An hour later my math homework for the week is done. Another hour later my summer reading is finally finished and the essay I unfortunately have to write for it is already in it's early stages. Hitting the period key the last time - for the essay at least - I save the document and move from my desk and fall onto my bed.
Before I know it I fall fast asleep and dreams consume my subconscious. They are vivid and jumble up my emotions in ways I never knew were possible. They comfort me, then turn around and torture me without mercy. They make me feel loved, then betray my already broken heart. The worst part of the dreams is that they make me feel whole. Like I found that one thing in my life that makes me feel complete. That one person I need is finally in my life, walking along with me during the craptastic events. Making them better. Bearable.
However, that split second of peace that I get is completely and utterly demolished. He is taken from me and his kidnappers make me watch as they torture him. They rip his body to shreds and let him heal. They take his blood and store it for later purposes. I gape in horror as my heart bleeds with him. The whispers and shadowed faces and hands turn him into something I never thought could exist. Something that isn't who he really is. Something that even he has been brainwashed into thinking is the real him. I know better. I don't know how I know. But I know. And something primal in me awakens. It rips through my chest and back in a powerful, painful, bright light.
I wake up screaming in my fathers arms, my own clutching at my chest. I don't remember where I am. Panic causes my chest to tighten to the point where I think it will break. I collapse into sobs, unable to hold it together. A rough hand stroking my back brings me into reality again.
When I finish crying and I have finally calmed down, my father asks, "What was your dream about?"
"I have no idea what-so-freaking-ever." I shake my head and my father smiles, gets up and stares down at me. He looks like he is trying to make up his mind about something. When he finally does he grunts and motions for me to stay put. I smile a little. He's going downstairs to make me a bowl of chicken noodle soup. He always does this for me when I am sick or upset about something. I settle down into my covers and reach in between my mattress and bed frame to grab my sketch book and tin pencil box.
A few moments and a drawing later my dad comes up and sets the bowl and saltines on my night table, moving the charcoal depiction aside and staring at it. "Well that's nice. Why'd you draw this?"
"It was part of my dream." He nods again and walks out of my room. My father is a man of little words. Five hours later I have finished ten drawings.
The first one is of me crying into the chest of a man with a face of shadows, he is rubbing my back and comforting me. The next one is of me unconscious in a hard metal chair with chains holding me to it. Hair drapes in front of my face covering it, and pools of blood grow steadily as the liquid drips from my open and festering wounds that I got from a previous torture session.
The third depiction is of me looking into a mirror, but instead of me looking back at just myself. There is the man with the shadows across his face, holding onto me from behind. Trying to comfort me. The only thing that shows on his face are his eyes. They are stormy grey and full of love for me. The eyes stare right into my own in the mirror, and surprisingly my entire face reflects every bit of love you can see in the mans eyes. Leaving little to no room to deny what I must be feeling for the man in this picture.
The fourth drawing is of a pair of dark eyes full of hurt and anger. A single tear forms in the corner of the left eye. The eyebrows above portray the betrayal and confusion that eyes couldn't possibly hold inside them along with the pain. A reflection in the irises shows a couple holding one another in a tender embrace. The next charcoal drawing is of me looking down into my heart, I'm sewing a new piece into it, making it whole. The mystery man is standing behind me again with his hand around my waist. The other hand holds the spool of thread that I'm using to, very badly I must say, fix my heart. The mans shadowed head rests on my right shoulder and his eyes show how happy he is to be with me in this moment.
The sixth drawing is very much like the fifth, because it's two people sewing pieces of their hearts back in place. However, it's not their original piece of their hearts. It's the other persons heart they are putting into it. The two people are me and the Mystery Man. I sew a piece of my heart into his, you can tell because my name is on it, and my heart has a blank space in it. I'm holding the spool of thread and the needle, but I have nothing to sew into my heart. I still have the other piece of the Mystery Man's heart in mine, but the places where my heart is pierced there is puss and it dosen't look like our hearts are healing into one. This is the only unfinished one.
The next three drawings are of us being ripped from each other and having us being tortured in front of each other by then creepy faces, hands and whispers. Then in the tenth drawing you can see the Mystery Man's back to you. Cut and bleeding. On the right side are the creepy hands and whispers that tried to change the Man being pushed back by the light emanating from my chest on the left side of the page. I'm floating about a foot off the ground with my head thrown back and my arms out and palms facing the whispers. The back of my ripped and bloody dress is gone because a pair of gorgeous wings has burst from it. A little bloody and holding strips of the ripped fabric of my dress.
As I stare at this last drawing I can't help but say aloud, "What the hell is going to happen to me?" Because deep down. I have the feeling that these dreams are visions of some sort. Before I know it a huge fat tear rolls off of my cheek and onto my drawing. I freak out and foolishly try to swipe the tear off, which of course only smeared the charcoal. I freak out even more and study the place where the smear has taken place, which is right on my face in the drawing. While I try and determine weather or not I have to re-draw the picture I find that I like how it turned out. It makes me look I like I'm crying in the picture in a way that no pencil can create.
My phone rings and my trance is broken. I scream and fall back onto the floor. Totally graceful. I groan and pick up my phone from my night table beside me. "Yellow?"
"Turquoise. Anyway. You have to come late night rock climbing with Dee and I tonight."
"Hey Fi." I smile, "Count me in. What time do I need to be at your house?" Fi lives in the mountains and her house is thirty minutes away walking from a really cool place to climb, ten in an 4 wheeler.
"How about in an hour? Can you make it? We are gonna eat and hang out a little so it can be darker when we go out."
"K. I'm gonna leave in like a minute. I'll call you back."
"K. Ta ta for now." I hang up and rush around my room. Putting my drawings into a new portfolio and hiding them in a safe place. I grab my climbing gear and throw on some shorts and a t-shirt. Leaving another note on the fridge and a text to my father I race out the door and into my recently paid off black 1967 Chevy Impala. Oh how I love this baby. I wave good bye to my dad watching me from the living room window with a huge smile on my face.
YOU ARE READING
New Destruction
Teen FictionBlaze feels normal, acts normally, and wishes she was extraordinary. Yes she may be unnervingly beautiful, but that isn't enough for her. She doesn't care about looks, all she wants in life is to beat the world record of 55.98 seconds in a 100 mete...
