She reached into her drawer, glossy eyes searching for the auburn light of an alarm clock on the dresser. Time ticked on, as night was becoming grey in the face. She was tired, yet somehow, indifference swept over her heart; after all, what was the point in hurrying to sleep? It was a stuffy Saturday night.
From her drawer, she pulled out a small, pink bag containing a digital camera. The screen blinked on, and a familiar ringing sounded in her ears. It was too late for that kind of bothersome noise. But why did it really matter, anyway; the noise didn't hurt her. The thought drifted away, and she unbuttoned her fleece pajama top, revealing herself to no one.
The flash was blinding, but her pale eyes soon began to adjust. One after another, the shutter blinked its cyclops eye, while a white blaze traversed her skin; it freckled with gooseflesh from the chilly air. Looking at the photographs, she admired the shadows which showed off the slight dips and curves of her body, provided by the small, gourd-shaped lamp in the corner, which cast a yellow glow over the furniture in the room.
Once satisfied with her work, she placed the camera back into its bag, and into the dresser next to her queen-sized bed. The next morning, she would embark on a journey into the arts, and trace her tender skin onto the drawing pad she aquired from her sister. What better model than herself, she thought.
Reaching back into the drawer next to her, she pulled out a journal. The sullen picture of a bluebird graced its cover, which was regarded with a sigh.
To the next clean page she turned, before glancing back over her shoulder to find a pencil; her eyes, however, caught sight of his jacket. She reached across the bed, carefully picking his sweatshirt up off of a nearby rockingchair.
Pulling it in close to her heart, she sniffed the inside, her nose trying to locate any last remnents of his strong, almost overwhelming, scent. Alas, it had been washed since the night he told her that she could keep it; she still, however, planned on returning it to him. The sight of it brought back too many memories.
While wearing it one day, a trickle of toothpaste had slipped from the corner of her mouth, landing directly on the center of the jacket. Begrudgingly, she had given it up for the weekly load of laundry which her mother performed; she didn't want to return the jacket in a bad condition. Obviously she hadn't planned on having it almost a month after their breakup.
But how would she even return it? She couldn't return it at school, what with everyone milling around, and he himself was almost always busy afterwords. Perhaps what they had talked about the week earlier would suffice...
Suddenly, a hopeful, yet sad song began to play on the radio, one that had been "the song" of his past relationship. She drooped her head, sighed, and went back to the search for a pencil. Turning back to her open journal, on a fresh page, she began:
1-25-14
"Impurities are coursing through my veins...
They blackened out "your song".
It makes me sad to know we never had one...
If I want nothing more to do with love, then tell me now; what have I left to lose?"
