Seeker

The bell rings, signalling the start of class. People scramble around me, departing from their friends and closing their lockers, picking up their bags and their books. Since I was sitting on the floor, I get kicked a couple times. People turn to mumble a quick apology but when they see me, they just smile, shaking their heads and continuing on with their day. I wasn't worth apologizing to.
I grit my teeth, closing my sketchbook and shoving it in my bag, trying not to let these people bother me. Just two more years and I’ll be out of this place forever. I’ll leave with a smile on my face and I won’t look back. There’s nothing worth looking at.
I get up, reluctantly making my way to first period: Drawing & Sketching.
I’ve been sketching out my nightmares and visions since I was old enough to hold a pencil in-between my fingers, when Danny had gotten me to begin drawing out what I saw in my head. That’s how my drawings started. Danny was the one who got me into drawing. She’s the reason I have piles and piles of sketchbooks locked in my closet.
When the doctors had sent her away, telling her that there was nothing wrong with me, she did her own investigation, which included me drawing out the things I saw in my head. As a little child, my drawings weren’t all that good, as expected, but they were good enough to get the point across, to get the pictures onto the papers so Danny could see what was going on.
Once Danny had figured out that I wasn’t just being a needy child, that I was actually watching people die, she had stopped asking me to draw these things out for her. She said it was okay, I could go back to a colouring book or my toys or something.
But as I grew older, I found myself pushing the Barbies and other dolls aside, going to a blank piece of paper instead, getting Danny to pick up a pad of blank white paper, maybe some better pencils. My drawings got better and better as I got older and older, and by the age of ten, I already had piles upon piles of papers and books full of drawings crammed into my closet.
Drawing for me became an escape. It helped me get the horrible things inside my head out and onto a piece of paper. It helped me sort the difference between reality and nightmare, death and what my subconscious mind had twisted into brutal, morbid murders, loud, agonizing cries from the deceased.
Sketching these things out helped me get a release, a release I was always much in need of. Being what I am, seeing what I see, it’s frustrating and aggravating and frankly, depressing. My life has always been so dark, filled with nothing but death and the hopeless cries of the dead and dying. I can’t have friends without them showing up in my nightmares, their screams ringing loudly in my ears. So I stick to myself. Me, myself, and my sketchbook. That’s my real best friend.
Because of all of this, I have a love for the art classes offered at my school.
I don't go to an ordinary high school. We have a special arts program which offers additional programs and such. Painting, sculpting, drama, singing, drawing from life, creative drawing, creative writing. Almost anything you could think of related to art of any sort, my school has it.
I am not in this program, although I do take advantage of these courses, sketching and drawing being one of them.
It’s an open class, offered to all grades. I took it through grade nine and ten, and I’m taking it this year again. The whole class is centered around drawing, getting ourselves out through the pencil and the piece of paper. It’s all based on emotion and the things inside our heads. That’s where the drawings come from.
I’ve always had to hold back on most of my drawings. If I actually drew what was inside my head, I would be sent to the madhouse.
The teacher, Mrs. Mayfield, is really nice. She’s a middle aged woman, widowed just recently, due to cancer. I had seen it coming. She brought her husband in every now and then, just to admire our artworks. He was a nice man, gentle and innocent, but he had a thing for eyes. Drawing and taking photographs of eyes. He always wanted to see eyes, and when we made eye contact, I was horrified. I had seen his beautiful face laying in a hospital bed, alone, as the life slowly drained out of his body. He had died alone and afraid, calling out to his wife.
I had seen it coming. I could have said something, I could have possibly saved his life. If I had have told him to go see a doctor, they would have caught it earlier, and he could have lived.
I could have saved a lot of people.
Mrs. Mayfield isn’t sour about any of this, though. Although she is widowed, she did not become angry, and she did not grieve for long.
“I draw him, sometimes,” she told me once, smiling as she remembered her husband. “It helps me deal with the fact that he’s gone.”
At that moment, I felt closer to her than I had been with anybody else on Earth ever before. It was like she understood me and what goes on in my life, without even knowing.
Mrs. Mayfield is the only teacher I would willingly converse with outside of school hours. Actually, aside from Danny, she’s the only human being on this planet that I could converse with, period.
I don’t like people, and I don’t like the risk of making eye contact. But with Mrs. Mayfield, I don’t worry about that. In her art room, I feel free.
