The Boy with the Pen

Part 4

My eyes fluttered open, faint light pouring in from my window. I yawned and sat up, rubbing my eyes. I had barely gotten sleep, nightmares plaguing my mind. I couldn't remember what I had dreamed about, but it was unsettling. I glanced over to the ground. No ink.

I let out a long, relieved breath and swung my legs over the bed. None of it was real.

I pulled on a grey hoodie and clean boxers, stretching. Like an annoying bug, my side itched. I began to scratch it, but paused when my hands grew sticky. I pulled them into view. My fingers were caked with ink. My heart stopped, causing me to stiffen up. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

I wiped my hand on my boxers and walked out of my room, heading downstairs. My parents greeted me.

"Hello, good morning," My mom said, kissing me on the cheek. I blushed slightly and inched away, just as my dad patted me on the shoulder.

"How are you today?" he asked, slight reproachfulness in his voice. I looked at him, searching his face. He had a smile on, but his eyebrows were slightly furrowed. I could tell he was upset.

"I'm fine," I murmured, trying to turn away. He stopped me.

"Did you make that mess upstairs?"

I froze, facing him slowly. "What do you mean?"

My mom set down her towel and placed her hands on her hips. "Ink. Ink everywhere upstairs. Only one of us took my pens from my drawer."

My mouth gaped. It was real.

"Um, I don't know-" 

"Just clean it up," My dad huffed, walking away. I stared after him, my stomach sinking, my heart crawling up my throat.

A towel and sponge was thrusted in my hands. My mom arched an eyebrow. "Clean it up, please."

I nodded solemnly and walked upstairs, feeling like I was walking towards my doom.

As I entered the first level, I glanced down at the scene. Ink, now black, had been splattered everywhere, like a hoard of monsters with ink for blood was attacked by a guy with a sword. And it looked like they put up a big fight. There was ink dripping from the walls, and seeping from the door. So much, in fact, that there's still a stain there.

I kneeled down and set to work. I was preparing myself for a long day of cleaning, when I discovered I didn't need to. When my sponge touched the ink, it flowed into it, like a reverse tide. I looked at the sponge and squeezed it in a bucket of water. It swirled for a moment before turning into a lighter blue.

I continued like this for about 20 minutes. It was harder on surfaces like wood, since it didn't re-absorb well. I wiped my brow, now giving it a nice smudge, and headed for my room. When I walked in, I realized that, yes indeed, it did happen. How did I not see it this morning? There were splotches everywhere. The wall was coated, along with my ripped up canvas and floor.

I set to work, a little uneasily, and got it spotless by noon. My parents had left for work while they had me tidy up the house. It was a Saturday, so it was fine with me. Usually my chores are harder.

I shook my head, running my fingers through my dried hair and paused. I looked down- my body was covered in ink. Slightly grossed out, I turned on the shower as I walked into the bathroom. I'm going to spare you the details, since I don't want people to know about my showering techniques.

Once I dried off, I mussed my hair. Black as always. No ink.

I entered my room, now sporting a black tank top, and approached the ink pen. I stopped, my feet inches away from it, and thought.