Chapter 1.
Trickling water drops-drip endlessly, from my leaky broken bedroom window. After the storm had suddenly washed away, a cold breeze struck through the shattered crevices of the superior. It was cold. Definitely cold. In fact, winter was roughly marching it's way to where it shall be soon enough.
I look out my window, towards the dim darkness that surrounds the neighborhood. The driveway of houses on my street, filled up of puddles with extreme levels of water. Roof shingles missing from roof tops, and some that had landed on the ground. It was day time. Not night-although, it was absolutely dark enough to be. The sky lightened up deliberately, and the moon was coming out, just after several faded stars had appeared out of nowhere. I rest my elbow upon the windowsill, as I lay my chin in the palm of my hand. I see the shabby reflection of my appearance as I look distant-up into the misty clouds.
The boredom is completely overwhelming. Everything seems so extremely gloomy, and uneasy. A chill spikes through my spine, as I grab the revealing, torn art book from under my bed and snatch a pen from my counter top. Drawing-is doubtlessly something that keeps me company. Especially when there's nothing good to do on a tedious-Sunday night.
I plunge straight onto my bed, grabbing my pillow, using it as a surface to where I often put my art book on. I hold my illustration distant from where I lay. Taking a glimpse of my hand drawn tree. Just two vertical lines for the stump, some branches that spread outwards, and shading where darker places will appear. I suppose I could be proud of myself, but I just don't feel eager enough to.
Falling back, I lay flat on my mattress. My art book sits still on my lap—like an open book of depicting pictures. It's as if I'm missing a battery in me. I feel intellectually drained, and exhausted with my pondering thoughts. I pinch myself to see if I've fallen asleep, but the pain endures—so I can't be. Though, when my face is glued to my pillow at night, dreams are arrayed only as if they are reality.
No knocks on the door, as yet— sound. Just me, myself, and my own shadow that lies before me. Being home alone is somewhat great, but It makes me feel uncertain. Somehow- abandoned, though it wouldn't quite make sense.
YOU ARE READING
Different.
Non-FictionIt's her first day of high school, and much has varied overtime. For her, it's nothing like the past, and so-the future is all to be worried about. Nothing can change who she is, therefore it makes her definitely bitter on the inside. She's desponde...