So, walking into her room for another semester in her class, it made me smile. It made me feel a little less miserable about the oncoming school year.
I immediately walk to the back of the room, to the table in the back corner. Four empty chairs sit around the edges, three of them would stay empty. This is my spot, my table. I always sit here, alone, with my back to the rest of the room, the large window in front of me, showing the sun and the sky and the clouds. Nobody dares sitting with me.
“Ah, Kassidy,” Mrs. Mayfield’s voice comes from behind me. I could tell without even looking that she had a smile on her face. She reaches out, resting her hand on my shoulder. “Glad to see you back in my class. I look forward to seeing more of your drawings this year. They truly are… beautiful.”
I hold back the urge to snort and laugh at her. Please, anything that comes from my mind is far from beautiful. Everything up there is dark and disgusting. It’s disturbing, not beautiful.
I nod, mumbling, “Thanks.”
She removes her hand, walking off to greet the other students in the classroom, explaining what the semester will consist of. I ignore her voice, along with the rest of the class around me. Instead I pull out my sketchbook, once again turning to a new, clean page. And then I begin to draw.
It was a nightmare, one of the many that had woken me up last night. I get nightmares a lot, so many that it makes it hard to get a full night sleep. It makes it scary to shut my eyes. It’s my subconsciousness playing with me, turning my thoughts and actions and visions into nightmares, warping them and twisting them, making them more gruesome and disturbing than I could ever even imagine during the day. And it just plays out in my head, for hours, causing me to wake up screaming and gulping down breaths of air, trying to slow my heart rate and make the ringing in my ears go away. I have to sit there for several minutes before I wipe away the sweat and tears and finally lay back down again. But I don’t stay down for long. The nightmares never cease to end.
The nightmare that had woken me up last night was old. I have it all the time, but it changes every night. Nothing major, still the same idea, yet small details change.
It all started with a woman. In the vision, she had a simple heart attack, and died later in the hospital. That’s all it was. A simple, natural heart attack.
But when I fall asleep, it’s much worse. It’s an agonizing pain running through her body, the loud screams and shrieks of her calling for help. It’s her family standing around, laughing as she dies. It was their faces, and the white eyes, and the empty sockets.
I never see their eyes. In fact, besides my own colourless, dead eyes, I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes before. I can never see eyes, I only see death. So in these dreams, in the nightmares, their eyes are gone, left with blank, white eyes. Like somebody has blurred them out.
“Mr. Holston, thank you for finally joining us,” Mrs. Mayfield’s voice had dragged me away me from drawing, away from the woman on the page before me. “I think you should know now that I will not tolerate late students in my class. You won’t be late again, now, will you?”
There was a moment of silence -- I presume he was nodding -- before she spoke again. “Good. Now please, find a seat and we’ll continue on with the introduction.”
Mrs. Mayfield continued on with her speech moments afterward, but the majority of the class wasn’t listening anymore. No, they were to busy whispering at the boy who was slowly making his way towards the table in the back corner, the one with three empty chairs.
My table.
A chair directly across the table from me was pulled back, scraping across the floor. The boy plopped into the chair, acting as though it was no big deal that he was sitting in this chair.
Mrs. Mayfield went on. The whispering died down, but I could feel all their gazes on me. They were all staring at me and the boy who had dared to sit at my table, waiting to see how I would react, to see what I would say.
I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, silent. Until I realized my sketchbook was wide open in front of me, open to the woman laying in the hospital bed, the dark shadows surrounding her, sucking her life out of her body, dragging her to a much worse place.
I quickly snap my sketchbook shut. I didn’t want anybody seeing what I had in there. The drawings were private, only for me to see. This new boy, this Mr. Holston was not aloud to see them.
I didn’t dare sneak a peek at him because I’m sure he was staring at me. Who wouldn’t? A lone girl sitting in the back of the room, the whole class staring and laughing and pointing. I’m the outcast, the one everybody likes laughing at. The one nobody wants to be near.
And he’s sitting right across from me.
Mrs. Mayfield passed out a piece of paper, told us to just draw. Anything that came to our minds, draw it out on the page. We’d hand them in at the end of class.
I got right down to business, drawing whatever came from my mind. It ended up being a beautiful, young girl, sitting on a chair, holding a black, dying flower in her hand. She showed no emotion on her face. It was just a blank stare.
