Cracked Up

Connor

I glance sideways at him. He didn't tell me his name. He looks like a Trent, with that hair. Its short all around except for the top, which is a curly mess. His hair is pitch black, a nice contrast against his pale, pale skin. He probably dyed it. His eyes are a sheer gray; they look almost transparent. I decided not to look him in the eye, no matter what.

After class, he packed up and then went off to art. I followed him there, and noticed that he sat in the back. No wonder I've never noticed him.

I take my seat, which is front and center. The art teacher, Mrs. Kelly, struggles to sit on her desk. She isn't necessarily small, just short. She isn't small anywhere else.

"Charcoal. Knock yourselves out." She says, gesturing to a heap of charcoal at her art supply desk. I get up slowly and shift through the lumps of black rock. I find a decent one and roll it around in my palm. I feel a presence behind me. A hand reaches from behind me, fingers out stretched.

Its crowded around the supply table, and I feel someone breathing on my neck. I'm sure it belongs to the hand. The hand reaches, the long fingers yearning for the coals.

I can tell the person doesn't want to make physical contact with me, or anyone. I spot the one the hand is reaching for. Beside it, a beautifully, plump charcoal.

I set the decent one down and take that one. I also pluck the a desired one from the pile and turn the hand over, palm up. The steady breathing hitches, and I place the desired coal in the hand. I then maneuver my way out of the crowds of greedy artists.

Once I'm at my desk, I turn just in time to see the hand and the person it was attached to. The boy. He's frozen in place, and he's staring at me blankly.

I blink and then rip a page out of my art notebook. I start with lines, then curves. I let my hands take over, and in minutes, I'm left with an eye. A harsh, cold eye. The crowd has left the supply table, including the boy. I continue to draw, and by the end of class, my hands are covered in pitch black dust that won't relent.
I stuff my hyper realistic eye in my notebook along with other torn out, stray papers. I rise and then bolt out the door. I run through the halls, dodging slow walkers and slimy looks from football jocks.

A hear a voice behind me, faint and distinct, but... comforting.

I turn, and nearly slam right into the boy from before. He says my name again, and he feels far away, but he's so close. The edges of the world are melting, melting into charcoal dust and chipping away. His voice is farther, his steel grip on arm, and I'm falling, and he's growing.

Not now, please, not now.

He's shattering like glass, and he keeps breaking until he's nothing but eyes. Those transparent eyes that I vowed to not look into, they compel me, and slow my fall, almost stopping it.

But nothing stops a spaz.