An hour later, she was smoking a cigarette. Sitting on the couch. Staring at a replica of Juan Antonio De Frias Escalante's The Dead Christ painting she had created in Art school.

A little before she dropped out to pursue being an elementary school

teacher.

She blew smoke into the air, separated by the turning ceiling fan. Her passion for helping kids overrode her true calling for the canvas and

oil-based colors.

Then real life kicked in. Mounting bills, dealing with everyday people who always made her feel guilty for her talent.

Many people tried to buy her painting, which looked the exact, spitting image of the original, which was created in 1663.

A local art museum in New York wanted to display her brilliant work of art but she declined.

"I paint my grief," she told the Executive Director of the Museum. "And I don't care to have people marvel at my misery."

The real reason why she didn't give up the painting was because of the very reasons why she painted it in the first place.

Her bad dreams.

In her dreams, a man was chasing her. Hewore all black and she wore all white.

He had a huge red X on a card covering his face like a terrorizing mask. He was calling out to her.

"Jadish, come back here. I just want to swallow your innocence and taste your blood."

On her head was a cap with a tassel. She was holding it as she ran through the grass. It started to rain and her hair and clothes were getting soaked, sticking to her voluptuous body.

Her high school appeared. She raced through the doors, trying to lock them. His heavy footing pushed her to the ground.

Staggering to her feet, she dashed towards the auditorium.

Unbeknownst, her body sometimes, at any given moment of the night, spasmodically twitched in her bed.

The humidity rose and the cool air sucked out her anguish. She'd dig her nails into the pillow, sweat pouring from her skin like sink water.

Her body in an arch, she'd moan

piteously, lost within her nightmare. The bed shook with fierce abandon, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

She'd break out in hives.

She was calling out to God in her dreams and he always sent a bolt of lightning that split the Jordan River into the Red Sea before her very

eyes.

Before she could cross it she saw, in the middle of the ocean floor, a woman.

Being deflowered by a man who had a familiar face, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

Suffice it to say, all this went through her mind when she painted The Dead Christ.

Some girl was losing her virginity by a horrible man. The stranger's virginity became The Dead Christ.

Her face was black and her hair was flames. By the time she was done painting, occasionally looking at the picture of the original from a text book, her coveralls were covered with light browns, beiges, and orange colors.

All over her face was sweat and black paint. It was in her hair. She was crying so hard she phoned her mother and told her she was having the dreams again.

Her mother wanted her to seek help.

"Baby. They are just dreams. Ignore them."

Jadish wasn't trying to hear it. "But I have the same dream."

"Of the man in black and you got on

white."

Jadish said, cautiously, "Yes."

"Then do what you do best, paint something, Jadish."