Chapter 2: I've Said Enough
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It was cold. I didn't remember where I was at first, but soon found out as my heavy eyelids slid open. My eyes narrowed in on the dreary day playing out my window. Raining again?
I blinked my eyes a few times before sitting up. I pushed up off my elbows to sit up straight and as I did something fluttered to the ground.
A note. It was written on lined paper and folded in half, making a tent on the ground. I reached down under the bed to retrieve it.
I opened it and read it silently:
November 12, 2020
Dear Elizabeth,
I was looking at your sketchbook again while you slept. You are a really talented artist, I'd love to see you draw more. Maybe at our next session you could draw me if you want. haha Anyway I'll see you tomorrow. :)
Liam
That was... I guess complimentary of him. Or For lack of a better word, I guess, sweet. Maybe, polite enough, but why would he look through my sketch book?
I looked to it as it lay on the table beside my bed, next to Liam's usual seat in the dismal hospital room. I sighed, picking it up and setting it on my lap.
I opened it to the first page, a page that had been used back in my freshman high school days for my first actual art class, the picture was hostile. Showing a great amateur still life of a fruit bowl.
The next page wasn't any better, it was my first drawing of a human form in the class and I snorted looking at the pages contents. The figure looked uncomfortable, laying on its side, hands pressed to its face. No concept what so ever. I cringed as I turned the page and was surprised to find one of my many facial studies I did in my last year of high school.
It was noses and hair, littered across the page, heads with no faces and faces with no eyes. It was slightly creepy, but useful for my painting of Liam tomorrow. Wait? What? Had I actually decided to draw him? It was made in my brain that I would, so I guess I could.
The next few pages were all of facial and body studies. Pleasant as they were the next page was my most favorite. A never ending spiral, it was an illusion to the eye, and it reminded me of my life. I sighed, closing the sketch book and placing it next to myself on the bed. I looked from it to the window, sniffing up the cold putrid air of the mental hospital wing. I sighed again, standing from my position on the bed and walking over to the window seat.
It was a seat embedded into the wall, placed just before a window. It was strongly carved out of wood and a soft cushion laid on top of the mahogany wood. While I sat with my feet neatly tucked under my butt, I stared out the window down at the bustling streets, and the rushing cars, and the people of the city. From up in a hospital, it looked peacful, not being able to hear a sound but I remembered the noise so well. The noise was something you could never forget.
And I never did.
Tears streamed down my face as I watched everyone walk by in contentment, irritation, annoyance, or plain modesty. I rubbed my cheeks, clearing the tears off my soaking cheeks. My vision was clearly blurry, but I kept my eyes on the city streets, buried in emotion, and desperate for escape.
I didn't hear him walk in, but he made his presence known by scratching pen to paper in a notebook. I looked over my shoulder to see him sitting on the side of my bed with another piece of lined paper in his hand. He held it out to me and I took it solemnly, opening it to see his scrawly handwriting on the half sheet of notebook paper:
