I remember the day I was bought. Every detail crystal clear, imprinted in my memory. The crisp smell of the air as the door opened, with a hint of cinnamon. The bright sunlight shining through the windows, revealing the tiny specks of dust floating in the air, settling softly on the shelves, where I lay.The way the cashier was slumped over her desk.
And then a man came in through the door, and there was just something about him, that as soon as you saw him you knew that he was something more. The sun seemed to settle gently around him cocooning him in his very own halo. Everything that came anywhere near him got sucked into his orbit, they couldn't help it. The ancient old lady that frequented the store, her dog, the salesclerk. It was like he was a magnet. Things were just automatically drawn to him, his charm, his charisma.
There was a fire inside of him, you could see the intensity burning in his eyes, a passion. A passion so strong it was as if someone had lit his blood on fire. Maybe that's what people were attracted to.
Or maybe it was the beautiful way he smiled. When he smiled you could tell he meant it because he smiled like every smile would be the last he ever had. It was a big smile, taking up most of the lower half of his face, stretching wide from ear to ear. he could always find something,(even if it was small and insignificant), to smile at. And his laugh was just as magnificent, melodic and pure, sounding of true and infinite happiness.
Or maybe just maybe, it was the way he managed to see the beauty in everything and everyone and tried to help it grow. This I would come to know over the months.
"Wouldn't you love to be bought by him," whispered Red, the red leather notebook beside me. We found out what being bought was yesterday, when my twin brother was bought the other day. A girl, with wavy, poofy brown hair, and lightly tanned skin, came and snatched my poor brother off the shelf, brought him over to the cashier, put him in an uncomfortable looking plastic bag, and walked up and out the store with him.
I know what happens when we leave the store, because Mica, the old notebook who is what humans call a "sample", told me. We sketchbooks are used by artists, he says. He explains how they draw on us, lovingly, honestly pouring out their beautiful dreams and thoughts and wonders, no matter how big our small, on to our pages. In pencil, in ink, marker... We help them try to realize their imaginings, find something beyond the cold, harsh grasp of reality. We help them express themselves, find self-acceptance, an internal strength, a light in the darkness. To do this for them, to help them grasp their dreams is my dream.
He comes closer to my shelf, and as he does I straighten my spine, trying to look my very best, for him, to grab his attention. He walks up to my shelf, gently running his fingers along the covers of every sketchbook.
Then his eyes land on me and he picks me up, nods to himself and carries me to the cashier. I don't know why he picked me. I don't have a smooth leather cover like the sketchbooks to my left, or gorgeously rendered drawings of majestic animals, like the sketchbook to my right. I was just me, a plain brown notebook, with a tiny silver star in the middle of my cover, and a black fabric strap keeping me closed shut. I wasn't huge, or fancy or pretty. But for whatever reason he chose me that day, I'm glad. He needed me, and I needed him. It's funny how there are some things you never know you needed until you have them.
We went everywhere together for the first couple of months. He filled my pages with his imaginings, the things he saw in real life that he found beautiful, inspiring. To the park so he could fill my pages with intricate sketches of the trees and the birds. To restaurants where he would draw the people surrounding him.
He loved to draw. With charcoals, pencils, pens, anything he could get his hands on. I met many writing materials. Some of them I liked, some of them I didn't. I didn't like Peter the quill because he was always scratchy and grumpy. We didn't get along well. My favorite was Coral the pastel, because of the silky way her color spread across my pages, tickling me slightly. We become good friends. But none of them lasted very long. The artist used them until they were tiny stubs.
He was a good artist. He was able to find the raw kind of beauty that you can find in nature, the slightest flutter of the delicate petals of a flower when the summer breeze blew. But his best art was always of other people. He could shine a light on their silent beauty, while still showcasing their faults. He could capture the most honest and complicated emotions flashing on a person's face.
He would talk to me as he drew, about how he should portray something, or how the something fascinated him. Laughing with me, telling jokes. We became closer, and I promised myself that I would stay by his side until the end.
But soon my pages became filled with drawings of another man. The other man eating, sleeping, him standing beside the artist, them kissing. He was falling in love. He started drawing rings, always two of them and always intertwined.
Then one day something happened. He stopped smiling, stopped drawing. He walked around like a zombie, a shell of who he used to be, empty of his usual fire and passion. He was always sad, constantly crying. He ripped out all of my pages with drawings of the other man and of the rings.
One day we came to a cliff, jutting out above a restless ocean dotted with jagged rocks at the bottom. There was something in his eyes that I couldn't quite describe. Something hopeless yet shone with determination and desperation.
"I will see Damon again," he whispers determinedly, tears leaking from his eyes. He steps one step closer to the cliff. And another. And another.
And as he finally falls, he takes me with him, the salty sea spraying the two of us. Together forever. Until the very end. Just like I promised.
