Drawing Soldiers

Chapter Four

The table was filled with laughter, the family that sat around it seemed happy. Family, that's what these people are, whether they've known each other their whole lives or just met, the uniform, the purpose they serve, ties them in unbending chains of admiration and devotion to each other and their families at home. After today or a week from now, when they leave and seperate they will check on each other. They will ask personal question when on the phone or just know by looking at each other how they are doing and if they need any sort of help and then there is me sitting at the end of the table with a pad and pencil drawing fake smiles and eyes full of anger, fear and loneliness.

Faces that belong to the people surrounding me but eyes that show my soul and maybe theirs, but mostly my own. My fear to never see them again, my anger of not being able to change their minds and the loneliness that clouds my life every single time they bored the Godforsaken plane that I hate so much. If only they knew that I wasn't drawing them, I was drawing myself with their faces, with their scars. The physical scars that represents my emotional and mental ones. Scars that hide deep down in my soul, scars that deserve no acknowledge at least not IN front of them. They already have so much to carry why burden them with my weight.

  Breakfast was a family meal as was dinner the day before, everyone sat with a plate of food and conversed with each other taking turns talking as if their lives hadn't been altered by what they say they loved the most. As if everything they lived for had been yanked from their hands with out an explanation and they now had to figure out how they would move on, what they would or could do to provide for not only themselves but also for their families.

"You're talented. I can see it all." I take a deep breath and let it out in the most dramatic way I could hope that it would demonstrate that I wasn't in the mood for conversation.

"She's always had that special something in her drawings, I've never been able to find what it was that captivated everyone so much. i could never truly see what she did in them that showed so much emotion." her father spoke from a few chairs down and a hand, Warrens hand landed on hers. He knew, he had seen her suffer. he had seen her poor herself into every canvas.

"Its the eyes, every single one of them tells a story. they are full of life, pain. I saw it yesterday as well. you have talent pouring from you, do you have a portfolio? I have some friends that would kill to know you." Jayden keeps his eyes on the page while he talks. But she can see how his aware of everything and everyone surrounding him, she can see his eyes shift and take glances at the other men when ever one of them makes a movement. its an occupational hazard, they all do it every now and ten. usually when some one they just met feels more like a threat than a friend or when there's some one around they want to keep safe even when there is no immediate danger around them. 

"No I don't. and I'm also not interested." the words fly from my mouth so fast and with so much strength that they have everyone looking at me. there is wonder in there eyes. they know I have a portfolio filled with the drawings I've collected over the years, drawings that reflect me in one way or another. I've never personally sketched myself and don't plan on doing it but most of my drawings show me in a way. 

I slam my drawing journal shot and make my way out of the dining hall and towards my room but am stopped by the sound of crying, I look into what appeared to be a physical therapy room where their is what looks to be a medical professional and a man laying on his back with is legs up in the air being pushed up towards his body a little bit at a time. His face is wet with tears and his hands lay flat against the floor stretched out away from his body. I can feel the itch run up my fingers but before I can grab my pencils his eyes snap open and his sight settles on me, there's no sadness in his eyes, there's hope, excitement, happiness. all things I've yet to draw but I cant seem to stop myself. he watches as I step in the room and begin to work on my next project. Something other than me.

I'm not sure when I last felt at peace, its what drawing did to me before. it brought peace, it was a way for me to feel more than just all the bad, but a couple of years ago it just stopped. I no longer feel renewed when I finish painting, I feel pain, a physical ache that takes over ever nerve in my body and drowns me with my own blood until their is no oxygen left in my me and my brain is left with nothing except the idea if hurting. But for the first time in 3 years I can finally breath, and dear Jesus it hurts. the first lungs filling inhalation is so overwhelming I begin to cry as well but nothing will stop me from completing this one. his eyes are still trained on me and mine on a scar that runs down the calf if his left leg, going straight through a tattoo of what used to be a name. you can still make out what it said but the scar was going right through the middle, when the work is finally done I take my time to write the name Adeline down the side of the page. The letters bold and strong just like on his skin, the difference being the scar that he had recently acquired and how it takes away the attention to what used to be the beautiful art dedicated to a special someone. 

I rip the page of the journal and move to hand it to the man now laying flat on the floor. His eyes study my movements, they follow me all the way towards him and then disappear on to the page. his finger traces the name on the side with so much gentleness that causes my breathing to halt.  After a second of watching him study my work I turn and return to my previous action. Walking away from the truth that has kept me under for so long.