“Lovely!” Mrs. Mayfield squealed when she collected my page. “Oh Kassidy, your drawings never cease to amaze me. I love her hands, and the detail you put into the flower… Oh and I just can never get over…” she raged on, words spilling out of her mouth about how beautiful this drawing was.
Little did she know that minutes after the girl had sat on the chair, holding the flower, she had downed a bottle of pills, leaving little more than a note for her family.
I gather my things at the end of class, making my way out the door without a word to the boy who had invaded my table.
I walk through the halls with my head down and my books pulled tightly up against my chest, snaking my way around the people. I just wanted to get to my next class, didn’t want to meet anybody’s gaze.
I almost made it too, but luck wasn’t on my side. I was bumped sideways, softly at first, and then I was tumbling to the ground before I could even think. My books went flying out of my hands, my sketchbook sliding down the hallway into the large crowd of people.
I look around the hall full of teenagers, most of them staring down at me, laughing at the freak.
But standing out from everyone else in the hallways was Andrea, a tall brunette who, since the beginning of high school, had a thing for tormenting me and trying to make my life as miserable as possible.
“Welcome back, bitch,” she spits, walking off down the hall, her ‘friends’ following after her. “This is going to be a good year.”
I shake my head, grabbing my binders and standing up. I go through the books in my hands, looking around for my sketchbook. It had been here a second ago. It had been in my hands before I was pushed. I made sure of it.
But it wasn’t with my binders now.
“Oh no,” I whispered, frantically searching to floor. It couldn’t have gone far. My other books didn’t go far, they landing right in front of me, or close to me. It was just here.
Someone must have picked it up.
Panic rises in me as I search the floor. It’s not there. I spin around, hysterically searching when suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. I whip around, coming face to face with a tall, broad chest of a male dressed in a black t-shirt. I begin to look up, wanting to place a face to the body, but I refused to let myself look. I refuse to meet his eyes.
So I looked down instead, at his matching black jeans and black Converse.
“I uh, think this is yours,” Something about his voice sent shivers down my spine. It was so edgy, yet calming at the same time. It bothered me.
The boy backs away slightly, giving me space. Then he holds up my sketchbook, firmly closed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t open it, I just picked it up.”
I snatch it from his hands, biting my lip. “Thanks,” I mumble, wanting nothing more than to just bury myself in a dark black hole.
We stand there for an awkward moment before he backs away, waving. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, shutting my eyes and turning.
Relief should have rushed through me as I began walking away from the boy. I should feel happy, right? My sketchbook didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Neither Andrea or her friends got a hold of it. This boy gave it back.
And he didn’t open it.
He just picked it up.
Why didn’t I believe that?



After art class, my day gets boring. Math, English and then History. Math is the only other class I like, but only because I’m good at it.
Math makes sense. It has to make sense. There is no maybe or almost, it’s a specific answer. There can only be one answer. I guess that’s why I like it. With all the chaos in my life, all the answers I don’t know, math reminds me that there is an answer, and there always will be. Sometimes it’s just hard to find them.
I’m really good with numbers. They’re the only thing that comes easy to my brain. It’s like they don’t get caught in the fuzzy darkness and depression.
After art and math, I skip the rest of the day. All the classes would consist of me sitting in the back of the room, drawing in my book as the teachers go on about the thrills of being in their class.
I’ve always hated the first day of school. It’s always so boring. It’s just teachers explaining what the year will consist of, and teenagers running around, screaming and laughing about how great their summer was, and how excited they are to see their friends again.
I hated it. I couldn’t wait until school started for real. At least then I have work to do. I have something to keep my mind occupied.
So, when the bell rings, ending my math class, I find myself almost running down the halls toward the front doors. I want to get out of this hellhole, I want to go home and relax, and not have to worry about the eyes and the people.
I’m almost to the door when I hear my name being called.
“Kassidy!” A goofy voice calls my name… a goofy voice that could only belong to one person: Matthew Jacobson.
Matt is jogging town the hall, a goofy grin on his face to match this goofy voice. I’m relieved when I see a dark pair of shades shielding his eyes from me.
I sigh, suppressing a smile.
“What do you want, Matt? I’m leaving.” I say, turning back toward the doors. I’m getting out of here as soon as possible, whether he wants to talk to me or not.
