Art. That's usually where I go to escape.
I dive into a world of color or one of monochrome, of pencil and paper and paint. Oil pastels in creamy colors, charcoal and colored pencils in rough tones
A world where my brain and all its contents spill out into the world without fear.
So art is where I reside at 2:46 a.m.
I had motivation and I had a plan, though my hand was scribbling with oil pastels and my mind resided in a separate dimension.
The only light I have is from my phone flashlight as I have all the blankets from my bed pulled up over my head.
For ten minutes, I'm just scribbling away.
My hand begins to ache and it's not until the oil pastel I'm holding breaks in two that I am pulled back into reality.
I stare intently at the paper in the sketchbook, heart stopping and lungs ceasing to function. Because on the paper in front of me sits nothing but black.
I have colored the entire page in varying shades of black, parts of it merely gray.
I pull the blankets back, revealing myself to the air conditioning. And that's when I jump again, seeing Basil sitting up in his bed.
My art (if you could call it that) is forgotten.
"Don't you have to be asleep right now to be an early riser?" I mumble.
"No. Believe it or not, I can still function when I get barely any sleep." As opposed to me, he doesn't sound the least bit tired. None.
"I don't believe it." He just chuckles.
"Why are you awake?" He asks, continuing.
Squeezing my eyes closed, my mind spins as I question what I'm about to say next.
I avoid his question, mine slipping off my tongue before I fully decide I want to ask it. "Do you like me?"
He flicks on the light switch, the room flooding with a stark yellow.
If I wasn't awake before, I certainly am now.
"What?" He asks. I think his mind must be spinning as fast as mine, if not faster.
"Do you like me?" I repeat.
"Well, yeah. I mean— you're nice, and cool, and basically the only person I can trust at this school." He shifts uncomfortably.
"That's not what I meant." I whisper.
"Oh." He replies. He stands up, walking to the desk chair. He doesn't stay there long, taking to pacing back and forth. He seems anxious, like I've just dropped a bombshell question. Which I suppose I have.
"Ollie, I—" he freezes for a moment. "You're great but..." He pauses again.
"But?" I inquire, studying his face.
I feel like I've messed up. But I can't take it back, so I wait. I give him time and space and wait until he's ready to answer.
"I'm sorry." He mutters incoherently, twisting open the doorknob and leaving the room.
I'm left alone again with nothing but the art that is deserted on the floor. But I pick it up and stare at it, it's deeper meaning.
Because it represents me messing things up.
That field of black, it's my mind. But it's probably Basil's mind too.
So art loses all its escape appeal.
