The Misfit

The lingering smell of lead floated aimlessly in my room, forming a faint, grey cloud above my head. It seemed as though smoke was secreting from the tip of my pencil that I had pressed against the palm of my hand. Anger that washed through my body had somehow managed to consume the room, leaking out of my body like white, hot heat. The cool breeze that was dancing across my room stumbled clumsily over my shoulders before vanishing completely with a low, deep hiss. I blinked once, then twice, before exhaling deeply, letting my frustrations intertwine with the air.

I stared down at the paper in front of me and soon, my fingers enclosed around my pencil in a way so terribly tight, that I could hear it choking out desperate apologizes and cries of help. “I-I’m sorry, I’ll – I’ll do better, next time – next time! P-please stop… please!”

I let its cries drown along with the air as I dropped my dark, empty eyes onto its shivering, worn out body, before whispering in a soft, yet bitter voice, “There seem to be a lot of ‘next times’, hm?”

My gaze soon flickered back to the once beautiful, pure and white leaf of paper that was now tainted with the slashes of black I desperately wanted to call, art. I wanted to laugh at myself, for being such a pathetic dreamer, yet the only sound that escaped my lips was a foreign, soft sound that resembled a broken hiccup. I ran my fingers through my tangled, black hair in frustration, before clawing my nails away at the paper, with an uncomfortable pressure pushing away at the back of my eyes. I threw the shreds of paper into the air, letting it drift onto the ground, rejected.

I peered over my shoulder to look at the mess before murmuring, “Looks better than it did before.”

With half-lidded eyes that saw clouds, I dropped my gaze back onto my sketchbook. A nice, fresh sheet of paper smiled up at me cruelly as if to say, “Don’t touch me, I don’t want you to draw on me.” These comments felt so heavy on my heart and had the power to drag me down to the earth’s crust as strong as gravity. There, I crawled into the comfort of a crooked old corner and pressed my back hard against the cold, rigid wall, while trying to cry the heaviness away. My cheeks were stained with more tears as my eyes met the appearance of my pencil, which was an eternal reminder of my failures.

I was a misfit of this world. The world of art wasn’t for me, for it was filled with people who possessed such endless imaginations and sharp, fine skills. The colour that once ran through me had long turned grey, and spilled out of the pores of my skin even when I tried desperately to keep them there prisoner. The people in this world were talented, so incredibly talented that my presence alone felt like a disgrace to theirs. So, when I was still young, teetering on the tender age of eleven, I decided to leave quietly. When I was about to jump off the edge of the world, I sat down at the far end and looked back, with my hand clutching my green, worn out pencil tightly. I stared and stared until the colours, lines, spaces and emotions of the world became me and I closed my eyes, waiting for nothing but praying urgently for something. I sat at the edge of the world, letting my legs dangle in the air and when I glanced back to bid farewell to all that I was about to leave, I mumbled with a dazed look in my eyes, “Huh – it sure is beautiful…”

By then, I couldn’t fall anymore because my heart had already turned colour and it was a magnificent colour – a red more vibrant and stunning than any other red I’d ever seen. I fell in love; it was a one-sided love, like a rose that only glimmered red on one side, but what was lying underneath my chest whispered, “You can always change that if you wish to.”

My wish was simple yet, the times that accompanied it were difficult and dark. The silence, knitted together with the light scratches of my wooden pencil that greeted me during times when I’d draw, became the soundtrack of my life. The rough ridges of my pencil that dug ruthlessly into my skin became the gloves of my hands that melded into my flesh. The drawings that I’d create with the rich, black colours of lead from my pencil soon became black and white mountains of torn paper that I’d have to climb.

As the mountains grew, my dreams gradually became more vivid – more real. I was a dreamer and here, pressed onto my palm, was my fragile jar of dreams. As my pencil grew smaller, my dreams began to spread onto my papers as naturally as ink. The skeletons of my creations began to form more fluidly, for I’d grown so accustomed to breaking bones that I was able to prevent myself from doing so again. With every breath I took, the lead that pooled into my lungs changed more and more from grey to colour. The colour that resided in my lungs soon rippled through my thin veins and rested at the very tips of my fingers, before rushing through the pencil I held.

Years later, I sat myself onto the peak of the highest mountain and placed my pencil onto the open palm of my hand. I let my fingers graze against its worn out ridges, letting it travel across its petite torso. It had shrunk with age and now had thin brown lines that ran across its body. It looked like a beaten and tattered old thing, as if it had sacrificed itself for the sake of winning this war. I breathed in deeply, letting myself take in the smell of its bitter and broken lead. Colour ran through me like a jolt of lightning and I now felt strong – invincible. I was the warrior and it was my sword. When I thought about all the battles we fought together, the only words that felt right to say made its way through my lips, “Thank you.”

Together, we sat in a still silence as we enjoyed the view from the highest mountain of shredded paper. The light, warm breeze kissed my cheeks tenderly and for once, tranquility spoke soft, sweet murmurs within my mind. With this peace, my exhausted limbs soon relaxed and a tired, faint smile slipped its way onto my lips.

The war was won, and the world seemed like it was mine, entirely mine.