I push the doors open, immediately being engulfed in cool, fresh autumn air. Matt follows me outside and down the stone stairs.
“How was your summer? We haven’t talked in ages!” he laughs, slowing his pace beside me as we reached the sidewalk.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk right now. I’m going home.”
“Well, we live near each other. Maybe we can walk home together?”
I shake my head, gripping at the strap of my shoulder bag. “No, Matt, you have class. Besides I’m not walking with you. I told you, I don’t want to talk.”
“You have class too!” he smirks. “And why don’t you want to talk to me? I’m a nice guy.”
I shake my head, turning to him. “We aren’t friends, Matt, you know that. We’ve been through this before.”
“But we can be,” he probes, hopefully, raising his sunglasses. I immediately look to the ground, continuing down the sidewalk.
“No, we can’t. Leave me alone.”
“Oh come on, Kassidy! You don’t need to be like that. I see you through the halls, in desperate need of a friend,” he pauses, jumping in front of me and holding his arms out by his sides. “I’m that guy!”
“First of all, I’m not in desperate need of a friend. I don’t need, nor do I want any friends. And even if Hell were to freeze over, and I needed a friend, it wouldn’t be you.”
Yes, I’m being cruel, and yes, I’m pushing him away. But this is me. This is what I have to sacrifice to live my life and keep my secret, well, a secret. I have to sacrifice my friends.
And I’ve been sacrificing Matt all my life. I’ve known him since I was a little kid, since I only just started to understand what was wrong with me. He’s always been there, trying to be my friend. Trying to get me to open up, to smile and to laugh and to be happy; with him.
He’s hard to get rid of, because he doesn’t know when to give in.
“Ouch,” he says sarcastically, pulling his glasses back over his eyes. “That really hurt. I think I might cry. You aren’t very nice, you know.”
“I never claimed to be nice, Matt,” I say, continuing down the sidewalk. “Go back to school, please? Let me go home.”
“Why? You have class. You can’t just skip the first day of school.” This is the thing about Matt. He means well, he really does, but he wants to be everybody’s friend. He wants to make sure everybody is happy, and if they aren’t, he needs to know why. He’s always sticking his nose in where it isn’t meant to be, he’s always pushing and probing for answers. And if you don’t answer them, he’ll bother you until you do. He’s like a little kid, clueless to the world around him.
“Watch me,” I smirk, stepping around him.
“Ha ha, you’re funny,” he shakes his head at me, keeping his pace beside me. “Come on, let’s go back to school before we’re both late.”
“I’m sick,” I mumble, fingering the strap of my bag. I’ve always been a bad liar.
“Bullshit,” he smirks, bumping me in the side. “You’re lying to me.”
“Really? Would have never guessed,” Lying I was bad at, but sarcasm was my best friend.
“Quit being sarcastic. Why are you actually going home?”
“Matt,” I stop walking, shaking my head. “Please, just leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you. Can you get that in your head?”
Matt stops walking, crossing his arms over his chest. “You really aren’t very fun.”
“I don’t want to be fun.”
“Right, you just want to sit around and be a sad, depressing loner that does nothing but draw in a sketchbook,” He points to my book bag. I smile slightly, because as sad as it sounded, he had me bang on. I’m completely content with who I am now.
“Oh come on, you can‘t be serious. Let loose for once!” he smiles, taking my hands in his and spinning me around. “Come on, Kass, let loose! Be happy for once.”
I can’t hold back my grin as he spins me around, the wind whipping through my hair and the world twisting around me. For a moment, it feels good, letting loose. Being free. But I quickly get a hold of myself, pulling away from him, fixing my bag at my side.
“If I need some laughter in my life, you’ll be the first one I call. Now,” I turn my back to him. “Go back to school and beg the Hall Nazi to let you go to class late.”
“That old bitch? I’m not afraid of her.”
The Hall Nazi is the old woman who wanders the hallways, a grimace on her face and late notes stuffed in her pocket ready to be whipped out and handed to the nearest late student. She’s mean. You don’t ever want to be caught by her. Matt should be afraid.
“Go, Matt.”
He chuckles in defeat, backing away from me. “You win this time. But there’s always tomorrow.”
I shake my head, “Goodbye.”
I stride down the sidewalk, away from the school and away from Matt.
But I lied. I’m not going home. I’m going to the forest.