She was fourteen when I met her. I was seventeen. She thought about painting while I rode horses bareback at my father's ranch in the country and came home to the city worn and beaten with dirt staining my clothes and shoes and mud in my hair that took mom four weeks just to comb and shampoo out nearly every year since he had left when I was five. I told her stories about what it was like over there, and how it really wasn't much different in the end. Replace buildings with trees, most of which she and I would never enter, or in the tree's case, climb, replace people with cows, both lazing about and eating lots of food, personally I thought they even both looked the same on some occasions but that was a side note that only made her cry out 'you're so mean!', and imagine the horses as fast cars, neon red with the sunroof down and getting pulled over on the highway for going ten over, just because the bright color stood out more among the fellow non-traffic law abiders. And as always she would say "I wanna come with you next time. You'll have to show me everything. That horse you love so much, the one with the white on his forehead, you'd let me ride him wouldn't you?" I would smile then because I knew I had impressed her. "Yeah, I'll let you ride him."

Every morning I came to see her before school. I walked over from my apartment 125, all the way down the hall to 127. You can imagine the hardship I'm sure, but she appreciated it nonetheless, and we'd walk together from the building to the highschool where she attended as a freshman and I as a senior about three streets down from our own, where a little bakery that sold donuts and cream puffs, I usually bought her a few before or after class, and sometimes during but that was something her parents were never allowed to know, stood at the corner, all brick stone and chipped at the window sill. She wasn't my girlfriend but she was my best friend, and I think we were in love.

After school was when she painted. Her parents spoiled her with the stuff, imagining her a prodigy and I admired her work while secretly wondering if I could do better. And it wasn't until I came with her to an art shop, something like a giant grocery store, and the customers treated it as much, declaring "oh god. I'm completely out of cerulean", that I realized just how expensive her talent was. She'd fill a large shopping cart with tools and palettes and tubes of acrylic and waterpaints, and boxsets that fascinated her because they came with "so many colors" even if they were ones she already owned. A few huge canvases that I carried for her, too big to fit in the cart and all to the grand total of $412, but with paints at ten dollars a tube when discounted, it was a wonder she didn't spend more. Then daddy's credit card laid out on the counter, both customer and employee all smiles and myself standing there and wishing I had a credit card that I could do with as I pleased. I think I mentioned it to her one time and she looked offended, rolling her eyes and letting out a breath of air as I though I had said something stupid, "this is stuff I NEED," she said loudly, spent with her heavy explanation. As opposed to things she didn't need, like food and liquids and shelter I suppose, but I think she was talking about all the other things she could've been blowing it on expensive clothes and shoes from the mall like all the other girls I knew.

I remember really enjoying watching her work though. I think she went a little insane as she went at it. She had warned me beforehand that she didn't like anyone seeing her that way so she usually didn't let them but I became the exception which I was glad about. It wasn't too bad, just a frantic look in her eyes and an obliviousness to the world around her, forgetting I was even in the room for one thing, she even pulled her shirt off cause she was hot, and picked her nose thinking she was alone. Then she'd decide it was the worst thing ever and would scream, throwing a bucket of water against it, the goop running down to the carpet if it was acrylic, water soluable you know, and rolling right off if it was oil colors, smashed where the tin had hit it. Then she'd kick at the fallen masterpiece till she was sedated, where she'd take the time to sit down crosslegged in front of it, chin resting in her hands and staring at it thoughtfully. I made the mistake of asking her if she was okay during one of the episodes and I left the room with green in my left eye and blue covering the rest of my face. I never asked again.

In June was my senior Prom. We were pretty excited. Of course I took her. And she was beautiful. She came in wearing a shimmering aqua colored gown that fell out in a wide skirt down to the floor, a tight strappy bodice that hugged her tiny waist, and her dark hair curled on top of her head, hanging down on the sides. The color brought out her eyes. And no they weren't blue or green, they were brown. And yes, the dress emphasized their dark depths, framed behind luscious black lashes and silver shadow and beautiful eye eyeliner. I saw her putting it on in the car is why I know what it was called. She showed it to me and asked if I thought it was pretty to which I replied "yes". We had a lot of fun. The music was modern and fast and the food was a step above cafeteria which was good enough for me. It was held at a glitzy party center, with tiled dance floors and fancy walls and a carpeted dining room of gray and lavender. We kissed for the first time under the twinkling lights of the ivy fenced garden behind the building. I think I would've married her then and there if I could've. And the second I left her that night, standing in front of her apartment door, fumbling with the keys and pushing them into the lock, she smiled at me just once, before blowing me a kiss and disappearing inside. I'll see you tomorrow, I thought. And the thought made me happy. And maybe even a little scared in the back of my mind to have something so precious with so much certainty and not even doubt for a second that anything could go wrong. Or maybe that was doubt just then, but it hadn't felt like it.

