He sat alone in a dark room, holding a paintbrush in his hand. He just passed his 16th-year-old birthday, but there was no candle, no cake, and no people around him. Sitting there alone with disheveled hair and torn cloth. Oddly, the paintbrush looks brand new just like the one got from the market.

Drawing is the only thing he remembers how to do after the tragic car accident. He stared at the empty wall in front of him. It’s been sixteen years, and his life is just like the white wall, large and big, but empty. He couldn’t remember why. Why is he just sitting, holding a paintbrush? Why is drawing so important?

There was nothing he could remember about his life. Slowly standing up, he dipped the paintbrush into the brightest red that he had ever seen, the color was just like the blood that filled in his eyes when the car ran over him. He mumbled to himself. “It was red, it was all red”

He swung his arm to create a red drawing full of disarray. “Why does it look so familiar.” he yelled in misery. Wondered what happened in his life. He suddenly felt something strike his head, trembling, he walked step by step, trying to reach the wall. He fail, the last thing he saw, was the red paint of the wall dripping on his face