Writer's Block

Shay sat in one of the art rooms at the back table as she scribbled things on a piece of paper. She wasn't drawing, but rather writing. That was an artform, so she decided it was okay to practice it here. This place always felt more isolated, at least in the daytime, so Shay spent much of her free time in these rooms.

She was frustrated, to say the least. She couldn't get her ideas down, and nothing was making sense. She bit the eraser of her pencil as her eyes bore into the sheet. She crossed something out, balled the paper up, and threw it over her shoulder. There were multiple balls of paper behind her, she usually just cleaned them up before she left.

She scratched her head and undid her jacket, setting it on the chair beside her. This left her in her tank top; the only reason she was comfortable with this was because no one was around and it was hot in here. Her hand twitched and she kept glancing at the article of clothing, ensuring it was close enough to grab if anyone came close.

Shay flinched when a voice cut through the air. Tensely, she looked over at the boy just as he sat beside her.

He looked happy. Too joyful. Why were kids her age — she assumed he was her age, or around it — so animated and loud all the time?

For a long moment, Shay just stared at the boy, uncertain what to say. Her eyes drifted to his sketchbook and, in turn, his drawing. An artist. of course, that's why he was down here.

Only then did she register his question.

"Why am I writing?" she repeated slowly in her low, raspy voice. It seemed an odd question to her. Why would anyone write?

"It's a hobby of mine. Why are you drawing?" she asked with a pointed look to his sketchpad.