I woke up to beating on my front door. My mom was out for work and it was just me so I stumbled to it, pulling it open and finding Janet's father standing in front of it. Her name was Janet in case I didn't mention it before. I know her name so well that even when I think of her the name is now implied, and no longer needs to be stated for me to know. He's a tall man, still is even to this day, but he looked smaller somehow that morning. His eyes, brown like Janet's, they roamed my apartment with a quick sweeping motion before turning to me. "Phil, is Janet here?"

"Janet?" I asked furrowing my brows, perplexed to the greatest extent I could be under circumstances of having just woken up moments before. "I dropped her off last night. You said to have her home by two."

"Are you sure?" he pressed.

"Yeah. I saw her go inside."

"Well, I haven't seen her. Maybe she just went out for a minute."

"Probably."

She didn't turn up anytime later that night, or anytime that week either. We were all scared, fearing for her safety, wondering what could have happened, if she had run away or been taken against her will. They sent search parties and family and friends, scouring the streets, then woods, then lakes and streams and national parks. They put face up and flyers were hung around the neighborhood and adjoining cities asking if anyone had seen her to contact them immediately, cash award offered. I think I stole a few of her paintings during that time. Looking at them then, I realized just how strange they really were, sometimes disturbed almost, and I understood a little of the insanity that lay within her heart. A painting where I once only saw a splash of red and gold in random spirals with a black streak running down the middle, I now saw a battle between death and madness with death as the victor. The beautiful girl that glowed blue as she strolled down a dark path of pink, white and violet flowers, I now saw as her, Janet, a lonely spirit dead to the world and existing only in her fanciful mind. The elderly man clutching his face, he was tortured somehow, not contemplative as they had all once believed, but dying and hurting and suffering and no one had even thought enough of him to notice and save him. And soon, I was as crazy as she was while she painted, breaking things and shouting and yelling, then sitting before the wreckage and pondering over what I had done and why and what I would do next.

I was twenty when I began to travel. It was spur of the moment. I had never liked the sort of thing before but now I did. Just doing what I felt like for no other reason than I felt like doing it at the moment. But unlike Janet I didn't leave without telling anyone. That would've been selfish. My father liked the idea, he never knew what was really going on in my life after all, and I promised to stop by and visit my horse every chance I got. Not him, but the horse, and though he didn't quite pick up on that, he smiled regardless and was happy. It crossed my mind on more than one occasion that I might run into Janet somewhere along the way, whether quietly passing on a street, or maybe even find her working a waitressing job some five states over. I mentioned it to my dad before I left and he nodded enthusiastically before asking who Janet was. I almost hit him. But I didn't. And the days went on as one might have expected with part time jobs and motel rooms, and camping out if I was ever in the country. I didn't even realize it until it had happened but one day I woke up and I was fifty-five. My horse ended up in my care when my father died, they say they live up to their forties, the horses, and mine just turned forty-four so I'm a little concerned though I try not to be. I enjoy my life very much. I must have seen more than so many other men in this country, and experienced so many lives it's amazing. And really, between city life and country, there wasn't much difference in the end. Replace buildings with trees, most of which she and I had never entered, or in the tree's case, climbed, replace people with cows, both lazing about and eating lots of food, personally I thought they even both looked the same on some occasions but that was a side note that only made her cry out 'you're so mean!', and imagine the horses as fast cars, neon red with the sunroof down and getting pulled over on the highway for going ten over, just because the bright color stood out more among the fellow non-traffic law abiders. I never did get to own one of those kind of cars, but I don't mind, I had a chevy for over ten years that did the job just as well. And my horse, the one left to me with the white on his forehead, I know he'll hang in there with me for a little longer, I promised to show him to her one day.