Special K

I’m not quite sure how to describe my friends reactions to my sudden moving away, even if it was just for a year. They weren't happy for me, but they weren't sad to see me go. In fact, they just seemed to take it in their stride and emit a begrudging good bye, saying how they would miss me and my art work.

The only person who showed some kind of limited human emotion was Kyle, who gave out more a sense of loss at not being able to hang out with me, rather than actually missing me. It’s confusing and stupid, but it’s something more than blank stares and shrugging shoulders. He said he’s miss me and my little ventures with the fairies; he’d always had been a bit on the odd side. I guess that’s why I liked him so much more than every other bland face.

Absentmindedly, I let these thoughts drift through the blank expanse of my mind while staring at a piece of snow white paper, sucking the end of a pencil harshly in my mouth. Now, the pencil wasn’t the nicest tasting thing in the world, but it just seemed like something I do when I’m searching for inspiration. The need to draw was tugging on my mind, pulling the hand that was wrapped so gently around my pencil in contrast to the rough biting of my teeth.

The only problem was, my mind was an exact copy of the blank piece of paper in front of me. Thoughts drifted in now and then, showing no promise to a source of inspiration, and it kind of felt weird. Drawing out inspiration, no matter how small, was something I’d never had trouble with. When I was inspired, I drew. I didn’t draw to be inspired, and this feeling of helplessness as I just sat there was foreign.

It wasn’t a nice feeling, I decided, I wanted to be able to put the pencil to paper and make something that copied the thoughts flitting through my mind like fish. I enjoyed creating.

Agitated at myself, I glanced around my empty bedroom, my eyes taking in empty shelves and a bland bed. I eventually tore my eyes away from pale blue wallpaper and to the stack of suitcases neatly piled by the door. The cases were my dad’s, made of leather and well battered. Despite this, I had a liking to them. They had that historic look to them that I valued over price; they looked like they had a story inside them, and that was something I admired.

I’d like to look like I had a long, complexion history. I’d like people to look at me and see something strange; see something that made them want to know me. I guess I wanted people to be drawn to me, like some miniature god. The thing is, I’m boring. Completely bland. Light blonde hair that might as well settle it’s self as white, pale blue eyes so washed out that I wondered if they held any colour at all, and skin that was sprinkled with a few small moles. My sister had this trait too. She claimed they were freckles, but we all knew the truth.

My sister. Ah. Now she was exciting. You could look at her and wonder why she has a tattoo of an eye of her wrist, or why her hair is blood red. You could think of a story behind her bridge piercing. Her large bright blue eyes held words beyond talking. She was a walking, talking history and people were drawn to her like moths to a light.

Whenever we fought, she’d tell me I was just jealous she had a life. And she was right; I was jealous. I was jealous of things I heard about her, the things I heard people saying in the corridor. They’d say she’d met people from famous bands, they’d say she has a tattoo on her hip dedicated to all who died in the Holocaust just because the loss was so unbearable to her, they’d say so many things that made her sound like a saint. Hayley was like a saint; people loved her.

I was forever lost in her shadow, trying to live up to the expectations she left behind.

Even my parents were somewhat disappointed in me, my dad wanted me to go into law, or have some kind of mathematical talent. My mum wanted me to go into music, but there was no way I could play an instrument under her over-bearing instructions and singing was something I hated people to hear me do. She was convinced I was letting myself down, that I was setting myself up for failure.

Art was the only thing I was good at. And now here I sat, unable to think of what to draw. It was sobering, to realise that maybe I was good at nothing. That maybe, I’d lost my art ability.

“Gustav?” I drew the pencil from my mouth and looked over to the slightly open door where a red-haired girl stood, hip against the door-frame support.

“You better get to bed. We’re leaving early tomorrow- and mama doesn’t want to deal with a sleepy Gustav.” I smiled wanly at her and she came over to me, crouching down to a level lower than I was sitting on this chair and smiling softy at me.

“I know this is going to be big, Gus, for me and you, but I want you to know nothing really bad is going to happen. It’ll be a new experience for you. New York is so big and so full.” Her eyes changed to this far away look, remembering the big city in her mind “You’ll love it. There are so many art galleries, museums, all those things you’re into.”

Hayley had a way with words and I could picture the city as she described it to me. But I wasn’t completely stupid. I knew that in reality the city was full of crime and people out to hurt; I knew all the downsides. Though what Hayley spoke of was true, too. There were galleries after galleries and beautiful sculptures adorning the city up and down.

In a way, I couldn’t wait tomorrow to come.