Where Is God? - Sabriel

vi

Where does the line between friendship and something more lie? I have to say, with me and Sam, the lines are becoming increasingly blurry. When we sit next to each other in classes, our knees brush, and we simply let it happen, not mentioning it. When we sit together in our free lessons, sometimes our hands will end up attached. I can still make Sam blush whenever I feel like seeing him flustered, but he gets more and more comfortable flirting back with me, something that makes me smile. It's nice to feel liked.

Charlie hangs out with us a lot too. Her and Sam get on really well. We sit together in the study room a lot, frequently joined by others like Jody and Garth. It's just us three today in the study room, Sam puzzling over a history essay, Charlie and I with all our art supplies collected in the centre of the table, sharing equipment, working separately on our art books. Sam peers over at my work, resting his chin on my shoulder so that our heads touched.

"I've hardly started yet, Sam. There's nothing to see," I mumble, only half-focused on him. I'm sketching idly, wanting to get a rough outline and get my proportions right before I start to paint.

"It looks nice though," Sam says politely.

I chuckle at him, nudging him with my elbow. "You're just being nice. I started ten minutes ago. There's not even anything on the page yet."

"Show me some finished bits then. You've never shown me any of your art."

"Maybe later, Samsquatch," I deflect. I'm not a bad artist, and sometimes I'm even a little proud of my work. That doesn't mean I like sharing it. The word artist covers a great many variety of disciplines: art, music, poetry, writing, comedy, so on and so forth. What fuels all art is a fundamental foundation of pain. We use our own trauma and use it to create something beautiful so we can bare to face ourselves every morning and face the day, because only in finding a light in the darkness can you find a reason to live.

And that's what I'm hiding in my art. The darkness it represents is far too raw, far too real, far too vulnerable. I doubt it would mean anything to an outsider's eye, someone who doesn't share my misery. To anyone other than me, it's superficial, I suppose, completely meaningless. It displays nothing than the one-dimensional picture. Still. It feels like showing part of my soul to someone, because I pour my soul into it as an outlet, so I'm reluctant to let anyone see it.

"His art is phenomenal, Sam," Charlie chimes in, smirking at us with a knowing look. "He has a renaissance style with a modern freshness. It's very sophisticated. Truly breathtaking."

Sam grins at Charlie. "I knew he was good."

I roll my eyes, hunching over and pouring my concentration into the art instead. "Thank you, Charles. You always flatter me."

She giggles and carries on drawing. "What do you want to do for your birthday next week, Gabe?"

Sam tilts his head. "It's your birthday next week? Why didn't you tell me?"

I shrug, hunching over further, like if I make myself seem as small as possible I might disappear entirely, and so will the God awful squirming, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.

"Seriously, Gabriel. What do you want to do for it? You're going to be eighteen! That's a big birthday! We have to celebrate," Charlie insists earnestly.

I shrug again, and feel myself dissociating. I can tell that I'm mentally vacating because suddenly I can't focus on anything, the art I was determined to get on with suddenly seeming hazy and unobtainable. All I want to do with the pencil in my hand is doodle circle after circle after circle until there's a cloud of swirls that can't be untangled.

"What do you want for your birthday, Gabe?" Sam asks.

I smile weakly, wanting the conversation to be over. "Nothing, Sam. Thanks though."