Worth Living For

Chapter 1

That awful, dreaded moment in the morning, where the sun beams through the cracks in the curtains that covers your bedroom window, screaming "Wake up, lazy ass!" so loud it makes your ears ring, came swirling by all too soon that morning.

I cursed as my body suffered a brutal blow to the floor. Untangling myself from the masses of sheets that had joined me, I got to my feet, holding the side of my bed for balance. I stumbled, almost meeting with the floor for the second time this morning, as my legs regained feeling. When they did, I made my way to the dresser across the room, grabbing the pants that I had laid out the night before and pulling them on over my boxers. I ignored the shirt, deciding that I wouldn't put it on until I was ready to leave, in fear that I would, with my luck, ruin it entirely with coffee and paint; or, whatever else was around the house that hated me enough to throw itself all over the new shirt I had purchased in my feeble attempt to impress.

I pushed 'start' on the coffee maker that sat on my empty kitchen counter, and headed towards what I liked to call my studio; which was really just supposed to be the dining room, but I used it for my art instead. The previous night, I had stopped mid-painting, which I rarely ever did. But, I had promised myself I would go to sleep at a halfway-decent time, so that the sun didn't give me too much of a surprise the next morning.

As my coffee brewed, I picked up my paintbrush and continued the painting like I hadn't even stopped. The brush cast colors onto the canvas as I listened to the noises my coffee maker spat out, and watched my hand blur in all different motions. It didn't feel like my brain controlled what my hand was doing as I painted, and I didn't mind that. It sort of comforted me, in a weird way, knowing that my hand could make the art that my brain thought of. I always thought to myself that I'd never be able to put onto a canvas what appeared in my head, but I found that when a brush was placed in between my fingers, my hand just did the job for me. Sometimes I was even taken back by the art I had created, standing with my mouth hung open as I stared at the finished piece in front of me. Sometimes I didn't even believe that I had just painted what was on the canvas in front of me. But sometimes, I would get so angry, frustrated, unhappy with the art that I was making, I would ruin the art. Smash the canvas, paint over the still-wet paint until it was fully covered with black. I'd throw things, kick things, scream. Get the anger out of my body. I didn't know why I got like this; but I soon realized that every artist had to have these moments. It was just a part of making art. You couldn't love every piece of art that you made. It wasn't healthy.

The painting was finished, and I could smell the coffee that had finished brewing from the other room. I went and poured myself my first cup, which would take the place of the breakfast that I had no plans of shoving down my throat this morning.

After the third cup of coffee, it was nearly 8am, and I figured that if I didn't get off my ass, I would be extremely late. I threw my cup into the sink and went back into my bedroom, pulling my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and buttoning it up so it covered my bare chest. I headed towards the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. I ran my hands through my dark, messy hair a few times, pressed the bottom of my palms against my eyes, splashed some cold water on my face, and did anything else in attempt to wake myself up more, because coffee didn't exactly do the job anymore. I brushed my teeth, and stared at my reflection for a couple more minutes, trying to find something that I could do that would make me look more presentable. My eyes flickered to the shelf to the left of me, and I smiled when I saw that the dog-tag my father had given me years ago was hanging off the edge. I hadn't worn the dog-tag in years, afraid that I would lose it. I wouldn't be able to bare seeing the look on my dad's face if I ever had to tell him I lost the dog-tag he had worn through the wars that he had fought. He trusted me enough to let me have it, and he told me it would give me strength when I needed it. I reached my hand up and closed my fingers around the chain. I pulled the chain over my head, the dog-tag resting on my chest. I hid the it under my shirt, patting my chest where it rested under the material.