You're failing. These two words meant nothing to the eighteen year old. He sat and said nothing while the guidance counselor spoke of his future. Whatever, Blake thought as he played with his tongue ring and tapped his fingers on his thighs. He was tired of hearing the same words. He knew he wouldn't graduate but he didn't care. Why could no one understand that? Mrs. Fisher stopped talking about how one bad decision could lead to another and eventually he would have nothing.
Finally. I can leave. Blake kicked the chair out from behind him and left the room. His hands were balled into fists. He punched locker after locker as he walked down the hallway. The anger wasn't because he was failing; it was all the rage reaching the surface. Blake was done with it all. He pushed open the doors to the parking lot and began to walk home. Cars on the streets honked at him as he weaved through the traffic instead of using the sidewalk. At this point, getting hit by a car wouldn't be the worst that could happen. He arrived home moments later. Apartment 3B. The only place he could be alone.
It was an apartment with a limited amount of furniture but that's what he liked about it. The only object that held any meaning to Blake, were his thousands of Sharpies. Bins filled to the brim with every Sharpie type imaginable—fine tip, regular, thick, pastel, neon, black, metallic, and so on. Sharpies—his only drawing utensil and the walls—his canvas. His drawings were tattoo-like and showed exactly who Blake Tanner was.
He had always been rebellious. At age twelve he dove head first into drinking, at fourteen he went to extreme levels with drugs, and at sixteen, he left home. He could remember the day he moved out as if it had happened just minutes ago. He felt free and alive like the baby bird one sees learning to fly on a warm spring day. When he reached his new home he couldn't help but smile because he knew he had made the right decision. That was the day he started drawing and his first drawing—the newly independent baby bird.
The second day of his new life, he went to the tattoo parlor his cousin owned. He had taken a Polaroid of his drawing and his cousin tattooed the bird right in the center of his back. He couldn't believe how liberated he now felt and the pain of the tattoo made Blake happy because it held such great meaning. For the next two weeks, he skipped school. Drawing became an addiction. An addiction far greater than that of drugs or alcohol. For days he drew for hours straight while his grades slowly dropped in the classrooms. That was when Mrs. Fisher began scheduling meetings with him. Except, meetings with the middle-aged woman only p***ed him off and caused him to have more drive. He dealt with two years of her rambling and now, 147 drawings and tattoos later, he had only learned one thing from her. You're failing.
That night Blake fell asleep on the couch with his gold Sharpie in hand. He had stared at the walls for hours but nothing came to mind. The second hand on the clock ticked loudly. Blake was fast asleep, but at 3 a.m. he sat up right on the couch. With his eyes closed, he walked to the blank wall he had been waiting to draw on and opened the gold Sharpie. Still asleep he began working at a fast pace. Each detail was perfect and twenty Sharpie colors later, Blake's masterpiece was complete. He stood facing the wall for a few minutes then walked backward and plopped himself onto the couch again.
The next morning Blake stretched his arms over his head and slowly stood up from the couch. When he was finally able to open his eyes wide enough, he couldn't believe what he saw. He had drawn his house. Not his apartment, but the house he had lived in before he left. The house with the blue shutters and wrap around porch. The house where he had made so many childhood memories. The house with the cobblestone path that seemed golden in the sunlight. The house with the family he left behind. He had drawn himself looking in to the kitchen where his family was having game night and that's when it hit him. Blake missed his parents, sister, and brother—he wanted to go home. But as much as he wanted it, deep down he knew, it was impossible.
His sleep-walking had turned into a nightmare. The drawing of the house created a mix of emotions. Blake paced back and forth past the drawing. He could hear snippets of conversations his parents used to have with him—the hurtful words that caused him to move out. Part of him wanted to draw his frustrations and the other part wanted everything to end. He walked briskly to the bathroom, grabbed a fresh razor blade from the drawer, and stared at himself in the mirror. Blake slowly maneuvered the blade toward his left wrist and a tear streamed down his face. The blade hovered centimeters above his pale flesh and the house flashed into his mind one last time. He lowered the blade—millimeters away now, and wondered if his life could ever be redrawn...