Luke's POV
"So Luke," Ashton says as he appears by my side while walking to our third period class - Art, "I realized that I still haven't gotten your phone number."
Shit. This is what I was afraid of. He'll probably text me five-hundred times a day, or talk on the phone the whole rest of the night. Great.
"Sure," I said, pulling out my phone. "Here you go."
We exchanged phone numbers, then continued our way to class. Once we got inside, we sat in our usual seat in the back, which was a desk made for two people to sit at. Of course, Ashton had took advantage of that when he first saw it.
Our Art teacher, Miss Ronald, smiled at the class. "Today you'll be free drawing. Just relax and draw the first thing that comes to mind and yes, this will be graded."
I started sketching out what I wanted to draw, which was a lonely boy sitting on a bench alone with his guitar in hand. I think pictures has to have a deep sentimental meaning, like it describes who you are. Call it cheesy, but that's my opinion.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Ashton keep glancing from me to his paper. He erased whatever he had drawn ten million times, probably trying to get it to be perfect. Art's not perfect though, no matter what.
Once I was finished with my drawing, I stared at it. I soon zoned out, reminiscing over the dark memory that was hidden behind this portrait.
Suddenly, all the pain from that horrid day washed over me again and again like waves washing over the sand. I blinked multiple times but I couldn't get the image out of my head. It was like the boy in the picture looked up from his guitar and stared at me, the familiar sadness in his blue eyes visible.
The sadness was mine. It scared me.
I tried to take a deep breath and look away, but my eyes were glued to the picture. I hadn't noticed that I drew a speech bubble by the boys mouth and inside words, 'Someone Save Me' were written. The torture was back again.
He was calling out for help. This was the day after things went wrong. After things went down the hill. He didn't think he'd find happiness again, and he still never had. My mind played a trick on me by imagining the guitar falling from his arms and dropping to the ground, breaking in half. He was upset, tears threatened to fall from his eyes, and he was in unbearable yet invisible pain.
He was me.
I let out a shout and every head in the classroom turned to me. Some students glared, others stared, and most snickered.
"Luke," Miss Ronald spoke softly at me, "are you okay?"
From beside me, I heard Ashton whisper, confusion on his face. "What's wrong, Luke?"
I was suffocating in this damn classroom and from this damn picture. I grabbed my book bag and ran out, hearing the teacher shout. I had to get out of there, not caring if I'd get in trouble.
I ran outside and found a bench perfectly hidden behind the trees, where no one could really see me. It was the same bench in the picture, but I just needed someone to sit.
I felt stupid. I ran out of the classroom, practically crying, all because of a stupid picture that reminded me of a stupid memory that I should have forgotten by now.
How did something I draw effect me so badly? Did this ever happen to any of the artists? Art is dumb, but it's also intelligent. Like me. I'm a work of art, something that could be drawn, and something that could be erased. Also, something that could be crumpled and throw into the trash.
