"I was told when I get older all my fears would shrink, but now I'm insecure and I care what people think."
Twenty One Pilots.
The bell rings, pulling me away from my thoughts, untangling me from the vines of pain and preventing me from recalling the previous events. In other words, I have to go to class.
"Finally," I think. "The real reason I came here: to learn."
I've always had a positive outlook on my education. Despite not having any friends, I don't hate coming to school because I know that focusing on my studies is the only way I'll be able to escape this town. Granted, it's not an awful town, but it's small so news spreads around fast and so does rumours.
"Did you see Little Miss Fatty today?"
"Of course, how could you possibly miss her?!"
"I heard she eats six times a day instead of three."
"I heard she can't go a day without one meal."
"I heard that if she gets any bigger, she's gonna have to make her own clothing."
"Might as well, whose going to actually waste all that fabric on one shirt?"
"And last time I checked, pigs don't wear clothes."
Putting my glasses back on, I amble out of the toilets, rushing to class. My mind wanders to places of dreams, places of zero judgement. The corridors are deserted, but my imagination is crowded with ideas, motivated by the ambition of having such an aspiration. My skin itches for a piece of paper in my lap, a pencil in my hands. My eyes are begging to see the lines I want to draw, sketched inside a notebook. I need to have a visual representation of my ideas. Now.
Forget lessons. I'm going to an isolated place.
Darting down the hallway, I push past the doors, turning around corners, stepping around wet floor signs. When I was suspicious of anyone coming after me, I broke off from my path until I was sure that I lost them and when the sound of footsteps echoed, I hid at the bottom of staircases or simply ran faster.
Eventually, I recognise the emerald green light shining through the window and the long set of steps it takes to reach the door on the left. Slowly, I climb them, breathing heavy breaths and mumbling curses. My sweat makes my fringe stick to my forehead and it doesn't take long for my shirt to do the same, attaching itself to the skin on my back.
And after what seems like ages, I reach the door nob of the ink-black door. Cautiously, I turn it and to my surprise, I find that it's open. I smile, entering the room, ready to sit down and draw.
"This place hasn't changed a bit," I laugh as I take a seat on the floor.
Crimson-red chairs and broken, chestnut-tables are covered in dust, laying scattered across the large room. Window sills are coated in cob webs while empty, cardboard boxes remain slightly ajar. Above me, there is a shattered lightbulb, the glass belonging to it dangerously dumped onto the floor.
Torn paintings are hung on the grey walls. The scratches marked everywhere, the dents and small holes arousing my curiosity. I trace my chubby finger along the markings, coming to a set of words which cause me to smile. My name. I turn away.
"I'm guessing the light emitting from the window is enough to let me see," I think, taking my drawing equipment out of my bag.
And then I begin, curves and lines emerging from the surface, art appearing from the simplicity of it all, thumps from the floor boards underneath me and creaks from whenever I shift my body. A pencil in my hand, a pencil begin my ear and a paper in my lap. I finish, admiring my work.
It was a sketch of a girl on a swing, in a park, watching the sunset. I drew the clouds so that they looked like they were drifting by quickly and then I drew her hair so that it looked like it was blowing in the wind.
"That's a nice drawing," a voice whispers.
"Thanks," I reply.
"Your welcome."
That's when it hits me. My body turns numb, realisation taking over. How did I not notice? My blood runs cold. Was I that indulged in my drawing to not pay attention to the fact that someone else was here? But only I know about this place, right? I kept this place a secret. I know I did.
I hear the person's feet move about as if they edged closer and my breathing quickens. Out of nervous habit perhaps, I play with my hands, biting the skin around my nails.
"Umm...who...who are you?"