After finding his brother's lifeless body hanging from a stairwell, a college student struggles to cope with the trauma.
{ description/summary is still under construction for right now. }
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HUMILIATION WAS AN UNDERSTATEMENT for what Diego felt. Though he tried to prepare himself for inevitable rejection, Dean Barrett's remarks about his artwork left him hurt and still, anxious. He couldn't focus on anything else throughout the day, no matter how hard he tried. Every class left him staring off into nothing, replaying everything that went wrong during that hour of his morning.
He should have dressed better. How can the head of the art department take someone seriously when they can't even brush their hair or keep their shoelaces tied?
He should have spent more time on the "portfolio" he had given her. She was right. It did look like trash. How can the head of the art department take someone seriously when they aren't proud of their work?
By the time Diego arrived back at his apartment, his clouded thoughts had consumed him completely. His feet stomped angrily against the concrete staircase, echoes bouncing off the metal railing beside him. The Memphis air still managed to feel humid, despite it being the middle of October. The hoodie he had put on earlier that morning was now smothering his torso and flushing his hairy cheeks.
When he reached the clean, white door of his apartment, he frustratedly dug through the black satchel on his shoulder. It felt much emptier, after Dean Barrett took every drawing he had in it. Though she claimed she was going to make him a better portfolio, he assumed she would rather throw them away. After noticing her concern for his obsession with his girlfriend, he felt even less confident about her promise. All of his perfectly good portraits of Gabriella would most likely be trashed. Exactly one hundred and fifty nine images of her beautiful face would be wasted.
After several violent digs around his cluttered bag, his fingers landed on the house key. Swiftly, he rammed the piece of metal into the bronze lock and the door came swinging open. The light from a table's lamp was barely noticeable as bright sunlight peaked through white, plastic blinds that hung in front of the living room window. Destin sat in the middle of a leather sofa, espresso colored eyes abandoning the screen of the laptop that sat atop his legs.
"Something wrong?" He asked cautiously, watching his roommate storm in and toss his bag on the brown carpet.
"Nope. Everything is fantastic," Diego retorted. He continued to stomp through the living room and into the kitchen.
White tiles, white lights, and white countertops blinded him momentarily. With strained eyes, he marched towards a black coffee maker. On average, he received a measly three hours worth of sleep at night. By the time the afternoon rolled around, his usual sluggish mood had turned into complete exhaustion.
As he reached in the cupboard for a coffee mug, Destin's voice sounded again from the living room.
"You're pissed off about something. How'd that meeting with the lady in the art department go?"
