A Collection of Short Stories

The Child That Cried Art

I love art. I know I'm not good at it- not by a long shot- but it's fun. Entering meaningless competitions or even just the joy of filling a sketch book. It was fun. Not now.
----
I walk down the corridors of my high school, making my way to my locker. I dialed the combination and opened it, revealing my favorites of my art works. They weren't actually good- and I knew and accepted that- but they just made me feel better sometimes.

I heard a whispers behind me, which wasn't unusual unfortunately. I shut my locker, locked it, and walked off as if nothing happened.

Instead of paying attention in history class, I just doodled. I sat in the back of the class- so it just looked like I was writing notes to them hopefully.

I was drawing a young boy who was picking flowers. I imagine they were for his mother. His father was gone, leaving his mother in constant despair.

After getting about half way through the rough sketch of the image, the bell rang signaling the end of class and time to go home.

I collected my sketch book and pencils, tossing them into my bag before racing off.

As I walked, I pulled out my art phone and earbuds and turned on some music. Usually when I'm stressed out I'll draw- but drawing on a moving school bus isn't the best idea.

After an agonizing hour, I make it home and go straight to my room. I haphazardly toss my bag onto the floor after pulling out my sketch book and pencils so that I can resume my piece. It was nothing to be proud of really. It was all wrong in every way.

But there was only one way to truly find out.

My mother walked through the front door, slamming it shut before making her way the living room and onto the couch.

"Hey mom?" I asked hesitantly, "I drew a picture and wanted your opinion on it."

I bit my lip as I showed her the image of the boy. He was picking lilies and had a wide grin in his face. The colors were painted with watercolors in a soft, smooth looking texture.

"Why is a little boy picking flowers? And happy about it? That's stupid," she answered, hardly even glancing at it.

"Sorry, you're right," I mumbled turning towards my room. I knew it was bad- they all are. What's even the point anymore? Even if it makes me happy, I'm just wasting my time.

I throw my sketch book on my floor and plop down face first on my bed. Why am I doing this? Drawing all the time? It's never going to get me anywhere. Jobs with art don't pay enough to make a living, I'll end up alone and on the streets.

----

I woke up at about 2am. Dinner is overrated anyway I guess. I roll over and lie awake on my back, staring at the patterns on the ceiling. They looked more like random ugly splotches that patterns really.

I got up and started pacing around my room. If I can't do art anymore, what will I do? I've got to get some sort of career. What did I do besides draw?

...

Sleep?

I stop in my tracks and groan, putting my face in my hands. What am I going to do?

----

I wake up to realize I'm curled up in a ball in the corner of my room. I stretch my back as I go to stand up, yawning at the same time. I quickly got ready and gathered my things for another agonizing day of high school.

Rushing out the door in a hurry, I made it to school. I was there quite early actually, I guess I didn't actually check the time, I just assumed I was late. I walked in and made my way to my locker. It's a lot nicer here when there aren't tons of teens walking through the halls. I open my locker and hesitate for a moment. There staring back at me was a few of my 'best' pieces of art.

My eyes start to water as I take a moment to look away. Without a moment to spare I turn back to my locker and rip them out of my locker, letting them fall to the floor. But I don't stop there, I proceed to pull everything out. Textbooks, notebooks, folders, everything. I drop to the floor once it's all out and turn my back to the wall, sinking to the floor with my face in my hands.

I sit there for a moment, silently letting the tears fall down my face. After about a solid minute, more students start arriving, giving me strange looks, but never once asking what happened or what was wrong.

I stood up, keeping my head down, and running back out of the building. I ran all the way back home, and straight up to my room locking my door. I could hear my mother downstairs calling for me. She probably doesn't actually care. I storm over to my desk pulling out paper and pencils.

I just draw. Draw until I can't anymore. After my hand can't possibly take it anymore, I place them all around my room in chronological order. I take my knife off of my dresser and hold it delicately in my hand. I place the last image in my pocket and slide the blade over my neck, and fall to the floor.

----

Her mother walked upstairs after hearing a thump come from her child's room. She knocked on the door.

"Darling is everything alright? You better get to school, you'll end up late again."

There was no response. Only a strange sound that could only be described as a small gargling sound.

Her mother unlocked the door with a key to the door that was placed above the door frame. 

She screamed. 

----

Three months later

Her mother stepped into her child's room for the first time in three months. Everything was the same, just with a light layer of dust on it. Her mother drug her hand across the walls around the room, looking at each image that displayed. Each was a drawing of every time she was told her art wasn't good, was ugly, or a dumb idea. It was her reaction each time. All were very similar. She curled up and cried. But one was not like the others. The mother took the final image from her pocket and held it up to the light above. This one was her daughter lying on the floor, surrounded in a pool of blood- her final reaction.