Prove It [Undergoing Construction]

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

(Not Edited)

Sitting high up on a branch of a tree would be scary for several other girls, but for some weird reason it feels almost like flying. Obviously though not flying due to gravity. Anyways, I sat there up in this beautiful tree with the wind in my hair is soothing. However, I still felt like crap for everything really. It's beautiful. The tree s and view I mean. That is basically the only place my best childhood memories were created. I slipped through the branches slowly and carefully. Getting down was pretty hard using only one hand. I jumped down to the ground in the last metre or so.

It would have left me unharmed, but because of the injury on my ribs it knocked the air out of me. My ribs only screaming in pain. It's just a damn bruise I reassure myself. I gasped and leaned against the rough trunk of the tree and stayed like that for a few minutes.

Through gritted teeth I breathed in and out. Slowly, I gave permission for my back to slide down against the tree trunk till I was sitting. I looked in the distance at the beautiful trees, somehow always being distracted by them even though I see them almost every day. I zoned out. When I finally snapped back to my senses I grabbed my sketch book and finished my homework which if you don't remember to draw freedom. First I sketched it all neatly. A brief, light outline of what I was planning to draw. I let my hand do what it does best. Then I pulled out my paintbrushes and paint that I usually keep them stuffed in the gap of the tree trunk and painted the picture, the sketching slowly disappearing under the thick coat of each stroke of the paintbrush filled with paint.

How do you describe what painting is like? What memory does it fill your mind and soul with? I wonder sometimes why painting is so comforting and exciting, the colours, of the paint; just the experience of creating something on a flat surface and then it becomes alive and has a story to tell you. It's as if the paint has a personality and it becomes a person, who talks to you and expresses what you keep deep inside your mind and your spirit. The paint, the brush, the paper all collaborate together to create this story, this memory of something you want to say. A hidden message behind each piece created. Messages; hidden behind the colours, the swirls and each thick or thin stroke of the paintbrush. Every little stroke has a hidden message of how the painter's feeling how I'm feeling.

It took a while, but not long enough to keep me distracted for the whole day; it only took, three hours. I know now you're thinking what a sad low life I am, well guess what I don't have a life so what. Deal with it. The funny thing is I really don't know why I'm really angry. These days, even the littlest thing makes my blood boil.

I checked my phone which revealed that it was four o'clock on the hickory dickory dock? I think that's how it went right?

Hickory dickory dock

The mouse climbed up the clock

The Clock struck four

The mouse said no more!

Hickory dickory dock

Well, I'm hoping it goes that way. Anyways why am I even thinking about this? So now it's four. This means, school finished half an hour ago. I remained still, just sitting there. Bored out of my brain. I finished reading Lock and Key in the next twenty minutes. I just finished reading the last words before I heard a twig snap from a distance.

I could hear this from his steps I could tell that this person was not walking, nor running, however jogging. I think about a few 100 metres away. Please don't come this way, I begged to myself. I panicked, I tried to get up but I accidently- yup you guessed it- used my sprained wrist which made me fall back down. I gasped as the pain shot up my arm, and an eerie and obnoxious feeling went down my spine. Tears were threatening to fall. I got up using my good arm and packed everything.