Sketches

2.Sandwiches

Josiah

The thing about surviving trauma was it came with certain perks, i.e say you were an average student who didn't particularly like school you could choose to skip a class and hang out in the sickbay because 'Who knows what kind of damage all that trauma actually did to you.'

And if you were like me and couldn't talk well that's just a bonus because no one expected an explanation from you. So yeah, I pulled a pillow from one of the empty beds and stacked it on top of mine. I fluffed up the pillows and climbed onto the bed letting the pillows support my back as I looked out the window.

There wasn't much to see. A few students here and there and Baring ditching class so he could get dirty playing soccer with his friends. I pulled out a pencil and an eraser from my shirt pocket. Then with a sigh, I traced out the now-familiar outline.

Drawing Baring started out as a hobby but after a couple of weeks, it started to feel like a reflex. Sometimes I could be doodling in my math book and by the end of class, it's a fully sketched picture of Baring's face with his wide goofy smile. To say that I was obsessed was an overstatement.

Dr Getrude called it a coping mechanism. Of course, I didn't tell her I was drawing Baring's face all over my notebook. That would be crazy. I simply said, "I find myself drawing the same tree over and over again."

She said I was hyper fixating on the 'tree' as a way to avoid dealing with what happened to me. But she doesn't know that I 'deal' with my trauma by drawing the soccer captain of my school. A guy I have never spoken to despite sharing two classes with. Ok, so even if we shared all the classes I still wouldn't have spoken to him because...you know. But details are not important. The fact is Dr Getrude did not know anything about dealing with my 'trauma' every day. Especially when it came to things like nurse 'ratchet'(okay so her name is not nurse rachet but it starts with an R too) looking at me with eyes that screamed pity or when my 'designated friend' Fred sat with me every Wednesday because he has to pretend to care about me or when my father's wife says something motherly then acts like she stepped on a live grenade.

Yeah, I dealt with it every day. And maybe drawing Baring, was one of those small moments of happiness that misguided motivational posters talk about. I looked down at the picture I had drawn. It was a carbon copy of the boy. I guess what they say is really true, practice does make perfect. Maybe that was Baring's secret to being the best player on the school team. Perfection and of course practice.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. It was just for a few minutes but the longer my eyes were closed the more smoke filled my lungs. It felt as if someone was pouring smoke down my throat and trapping it within my body. The scent of smoke filled the room and for a millisecond I was there. I was back in that house, fast asleep while people died floors above and below me.

I sat up in the tiny bed, dropping my sketchbook onto the floor and startling nurse ratchet in one fell swoop. Nurse Ratchet scurried over to me and handed me a damp towelette. The small white thing was cold and might as well be branded with my name on it because we did this all the time. She and I. I didn't make a habit of falling asleep in random places but when I did fall asleep the taste of charcoal and the smell of burning wood and rubber always managed to wake me up.

I wiped my face and cleared up any trace of sleep that still lingered on my it. Nurse ratchet looked at me with that wounded puppy look again. Then with a small wobbly smile, she offered me water and half of her sandwich. With the way, everyone was offering me water you would think I was walking around with a 'Parched, dehydrated moron here. Please offer water.' sign on my forehead.

I shook my head and jumped off the bed. Whenever nurse ratchet got like that I usually escaped into the courtyard. And today was no different except... Baring limped into the room hands flailing as he tried to grab a hold of something. His two friends were bare-chested and unfortunately not able to provide much support for Baring.