The Rebel

IV

Monday's have always been my favourite day for a number of reasons. One, they get me out of the house for several hours where I don't have to be around my Mother for more than breakfast and saying that I'm home after a late shift. Two, I have all of my classes which is helpful for letting out all of my frustrations. Finally, three, it is the day to start new.

Everyone believes a New Year is best for starting again and improving oneself. However, that can be every Monday if you are willing to put the effort in. It is a start to endless possibilities; I could learn a new language, a new instrument, make a new friend, I could do so much because it is a time to improve on the prior seven days. Part of it is probably in the hope that a new week means less stress and anger.

My professor is currently wandering around the classroom, glancing over each shoulder to inspect the artwork being produced like a factory. Everyone seems to be doing great on the challenge, I'm still a lost cause.

I originally began sketching an abandoned building only for it to come out covered in flora and beautiful graffiti. I am hopeless at staying away from my style. When you know your strengths and preferences, it is challenging to turn one's back.

"Still too vibrant, Rhett." Clare positions herself on the empty stool to my right. No one ever sits on my table, avoiding me like my colourful nature will be caught as though it is a disease. "I know, I know. I'm doing my best but once I start, I can't stop." I press my forehead onto the wooden desk, grumbling incoherently.

"I like this one, it's particularly abstract." Twisting my neck, she's flicking through my book and has obviously landed on my rugged model. "Similar to your usual pieces, yes. Though there is a darkness and deathly aura within it. More of this and you'll have completed the task."

"I think it may be a one off." I grunt, revealing everything I've drawn since then. It comes as no surprise that they are all fluorescent and intricate. "Maybe find what compelled you to do this." She points to the portrait, skimming her fingers over each line of my pencil. "It was just some guy that came into my work."

"Find something else that gives you the same feeling he did." She stands, straightening her apron that's splashed with years worth of paints. Her hand squeezes on my shoulder before moving onto the next student.

It isn't much longer when the class ends and we're dismissed. Realising we're actually late, I stagger from my rush. I can't be late for work, I may die. I have never been late for anything and I'm not about to start, I like to be early for being early or I may break down from dooming the whole world.

Like always, every individual in the corridor scoots to the edges to let me through, yet again acting like I'm an unwanted infected rodent. My outfits aren't the only thing that cause this problem, my personality is a repellent. It's as if being optimistic at our age is ridiculous, being proud and confident in yourself is unforgivable to my generation.

Not paying attention to where I'm going, my eyes remain on my bag while attempting to shove my sketch book into its place, behind everything else. It's refusing due to the bottle I have left, typically it would be empty by now but I refilled it earlier after Music caused a drought in my throat.

Hopping down the four steps to the main hall, my body slams into another for the first time in years. I'm sent stumbling to the floor, my feet far behind me from the force of someone else hurrying to be somewhere also. I'm lucky enough to land on their padded chest while they're smashed into the tiles. I genuinely flinch from the clash of a skull onto stone.

"I am so sorry! I wasn't looking!" I panic. Trying to push upwards, my knee cracks against some sensitive reproductive parts. "Sorry!" Instead of moving to my knees, I decide to try crawling off of them, only for my hand to slip. My elbow lands in a rib, my forehead pummelling their chin. "I'm -"