist when I grow up!"

Of course, they'd laugh like it was the funniest joke. Maybe it had been: the next day Sylvester would swear they would become a famous chef, an engineer... even an astronaut! The list was endless. Maybe the adults had been right to doubt.

It ended like this: Sylvester was twenty-five and had tears streaming down their face like rain. In the water, shades of blue and red lights reflected from the heat source in front of them. Sylvester stood in the middle of pandemonium as the once imposing building colapsed from angry flames.

"What are you saying?" They rasped out, but their voice came out strange.

Often, when they were on their way home, they would talk to someone on the phone and their voices would gather a tunnel-like quality, as if the person was hidding underneath a mountain of clothes. At that moment, Sylvester heard the same thing happen to their own, and it was an odd sensation. They were right there: this was their own voice. Or maybe... maybe they were actually sinking into the ground, a magnetic ocean floor that pulled at them.

"We are sorry to..."

Sylvester didn't know how to explain it, but for a moment it was as if they took a deep dive into the depths of their mind. It was limbo. It was hell.

At least, at the time it felt like it was.

"Yet, your brother, Foster..." the policeman on the sidewalk continued speaking, seemingly uncaring of Sylvester's mental absence.

The word Foster caught their attention immediatly, pulling them back into the real world. It settled around them with the force of snapping rubber, and its loud textures,  sounds and pains momentarily threw Sylvester off.

"What about Foster?" They croaked out, fighting against nausea. "Where's my brother?"

"Your brother is fine. He's asking for you." 

At least five people died that day. It had been a horrible incident: the kind that you see on the news, but that will never happen to you. There had been a burning building, its windows smashed into sand and shoes and jackets thrown around lifeless on the floor. Canvases and monuments that had whitstood the trials of time and war, now charred black. The papers read: Protest turns violent: gallery burns down.

At least five people died that day. And for years, Sylvester wished they had been one of them.