Kennedy & Jackson| Art Is A 3 Letter Word
If becoming a lawyer meant getting shot every other week, then Jackson had no interest in following his father's footsteps. His adoptive father, that is. The man couldn't go through getting a bullet embedded into his shoulder and expect his son to have a sense of keen enthusiasm about that line of career. He'd definitely change his mind. Besides, gunshot wounds left scars. He had enough of those. He was tired of sitting in the waiting room with impatient patients, so he decided to have a look around. Maybe there was a career in this hospital that was just dying to meet him. At seventeen, he still didn't know what he wanted to do with his life. Maybe he could be a surgeon, or a doctor, a psychologist, perhaps? He walked down a hall that had art, he supposed that were created by children. Some of them were bright, others, quite dark. He walked up to one that he'd seen in countless tv shows. It made him cringe, yet he couldn't look away, at the silhouetted body overlooked by countless civilians while he bled to death. It was a metaphor, he realised, for depression. "Death comes in many forms..." He said to himself.
