Harry
I was not an artist.
But with her small hands overlapping my own, lapping around a certain ball-pointed pen, and her head arched right against mine, that was the least of my concerns.
And yes, I was a crap at drawing. I'm pretty sure I would manage to screw up a paint-by-number. Yet, she was scooted so far off to the side that she was practically sitting on my lap and for the sake of just that, I was trying not to get too excited, if you know what I mean.
"You know," she said, her tongue caught between two sets of teeth. "I never believed in that 'let the pencil guide you' kind of bullshit."
I looked at her, eyes trained on a piece of parchment. "Really?"
"Yeah."
She guided my hand across the paper, creating a bold and thin stripe of dark ink, vaguely imitating the curvature of a small feather.
"I mean, like, what could a pencil tell you, that you don't already know yourself?" She sighed, like it was the stigma of her problems. "I don't think you should just draw, and then figure out what it is... I think you should start off on how you want it to feel."
I nodded, but didn't completely understand. "How do you do that?"
Ashley smiled; faintly, but brightly, then took her own paper off her lap, just so she could scoot even closer to me.
"Well, if you want your picture to feel happy, then your lines should be soft, and bubbly, and lightweight. And if you want it to feel scary, then your strokes should be bold, and sharp." She said.
"What if I can't decide how.. how I want it to feel?" I said hesitantly, looking straight at her, and perhaps speaking more about something else than I was about art.
She stopped and mimicked my gaze. "Then draw how you feel."
And I just started at her, because to pinpoint exactly how I felt was just as accurate as throwing darts blindfolded. That was one of the things about living, I thought, that you could never really be one thing.
But I just breathed out an "okay", and looked back down at my canvas. And she smiled and brought her attention back to hers.
"I think people are so obsessed with art and what it's supposed to look like," The girl spoke once more. "That they forget art really isn't about looking at all, it's about feeling." She continued, and I couldn't decide if she was speaking to me, or no one in particular. "Because if it doesn't make you feel something... then what's it worth?"
Her words clung to me; hanging in the air like an empty noose. I decided then that she understood; that she understood me and what I meant when I said I didn't know what to feel.
But now, it's all becoming much clearer.
I didn't respond, however. I didn't feel like anything I said could top that, not like it was a competition or whatever, it was just, I knew my response would be awkward and stupid, because, well, I'm me, so I just nodded.
My gaze was averted back towards my paper, which was stark white, blending into the room like black paint on black paint.
Slowly and unsurely, I began to build upon my etchings, just as cautiously as someone who couldn't draw, which was precisely what I was, after all. And upon the dark curve already drawn, I drew more, branching out like inky antlers off an ash deer. My strokes were sharp, but subtle and thin. I'd like to say that was because I was adding upon the ambience of my picture, but it was just pitifully that I hadn't the slightest clue what I was doing.
But soon enough, the outline was clear, and I was certain of what I wanted to draw; what I wanted it to feel.
I glanced back to her, the mere sight nearly intoxicating. Her bottom lip was trapped between a top set of teeth, and her hand moved furiously, almost as if it was angry.
"Stop staring at me," she said, grinning.
"Do you mind?" I asked.
Ashley smiled wider and it suddenly felt like the room was a bit less of itself, and more of us. "Not at all."
I smiled with her, then went back and continued drawing; bringing curves and depth to the picture. A matter of time past that we did this, and there was something nice about just being in the same room together; drinking in each other's presence, maybe. I really didn't know, but everything about it was just so real. Perhaps it was comforting to know that I was there, right then, and somehow, within all the times and places she could have existed, she happened to be sitting next to me, and I thought, that was a bit of a miracle in itself.
"Done," she stated, her lips curled upwards in satisfaction, eyes trained on a masterpiece. "How about you?"
"I-uh, hold on." Quickly, I stroked my pen over the lines a bit more, just so it pathetically looked like I could actually draw at all. "Okay, okay, now done."
But I flipped my page over, rendering it face down on the carpet, because it really wasn't important, after all, it was about her.
"Can I see yours?" I asked her, even as she looked like she was about to protest about the putting aside of my drawing.
However, she flipped hers as well, and gestured it away from me, saying, "only if you let me see yours," with her dark chocolate hair draping over her shoulders in tangled and messy and beautiful fashion.
I thought about it for a moment; eyes dozing off to white walls and white floors. "Deal."
So she handed her paper over, shy without really having a reason to be and I wanted to ask her why. And I thought about it then, as I was passing her mine, how strangely it all fit; a unsolved girl, living a rather puzzling life.
Yet, when I turned the canvas over, I seemed to understand even less.
And anyone would really, when the paper was overturned all you saw was:
A gun.
A sleek and complex handgun entirely composed of jet black ink. And it just stayed there, selling itself; seeming like its sole purpose of creation and presentation was to be feared. And you could see it, almost all too well, the lines being thinner and sharper than sewing needles.
But of course, I knew Ashley was good at drawing. She was artist, for God's sake. Yet, I couldn't decipher how her picture made me terrified and allured and wonder struck all at once; like it couldn't decide to be anything but contradictory.
And I looked at it for a while, in fact, it was one of those things you had to look at; one of those things that demanded attention without ever asking for it.
