I should probably preface this next movement in our story by finishing saying what happened on the date, shouldn't I? Ready? Okay. So, we were in the art room, and I told Emma about the story of the perfect apple vs the failing grade. She found it really interesting or profound or something because when I told her she looked really sad. I told her that I had gotten pretty good at drawings, but the reason I said they weren't good is because they lack individuality. She then said this:
"Well, what's wrong with not being an individual?"
"..."
"Well? Personally, I think that no matter what, all humans have a role to play in life. Whether someone wants to play that role or not is another can of worms, BUT, if someone wants to move with the flow, there's nothing wrong with that. There is nothing bad about just going along with things. Sometimes being too separated from the norm can actually be bad. But what really matters at the end of the day is what YOU feel. Do you want to go with the flow? Or do you want to move against the grain, using every grain of your body to make something unique, something abstract and absurd. Something so far from the norm that it sets a norm of its own. Do you want to forever live your life a slave to teachings of people who never even got to live in the modern day, or do you want to have fun doing art? Do you want to make art, or keep replicating old works?"
"... I… I want… I want to…"
She looked at me with the most sincere expression, a shiny glint and glimmer in her eye as she truly wanted to hear my answer.
"I… I want to make something that I can be proud of. Something that I know is mine, not something I learned from a textbook. I want to make something that will last forever."
She looked at me with a smile, a little air escaped her nose.
"That's what I wanted to hear."
"..."
"Hey… Nate?"
"Yeah?"
In a quiet, weak voice she looked down with a radish colored face and said "Draw me…"
"What?"
"I said…" She looked down again, "Draw me."
She walked over to me with a pencil and paper and sat down on a desk in front of me. Legs crossed with her hair put over her shoulders she asserted a demanding energy while still looking kind and weak. I sat at the desk, adjusted it to hold the paper, and I started to draw. As my hand started to glide on the paper as I drew an outline of her body I started to notice things that I had never seen before. The subtle curves on her figure. The accented Color on the bottom of her shoes, a thin layer of red, riding the rim. The tiny earring she wore, as it glowed under the top lighting of the art studio. I wanted to capture this moment. I wanted it to last forever. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't see her face. She was almost looking directly at me but I still couldn't see.
I want to see it… Let me see it… I have to… I've got to see it… I've got to…
As I thought those words over and over, the air felt stagnant as time stopped, she lifted her head and our eyes met. I looked deeply at her and raised my hand up for only a moment, just to return it to the paper again and continue onward.
We spent almost an hour sitting there while I drew her. I never got around to coloring the drawing, but she didn't seem to mind. I showed her the sheet of paper, and as I handed it to her, the eyes in her head lit up. She looked like this was the best gift anyone could have given her.
"You made me… you made me look so beautiful."
I blushed a little bit, "I just drew you how I see you…"
She smiled slightly but it was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Not forced. Not strained. She genuinely wanted to smile. She smiled because of me…
"Hey Nate."
"Hm…"
"Come here, give me your hands."
"Wh––why would I give you my––"
"Just do it will you?"
She put my hands in her and rubbed them with her thumbs around the outside of my pointer finger that had been holding my pencil.
"It must hurt real bad. Your hands are all red and black. It's okay though, I'm here. You did good. Let's go wash them okay?"
As she guided me toward the sink, I let go of her hand and felt the emptiness in my palms. I felt how my palm no longer felt complete without her hand in it.
"So… I was thinking, and I'm about through with going through the school, wanna go grab something to eat?"
"Yeah, that's okay with me." I responded.
"'Kay…"
"'Kay."
We walked out of the high school a few minutes later, thanked the security guard for letting us in and headed down the road to a diner we saw. As we walked through the people on the road, we had to get close, and eventually we ended up side by side. Close enough that we could look like a couple from anyone outside. I walked with her, arms by our sides, less than 5 inches apart. Even the slightest movement could make us collide together. We waited for the lights and crossed the road together and then… we held hands. As soon as we put our hands together, our fingers locked into each other and it felt like our hand was meant for each other. But then, at that moment, her hand loosened, eventually slipping out of my grasp, and I looked over and watched as Emma fell.
"D––DOCTOR! ANYONE! WHO KNOWS CPR? CAN ANYONE CHECK HER PULSE?! HELP! A––ANYONE! PLEASE!"
* * *
I remember this… this horrible feeling. The scent of bleach and the bright fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. The shine on the tiles of the halls. The beeping of the heart rate monitors. The scratching of wheels on the ground as they wheel patients down the hall while they sit at death's door. The dragging painful feeling of the time passing while you sit in the lobby. The longing and praying as you wait to hear news.
When I was younger, my dad died. It happened in a hospital. I remember one day, after we finished playing football, the same thing happened. As we walked back to the house up the driveway, dad collapsed. He started coughing up blood all over me. My hands were coated in a thick dark red until my mom came out of the house having heard my screams.
"Is dad gonna be okay?"
"He'll be alright, just get in the car, we need to go to the hospital."
As I sat in the back of the car, covered in blood, I could do nothing but wait. When we finally got to the hospital I went to wash the blood off of my hands, and no matter what, It couldn't come off.
"Mommy!! Mommy!! LOOK! THE BLOOD! IT WON'T COME OFF!"
"What are you yelling about? Your hands are clean, look there's nothing there."
"B––B––BUT LOOK!"
"I told you there's nothing there. If you need to, go wash your hands again."
I ran to the bathroom in a panic and washed my hands aggressively.
CMON! CMON! COME OFF ALREADY! STOPP!!
I looked at my blood coated hands and wept. Dad… Mom… Please… Someone…
I'm sorry
Im sorry
I'm so sorry
Dad…
I'm so sorry
It's all my fault…
Dad…
Please…
As I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked in the mirror I saw a horrific image. A grotesque, putrid, revolting, disgusting, horrific image. My crinkled, dirty, sweaty, tear covered face was smeared with a thick layer of dried blood. Red circles covered my eyes and while I cried, my tears came out red. The blood from my hands started to spread, covering my arms, my legs, my neck, my whole face and eventually everything was red. This world–– this room that was once a clean pristine white was covered, coated in blood, dripping from every inch of the walls, floor, and ceiling. I felt sick. Disgusted at what I had seen and became, I bolted into the family stall, and put my face right over the seat and vomited.
ASksc
GASP
Pssrv
Hrrrrr
GASP
I looked into the toilet I had just thrown up in and saw a red bowl, overflowing with blood and vomit. I felt trapped.
Someone…
Anyone…
Please…
All this young little boy could do was murmur, hoping someone would hear his silent screams and cries for other people. And in one last weak pathetic attempt, He thought to himself as hard as he could, hoping that his thoughts would reach someone. The thought he sent to the world was this…
Help me…