Sunglasses ✧ h.s. (re-write)

0.3 :: "I prefer Daddy."

( 07 / 03 / 17 )

I'm a literal piece of trash why am I struggling to write chapters when I have the events planned out 😭😭😭

[[ It was the original Sunglasses' 2nd birthday last Wednesday what the fuck ]]

*

"There is no way this lady isn't high."

The kid next to me - Zayn, according to the impressive graffiti art on the front of his sketchpad - chuckles, leaning close to whisper, "I think it's called being 'artistically inspired'."

"She can't do what everybody else does and go outside to look at plants?" I exasperate, watching our teacher (Jade, she insisted we call her) waft her arms around like she's summoning rain. Or trying to air out a particularly pungent fart.

"I think she's been doing more than just looking at the plants, to be honest."

I muffle a groan. "So I'm spending the next four years being taught by a woman who won't even remember teaching any of her lessons?"

"To be fair," Zayn begins, tapping the tip of his pencil on his open palm, "I highly doubt any of your other teachers will remember teaching you, either."

I slouch in my seat with a pout, realising he's most likely right; I'm just another blank face in a blur of generic blank faces, just a single person of the hundreds - maybe even thousands - of students these professors have to teach each day. The only teacher that may vaguely remember me is Sykes - and for all the wrong reasons. I never thought there would come a day when I would genuinely miss high school.

"Is she any good?" I ask aloud, resting my chin on my hands the moment I conclude that this is probably Jade's messed up version of an intro class, so I probably don't need to pay attention.

Zayn shrugs. "Wouldn't know," he apologises. "I'm a first year. You?"

"Same," I sigh in relief. "Everybody is so intimidating here."

"That's because you're short, and you have the sort of face that says you'd be easy to bully."

"Gee, thanks, Zayn," I chirp sarcastically.

Zayn grins and proudly strokes the stubble on his chin. "You should grow a beard like I did," he jokingly suggests. "Makes you look older and more intimidating."

I snort. "Thanks, I'll definitely keep that in mind."

"Any time..."

"Kat," I fill in. "And no, not with a C, like the animal. It's short for Katrina."

"Ah."

"Yep," I confirm, looking back to the front. "What are we doing now?"

Zayn shrugs.

"I want you guys to draw something of your choice," Jade announces, pulling her hair up into a bun. "Anything at all, in any medium you have available to you right now. I don't care what it is, as long it's not a swastika, or the confederate flag or something. Something you like, or somebody close to you, or a picture to do with your favourite song, or a nickname people call you. Something that gives me the essence of you."

"I hate these kind of assignments," I groan quietly, staring down at my sketchbook. The first page is just as blank as my mind, so full of opportunity and yet so void of inspiration. "What's the essence of me?" I whisper, glancing over at Zayn, who's already sketching rough lines. A short look around informs me that very few others are having the same predicament I am, and one by one, I watch as even those that are, slowly pick up their pencils and hunch over their paper.