But still, I tore my eyes from it, immediately feeling like the strings of vision between myself and the picture had been snipped, and I asked her, "Why?"
The word just kinda lingered there, in the stale and shared air, open for interpretation.
"Why what?" She replied, eventually, peeking her head over my own drawing to gaze at me.
"Why would you draw this?" I said. "I mean, don't get me wrong, the drawing's fantastic. I can't... I can't really comprehend that someone could actually draw this. But..." The sentence stopped short, seemingly looking for other words to attach to. "Out of all things, why a gun?"
Ebony eyebrows furrowed, neck slack, she answered, "well, that's a good question."
Her eyes trailed the room once before speaking again. Maybe she was thinking about everything, or nothing at all, but I knew for sure I was thinking of her.
"I don't know, I just... perhaps I like the idea of it. You know, something so innocent used for something so deadly."
But that, at least to me, hadn't made the least bit of sense. No matter how I twisted or turned the words in my head, it's meaning just never quite aligned with its letters.
"But..." I started, then trailed off. "But how is a gun innocent at all?"
She laughed lightly. And I just sat there, hearing her laughter ring though the room and in my head, and wondering how on earth she chuckled like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Well," she continued, looking down at the carpet, picking snags. "I think everything starts off innocent, even guns. I mean, it is just metal after all."
"It's a weapon."
"That's right," she interjected. "But any weapon is useless without someone behind it, just as useless as a gun with a missing trigger." Her chocolate eyes traced up, up, up, towards mine, seething into them. "Weapons aren't weapons without someone to use them, and they're innocent, completely and utterly innocent, because as soon as that gunshot fires." She paused. "The blood is on your hands, and the weapon, simply a playing piece in your own sick game."
It was all just silent. In all honesty, there wasn't a sentence, wasn't a word I could have possibly thought of to follow up on that. The only thing running through my mind was this pure and awestruck feeling, and I don't know what is was. Perhaps it was wonder, admiration, or maybe even fear, but that was beside the point. The fact is, that it was inviting, nearly intoxicating, and that was something I could only help to dwell on.
"So I wanted it feel scary, but... I kinda also wanted to show that, that you know, it's not the drawing you should be afraid of."
Although, I could barely concentrate on what she was saying, because all I really wanted to do was kiss her.
But she turned away.
"Well," Ashley spoke, looking down. "You drew a butterfly."
"Yeah," I chuckled. "Kinda.. disappointing compared to yours. You know, I probably should have gone first."
She laughed, then we talked about my butterfly, and I told her, that I wanted it to feel free, almost detached from everything that made me feel grounded.
"What's your butterfly?" Ashley spoke up, her voice soft and curious.
"What do you mean?"
"What makes you feel free?"
The question took me by surprise, and I was so prepared, so ready to tell her that it was my mom. But I stopped myself. And I guess, I kind of came to the realization that it really wasn't her, because everything about her and her situation made me feel trapped, made me feel immobilized.
"I don't know... I.. well.. maybe it's you." I spoke slow, not really processing my words before they came tumbling out my mouth. "Maybe you're my butterfly."
She stopped her actions, and all that was running through my head was that I should not have said that.
"Is it really?" She was facing me by now, her lips curled up, expression smug.
I should not have said that.
"I-I mean I guess, like why not."
My gaze parted from hers, and I leaned my head onto her lap, too embarrassed to show my face, as she giggled and tangled her fingers in my hair.
"I think I like the sound of that." She said, finally, the sentence spoken like her mind belonged to something else.
And we both just sat there, thinking about butterflies and freedom and each other, and how they all intertwined perfectly like the threads of a noose. And how were all were just weapons,even so, as we wiped the blood off our hands, and onto the machines we created. I didn't believe that, because I was there, and it was perfect, and if obviousness kept me breathing, then so be it.
That's all I seemed to remember as my vision hazed and faded to black gradually; the room steeping into some black-grey pigment.
Ashley then placed a subtle kiss onto the top of my head, whispering something lost between the spaces, something I just couldn't quite make out; her words as lost as I was.
"I wish I knew what you said" was the only thought aching my mind as it was shutting down to sleep, even though it should have been the least of my concerns.
And maybe I'll ask her another day, what she said to me as I fell asleep in her arms.
Or perhaps I'll never know.
(A/N: I FIRSTLY LIKE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THIS TERRIBLE CHAPTER I MEAN LIKE IT WAS GOING SOMEWHERE AND THEN IT JUST KINDA TURNED OUT THIS WAY IDK OK.
But secondly, merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates, and if not, happy early Kwanza and belated Hanukkah, and if none of those concern you then have a happy day! :)
And since it's the holiday season I just kinda wanted to thank all of you for everything, whether you comment or vote or just read. I'm nearly at 30K reads for this book and I wouldn't be anywhere if it wasn't for you guys, so don't ever forget that I love you all!
And I don't know, but I kinda wanted to give you guys some kind of a Christmas gift, whether it be a question and answer, a one-shot contest, a follow spree, anything really. I'm open for suggestions!
ThANK YOU I LOVE YOU.
P.S. Brace yourself for the next chapters, this book's gonna get weird.
P.P.S. Dedication goes to Reneesance bc anyone who makes a Michelle Obama mixtape deserves this, and much, much more.