Nightmare {h.s | au}

1.22

Art was a rare form of writing. It was a description of emotions and thoughts without expressing words. Nothing could be born from art and nothing could die. Interpretations were what caused birth and death, and not the kind where there was a child and a casket. What could come out of art are a feeling, a thought, and an action. It wasn't born because it was a thought at one time that has resurfaced.

That's what I thought as I looked at Harry's charcoal Monday after lunch. It was completed finally after two weeks and four pencils. I was thoroughly surprised at first with the intensity of the piece but more so by the title. He'd accurately named it "Bombshell" because of the killer legs in heels and top torso being blown up in a cloud of smoke.

I couldn't help but admire its fine details.

How many countless hours had he spent out of class working on it?

If he entered this in the competition, there would be no competition. Harry would get the cash prize and the scholarship and everything else.

"Do you want that in the art show?" Miss Vent asked. Anyone could tell she was ecstatic about how his project had turned out. Her glee actually brought out a twinge of jealousy in me that made me stop what I was doing on my new project to go get a drink.

The walk to the fountain and back was unexciting, but I was strangely happy to see Miss Vent pouting at her desk. Harry must have turned the offer down.

I returned to my seat on the couch, picking up my book and pencil. The skeleton was before me-the same one that I had wanted to draw my sophomore year. It was a bit tattered and broken in places, but that didn't matter too much. It was perfect for what I needed.

"Never took you for still life," Harry said as he plopped down beside me. My stray pencils were in his tatted hand being twirled between his fingers.

"Surprise," I said, looking away from his hands to his face. His eyes were focused on the rough sketch on the paper in my hands. It was hard not to notice the way his eyes absorbed every little detail as if he looked away, it would be gone.

Finally I was able to look away and continue sketching the rough lines. It looked so poor right now, so out of focus. But I could change it, shape it, and create this anomaly. Maybe that's what Harry was watching because if I were him, I'd want to understand how such a crappy outline can be a masterpiece.

But a masterpiece isn't shaped overnight. It isn't a wondrous object in the beginning. It's a mess that has to weather the hell of being put together before it can even think about being something grand.

"Why a skeleton?" Harry asked.

"Why a bombshell?" I counter replied and stopped the pencil from touching the paper.

"Why Manchester?"

"Why Redmond?"

"Touché, Eden."

"Can I work on this now?" I asked, gesturing to the sketchbook in my lap with the pencil in my hand.

Harry frowned for a moment and stared at me with his green eyes focused on mine. There was monumental clashing in the shades, but neither of us seemed to care; we were too focused on making the other crack from the pressure.

"I don't know. What are you doing Wednesday night?" he asked smoothly. His nervous tick seemed to be in the way his hand stopped twirling the pencil so he could clearly focus on me.

"Working, why?"

"Great, I'll pick you up at 7:30. It'll take maybe an hour of your time."