Darkness of My Light

Chapter 1

3:21 AM

I'm here, once again? No, not once. Twice, perhaps? Thrice? A countless times. Every night It's the same touch of different energies. It isn't easy to view the world with your eyes closed especially when it becomes so metaphysically clear, in the darkness.

7:00 AM

My Alarm went off, The earth has completed another round, once again? No, a countless times. I can hear the sound of TV coming from downstairs. Brother is Home. "Survival of the fittest.", I hear. I scoff, thinking "How did I survive the first 20 years of my life, when I am unmistakably unfit for existence?" I get out of my Bed and notice the clear white sheets that I own are covered in paint. I must have dropped my Paint bottle that I keep on the wooden rack attached to my grey coloured walls over my bed, onto my Sheets. I don't care. My room has always been this messy. To give you an overview, my room is filled with half and a few fully painted canvases and paints of all colours and kinds, most of them are various abstract arts with dark colours and a rare amount of them contain lively colours like yellow, green, pink as well but it's mostly dark or shades of white, I like it that way. Unorganised. Scattered. Somewhat broken with no intentions or willingness to be fixed. I also have some green plants in my room that I just adore, they're named Mr Nik, Miss Monica, Miss Maevery, and Mr Uno's, haven't decided onto what shall I name the remaining others, though. I have a little study table matching with a chocolate brown wooden chair. Because I enjoy reading, sometimes. I like exploring the author's brain and paint them as I perceive the book, I have painted a favourite author of mine, A.Adams; as a man in a suit with half visible face and a sinister half smile holding a silver knife in his hand, and rest is covered with dark black shadow with a blood shot red eyebrow, he writes crime fictions. But I think that's where he actually manages to fool people, he is seen as a very sophisticated gentleman to the masses who just happens to have an imaginative mind. I highly doubt that. I've only met him once, we shook hands that was when I knew something was different about him. He wasn't like your normal authors, the young authors got excited when their books were being checked out. The more experienced and sophisticated one's always had a look of kindness and a smile on their faces, even if they were faking it, it was there. That was what I first noticed about A.Adams he was fairly a young man in his late 20's who had published his first book, he wasn't excited about the book or looking at the people who were going around reading his fictional crime novel, he was observing them, he was continuously fidgeting with his hands, he seemed skittish, as if it was he who committed the crime written in those books and feared someone would figure it out and all his twisted dark secrets would blow up. When I shook his hand, he smiled. His grip on my Hand was firm, if he was only anxious about his books. He would have had a light grip on it, He was confident cause I had just walked in and hadn't even read a single line about the felonies that he perpetrated and were buried under those words. I knew it.

"Helps an Artist stay creative, I've heard." I'm pulled out of my thoughts as I hear my Older brother's voice echo through my ear drums. I stop right in my tracks and turn around only to be met by his smug look with his signature smirk plastered on his face. He's casually leaning against my door in his disheveled hair and wrinkled white shirt, as if I cannot see the disappointment and tiredness in his eyes. He's defeated. I can see it. He's had a stressful week. He's exhausted, all He needs is his younger brother to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and say "You look Tired brother. I will handle all the meetings Today. Why don't you take a day off?" I am that younger brother. I am expected to say it, But I don't. As much as I can feel his worn out posture begging me to do something for him, I simply cannot. I walk past him. Our shoulders touch and for a moment I felt like he's so drowsy that If I touched him once more, He'd collapse right into my arms and pass out. I cannot let that happen. He's supposed to be the Problem-Solver, The responsible, brother. I'm supposed to be the quiet, stays all day in his room, doing Christ knows, What?, one.