Disclaimer: Twilight belongs to its respective owner.
I snuggle into my comforter, burrow deeper into my pillow but it doesn't work. So I push back the covers, shivering as Chicago's chilly early morning air brushes against my near naked body, and rub my closed eyelids gently to get rid of the stinging needle-like pokes at the corner of my eyes from the lack of sleep. I'm used to it.
It's still dark outside. 3:53 am. I turn off my alarm that was set for 8:00 am. I don't even know why I set the alarm anymore. I can never sleep past 5:00 am if I'm lucky. Maybe I'm just hopeful that for once, I can relax enough to sleep, that I can evade the nightmares. It's been nearly a decade since I've been trying, yet that tiny flicker of hope inside won't let me give up.
I get up, brush my teeth, and then go downstairs to make coffee.
I turn on the TV and watch The 70s show reruns as my left leg bounces up and down.
I finish my English assignment of comparing and contrasting Donne's "Death Be Not Proud" and Dickinson's "I felt a Funeral, in my Brain." It's due in three days, but even this early, I'll do anything but that to pass time. I try to stop my leg's bouncing by sitting on the carpet with my legs underneath me. I fail. My left foot starts a slow vibration to keep up the movement.
I give up. Like everyday, I give up again, and go back to my bedroom, and step up on the plastic chair I keep by the wall opposite side of my bed. I take the 5B pencil from the little portable shelf attached to the wall and start drawing.
At first, it's just lines and lines of nothing forming on the white painted drywalls. Then they start to configure into a shape, and then another shape, and then another until all the lines connect underneath my hand to conform a wilted tree with nothing but thin branches, and a tiny girl standing beneath holding a small glass like figure to put on the tree. Wish Tree.
I grab my 3B pencil next, starting the overshadows from the bottom of the wood roots as if the sun's rising up from behind the old, nearly dead tree, casting an eerie eclipse over the looming figure of the small child. The 6B pencil is next, to cause the gray shadow of the girl. And then 1B pencil for the light shades.
My hands are gradually blackening from the charcoal pencils as I smooth out the shadows without using my small paper blending-pencils. It doesn't distract me, though, and I keep shading; adding a little more dark with the pencil and smoothing it under the girl's shadow.
I'm nearly done when my phone rings. In frustration, the lead of my 1B pencil breaks, leaving a murky dot where it shouldn't be.
I step back and take a look at the drawing. The symmetry of the shadows with the actual picture is too perfect; the shadows are too perfect; the branches are too perfect. It looks too real. In a moment of pure impulse, I run one charcoal covered fingertip over the girl and the tree, leaving a swipe of pencil lead powder in its wake. It only makes the drawing look better; the dark mess makes it look jaded, as if looking right into the soul of the artist. I frown in distaste at it, hating it just like all the other drawings on my wall, and close my eyes to get it away from my sight. I turn towards my bed and check my messages.
Class is starting in 20 minutes! –AliCat
Shit. I rummage through my closet for something presentable and without washing my hands, rush out the door with my school-set of art supplies in my leather bag and my cell-phone in hand.
School of the Art Institute of Chicago, let's hope you're better than the last Institute.