purpose (book two)

cheap graphite

ix.

cheap graphite

I chew at the corner of my left thumbnail, elbows balanced haphazardly across my lap as my foot taps air. The smell of coffee creamer is more pungent and sour than ever, making the sugared flakes I'd eaten for breakfast turn over in my stomach. Dr. Delaney sits in the leather armchair across from me and flips through the first few pages of the sketchbook.

She doesn't say anything as she stares down at the drawings, so I blurt something out just to fill the silence in this tiny office. "I got carried away. None of them are any good."

The doctor shakes her head and laughs. She turns the book over and holds it up to show me, pointing an acrylic nail to the third page. It's my second attempt at drawing a hand, an inked sketch of crooked fingers loosely clasping a disintegrated cigarette. I open my mouth to say something, but the doctor cuts me off.

"This is good. I thought you were going to give me a stick-figure."

I slouch lower on the couch cushions, biting down hard on the edge of my thumb. I mumble around the jagged nail, "I just really wanted to smoke, but I finished my last pack. So I drew a cigarette. I don't know, it was dumb."

"It's not dumb. Why are you making excuses?" The sketchbook is back on her lap, and she's flipped to the fifth drawing – I did that one earlier this morning, because sitting around in my room became stifling and I needed a distraction. It's a rose, but the shading in the middle is too dark.

"It looks like a black hole," I mutter.

Dr. Delaney shakes her head again and closes the book. "You should give yourself more credit. None of these drawings are bad."

I practically snatch the sketchbook away from her when she hands it back to me, and I tuck the book under my thigh to hide it from sight. Bitterly, I say, "It doesn't matter, anyway. Drawing a couple hands isn't going to help me with jack shit."

"You never know," she tells me, watching me carefully with her calculating stare – almost like she's sorting through my mind with invisible hands. It's been weeks, but her watchful gaze is still unnerving. "People do buy artwork, believe it or not. Plenty of artists make a living off of their work."

For the first time in weeks, I laugh out loud. It's a hollow sound, scratchy from the smoke and lack of use. "I'm no artist."

The doctor shrugs, gesturing to the sketchbook halfway tucked beneath my leg. "I don't know about that. What you have there is pretty good. If you keep practicing, it'll get even better."

I bite the tip of my tongue to keep quiet. She has to say that, because she's my therapist. If she hurt my feelings, I could off myself (like that would be what finally did me in: someone insulting one of my stupid drawings). She's only praising my sketches like I'm the next Picasso so I'll feel good about myself.

Still, my left hand plays with the edge of the sketchbook, already slightly worn down from being shoved in and out of my bag. A tiny, idiotic part of me is actually thinking it over. What if she was being honest? What if the things I drew weren't complete disasters?

"But the important thing isn't if your drawings are good," Dr. Delaney continues, when I don't make a move to continue the conversation. "Did you feel better after you drew something?"

As an impulse reaction to any question she asks about my feelings, I roll my eyes. The pad of my thumb still rubs the worn edge of the sketchbook, and I shrug half-heartedly. "I don't know. I just did it because you told me to."