What happens when a finger painting prodigy hitches a ride from a disfigured biker? Why chaos of course!
Quirky, oddball Georgie is anything but normal. For years she hasn't only suffered from a lack of filter but she also has "episodes." She can't...
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3 WEEKS LATER
Hours have ticked by and my eyes are still on the ceiling of the garage, tracing the cracks along the drywall. My dark imagination is running wild right now and it's winking at me through the early morning's air. It's been keeping me up, listening to the tickles in the walls. I'm off in a place I like to call a void of self-deprecation and I know sleep isn't coming.
I'm covered in paint and my head is throbbing while the rest of my body is limp from exhaustion. I don't dare to close my eyes to dream because my dream will turn into something worse than a nightmare. Instead, I stare at my new episodic creation.
This time it's on a canvas.
So at least there's that.
The relief ends there though. I stare at my painting as my heart tries to pump some energy into my limbs in vain. Probably so I can run from this.
A black and white version of my face tries staring at me but little hands cover my eyes and mouth. They're small like that of a child's. The detail is impeccable with how the fingers hold that childlike fat to them and despite it being in black and white you can see the anger? Maybe more like desperation in those tiny fingers with how they dig into my skin.
Yeah, the fingers aren't being kind to my face. In no way are they covering my eyes in the way someone would when they try to surprise you with something. There are angry scratches all over the visible parts of my face.
"That's it," I state standing up abruptly. "I'm being haunted."
Taking a deep breath, I decide to get ready for the day knowing there will be no rest for the weary. After my shower I grab one of my few articles of clothing. I pick out a slouchy pink T-shirt from my bag and roll the sleeves up over my shoulders then tie a knot down at the bottom so it bunches around my waist. My baggy light faded jeans with paint splashes all over it slide right up to my waist. They're very unappealing, but one of the most comfortable jeans I own. They probably remind people of futuristic space pants because they're puffy. In place of buttons it has that nineties elastic band that resembles the bands around winter gloves. That same band is replicated at the bottom of the legs. They're hideous.
So, I have two of them.
I go barefoot and exit my room. The smell of coffee hits me and I welcome it with vigor. Taking the steps like I'm an Irish dancer, I hum along with the made up bagpipes playing in my mind.
When I enter the kitchen dad's looking out the window in a daze. He hasn't slept. I can tell because he's in the same clothes as last night and they're not rumpled at all which tells me he didn't fall asleep on anything. Plus, his face is haggard.
Something is bothering him.
Clearing my throat, he turns taking me in like I'm some ghost. Moments tick by until he turns back around rubbing his hand over his face.
