Page 1 of Monstrous

ChapterOne

My hands refuse to work.

No matter how long I stare at the blank page, and no matter how badly the images in my mind beg for release, my body does not cooperate to transform those ideas into flesh. So to speak.

Frustration wells up beneath my skin.

The pencil poises less than half an inch above the pure white paper as I wait for inspiration to strike, for me to do what I’ve always done.

Sketch.

Groaning, I run my free hand through my hair. Squeezing once like a little reminder to stop wasting time. Or maybe a threat. “I’m an artist,” I say out loud. “I create things! Now draw, dammit.”

Yeah, right. I should say it’s what Iusedto do because these days I’m an empty cup. The paper mountains stretching to the ceiling around me attest to the wasted hours, the time spent trying to get my creations to come to life and falling short.

I can’t will my hands to do the thing that I love the most.

It’s getting kinda old.

Alottaold, I tell myself, because this isn’t a new occurrence.

I probably shouldn’t have the news on either because there’s nothing like the reminder of the worst time in my life to stem the flow of creativity. A glance at the screen has my heart thumping, gaze averting immediately.

Fuck. Shouldn’t have done that.

I’ve got the volume low, but the subtitles give me a clear indication of what they’re saying. Right along with the actual picture in the upper corner.

I stare at the photo for a long moment until tears burn my eyes and then I fumble for the remote, dropping it on the floor where it immediately hides under the bed.

“It’s been seven years since the gruesome murder of Walker Toth, and his friends and family have planned a memorial for the once vibrant young man—”

The newscaster doesn’t need to tell me what I already know.

Seven years without the man I love. Sure, twenty-one had seemed a little young to everyone in my life to find the man I wanted to marry, but I’d known. I’d known the moment I saw him that I wanted to be with him.

I finally find the remote and point it menacingly at the screen, pressing whatever button I can. The volume screeches up into eardrum-piercing territory and I scream along with it until I finally get the right button and plummet the room into silence.

Walker…

The desire between us was mutual even in those early days; the ones I still can’t think back on without bawling. The same way I want to bawl now and have to turn away before I give into temptation.

And I can’t bring myself to go to the memorial service his parents are throwing tomorrow, either. It would be nice to see them but the whole thing will just be a bad memory. Or worse, a reminder of the life I might have lived if Walker had survived the attack.

Then I’ll spiral into depression for a week.

Two weeks, probably.

It would be wasted time and I have none to spare. So, better for me to stay home, hole up like a hermit crab, and press my nose into my sketchbook to get something done.

Yeah, right.

I sit cross-legged on the bed, the remote in my hands instead of the pencil. I’ve only got a few hours before I need to go to sleep, and I really want to get something down on paper. Honestly, anything will do. Nope. Take that back.

I drew a little stick figure in the corner and now he looks like he’s just mocking me.

It’s a far cry from how I used to be. Or even how I’d drawn right after the—

“Shit.”

---