𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘
adjective
displaying a complete lack of feeling or consideration.
Lilith Volkov is a student at Nevermore Academy, a school for outcasts. She's always found it quite boring, until a certain raven haired girl arrives at the school...
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"If you can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain." - Emily Dickinson
Mission succeeced, I got out of Pilgrim World in normal clothes. I wasn't going to wear those stupid clothes and hand out fudge to people, meanwhile it sponsors this shit town.
I walk to the woods, so I can draw and smoke a cigarette. Luckily I aways have my backpack with me, everything I need is in there.
I grab a cigarette out the pack and lighted it, taking a puff. (Oh shit, I forgot what I promised myself that night. Well, then this is officially my last cigarette. It's a habit.) I know I should stop smoking. I know it could cause damage, to my lungs. But why does it feel so good, if it's so bad. That's the golden question.
I always blame the thing I'm addicted to, but it's really me that started this, I'm the one that fucked up this system. I got curious and tried it, I kept doing it, I started liking the feeling, and got addicted. I'm the one that was so naive to even start doing this to my health and my body. I've tried quitting several times, I relapsed everytime.
People that haven't been addicted to something, underestimate going through withdrawal. They think they are strong enough, they think they have enough willpower. Well, newsflash you don't, there is a high chance you'll relapse again, then you're back in the bind. Most of the time it will seduce you into using again.
I sigh and climb up a tree, and sit down on the sturdiest branch. It's more comfortable than I expected. I wip out my sketchbook and find an empty page to draw on.
Art is one of the most beautiful ways to express yourself, that I've seen. Because it isn't about other people, it's about how the artist views the world, their experiences, their flaws, their soul, their feelings and thoughts. It's not about how many people like it it's about you.
Like Georges Braque once said, "In art there is only one thing that counts; the thing you can't explain."
I start drawing a skeleton hand, and in red ink a normal hand. Meanwhile, I have the cigarette hanging out my mouth. It could be interpreted as the person that died, had blood on there hands, that they had killed someone before their death.
There is someone here, somewhere in Jericho with blood on their hands. They are hiding in plane sight, no one will suspect them.
