Tyler Petrit Isn't Here | ✓

09

Nightmares are usually artistic tricks of the mind that could make a good horror novel or creative piece. Mine are flashbacks, just with my eyes closed, that keep me awake for the rest of the night as it replays in my head. The weird sounds the house makes don't help my paranoia, either.

Regardless of this, I draw the flashback in my sketchbook and it drains out of my brain like pus from a boil. These are the drawings I keep in the back of my sketchbook just in case anyone finds it. The stuff at the front are just stupid little doodles, still life, or portraits of Alaska. Now that I think about it, Candace has probably looked through it, and it makes me want to throw the whole thing away. Once I fill all the pages, I'll do just that. I won't want to look at it again and it's not as if my art is any good for a career.

My sketchbook is the only one that lets me speak without interrupting, which is pathetic because it doesn't have the capacity to respond or comfort me, either. And I think that's the main reason I haven't told Alaska, besides not wanting to bring it up in general. I know she'll let me talk, but I'm scared of what she'll say or do afterwards. She could laugh at me like everyone else I've told has, call me a liar, think I'm fucking stupid.

Even though she's not like that. She's proven to me that she's not. I have to remind myself over and over again.

But what if she is?

God, I'm so tired.

Rapists aren't creative in their torture, but they like to think they are. Every once in a while, they try and subvert your expectations, make you think that this is the one night they won't rip you to shreds and that you're safe for once. It's a mind-fuck to make the eventual, unavoidable attack infinitely worse. Then, they go back to the normal routine. Sometimes, they'll molest you twice a day to make up for the times they didn't.

And then, you end up getting addicted to alcohol and cigs because you think they can wipe your memory, but you draw pictures of your memories when you realize they can't.

In the drawing, Candace's eyes pop out of her head, and she's got hungry drool coming from between her dagger-like teeth. I'm hiding under my covers, open mouth trembling, eyes lit up with terror.

I rarely add color to my drawings anymore. I did when I was young, but now, it doesn't seem right. I mostly use gray or charcoal because it matches how I feel. If I do use color, it's all kinds of red, warm mauve, or dark shades of green when I don't want to use black.

If I feel anything other than gray, it's flickers of fiery red.

I tear the nightmare piece from the book and crumble it. The sky is peaches-and-cream-colored. Its light streams through the window as I fumble my way to the bathroom. I decide to go on a run, straight to work.

When I comb my hair, clumps of it come out in the bristles. I should be worried because I've never lost hair this quickly before, nor this much at once, but I'm not. It's just hair, and I'm thinking of getting another buzzcut, anyway. I'm uneasy that it's shoulder-length. I look like some Kurt Cobain wannabe, only without the chill vibes or talent.