Give it back || Completed

12

Charlie's POV

As I close the door behind me, I go and sit on my couch. The room around me is pretty normal, casual and generic. White walls, with hints of grey as it goes towards the ground. Black tiles on the floor, and even though it's hard to spot stains, it's harder to find blood ones as well. I have little to no items in this room. A black couch, which I'm sitting on right now, a small table in front of it with a TV on it to watch the news, mostly. Next to the TV, I have also placed the router for the WiFi. There is a small kitchen some steps away, where it has the basic things to cook and preserve my food.

No one would ever suspect a thing.

And the black door? that small voice inside my head says as I look back at it and see it's standing out from the white walls.

Shit, I forgot to put the library in front of it.

I walk towards a small library that was a little larger than the door, and I push it in front of it, covering it completely.

I look at it again and I grin, knowing that it's a good hiding place.

Perfect.

My gaze turns and I see the door to the other side of the room, across the kitchen. I walk there and I open the wooden door. Inside of it, there is my room with the few objects that I need: A bed, a desk and a chair. I also have a small, white fan on my desk, since I have bought an apartment without A/C because I wanted it to be cheaper. 

I plop myself on the messy bed with the blue covers and close my eyes for a minute. The image of that bitch's crying face pops up in my mind, making me smile. She looks so pretty when she's crying. She would be even prettier if she cried more. 

I get up and grab some clothes from the ground. Α white tank top and some old jeans of mine. Walking away from my room, I start going towards the bathroom, which is right next to my room.

I always change here. I got that habit when I got in college four years ago. Man, it's been so long. I remember that I was so happy to go to that photography school. It just brought so much joy to my soul. Maybe I wasn't pretty, but I could make others look beautiful.

Leaving the clothes next to the sink, I slowly take off my mask as I look to the mirror. A nasty scar is on my mouth. There is not enough lip balm to make my lips not look like someone cut them with a knife. The fact that I bite them doesn't help a lot either. The burn extends from the left part of my chin to the upper part of my cheeks and it stops right under my nose. 

I caress my hand on my cheek and trace the line of the burn with my fingers, feeling the difference between the burned skin and the full of sweat, smooth one. 

I used to be so ugly.

But now... Now, I am a little more pretty. 

People think that scars are awful. Things to be ashamed of. Things that are completely and utterly ugly, but I believe they are beautiful. They are part of yourself. They are witnesses of the things you've been through and are the proof that you've lived through awful events.

Many people believe that, but they still don't understand how beautiful they are. They say things like: "embrace your beauty!" and "Don't hate your scars, they are part of you!", but they don't comprehend how beautiful they are to my eyes.

Every person should have at least one major scar. It would make them prettier. And the more scars they have, the more perfect they become.

That's why I do what I do. I just want to make the world prettier, but people don't appreciate art. They don't appreciate the blood, sweat and tears I put in my work. They treat me as a monster. Something that must be disposed of, while I'm just an artist with a vision.

Whatever, I shake these thoughts from my head, otherwise an accident might happen.

I take off my hoodie, which is like my second skin, and I quickly put on the white shirt. The same thing happens with my trousers and I throw the dirty clothes inside the washing machine. 

I get out of the bathroom and I walk into my dim-lighted. I walk to my desk and sit on the wooden chair. I open the drawers on my desk maniacally and take out a piece of paper and a 2B pencil.

With swift movements of my hand, I start creating basic shapes: A circle for a head and rectangles and triangles for the body.

Then, I try to recall how her face was. She was looking stunning, for sure. I just need to get it out on paper.

I continue moving my hands, making the shapes more defined. I put eyes and a nose on the circle. I make sure I bring out the shining in her eyes correctly. Her luscious lips, so soft and kissable. Her soft hair that is definitely going all over the place in the summer air.

And then, a cut. One on her right cheek, blood dripping from it. A big choking mark on her neck. Bruises on her other cheek and legs. More cuts. On her arms, collarbone and hips.

This drawing is becoming more and more beautiful with every stroke and every detail.

An hour later, I am done with it. I raise it a little so that I could look at it from an angle. The light from the lamp, that is behind the drawing, makes my fingers show behind the paper, making the drawing be more fade than it actually is, but the more I look at it, the more confident I become.

"It's perfect."

And that's how I decided what I'll do with her once I regain my laptop from that son of a bitch, that flea, that insufferable prat, Simon. 

And no one will be able to stop me.