"No, no, no, no, no! You're not doing it right!" she complained. You looked down at the page in front of you, a young man about your age, 16 or 17 years old was staring back at you, he had messy white hair and delicate facial features that emphasisedhis ice blue eyes, he wore a hooded jacket with intricately woven patterns on the shoulders and sleeves, his pants were brown, tight and finished just above his ankles, his feet were bare and in his hand he held a long wooden staff that was curved at the tip. He was surrounded by four other characters; a hummingbird/human hybrid whose feathers glittered with various shades of green, blue and yellow; there was a large, burly man with his arms crossed over his chest, his sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, exposing tattoos that read naughty and nice; they are joined by a small man with golden hair, he held a golden whip in each hand that seemed to have the consistency of sand; finally there was a half sketched rabbit that was apparently going to hold to boomerangs, or so says your sister.
"What… what's wrong with it?" You whispered meekly. You had been working on this not-so-little project for the past month and to be criticised at the final hurdle, to put it plainly… hurt.
"His ears are smaller and his feet are bigger!" she pointed out and you sighed. Before you had a chance to reach for your pencil you heard your mother's voice calling you from the laundry. As you stood you looked at the clock and your heart leapt into your throat.
9:30
Your sister wasn't in bed and your father was due home in 15 minutes.
"Cupcake quick get into bed NOW" you urged "We'll finish this off next time". By next time you mean the next time your father went out, he disapproved of your drawings – in fact he disapproved of anything that invited self-expression; music, drama or art.
Cupcake clearly understood, she nodded, flashed you a quick smile and hurried off to her bedroom. You collected your lead and coloured pencils and placed them carefully into your underwear draw. Starting towards the laundry you remember the day mother brought you your first set of pencil, it was your seventh birthday and throughout the last few weeks of school you had started showing off your developing drawing skills, mother thought it appropriate to give you the pencils to hone your skills, unfortunately your father thought otherwise. When you woke up the next day you found your pencils snapped in the bin and to your surprise you saw your mother covered in bruises. Luckily for Cupcake she was a year old and managed to avoid the violence that followed, you can still feel the beating you were given and see the look of rage on your father's usually placid face, and hear he chilled words muttered in your ear;
"If you ever try something like that again" he whispered "You will regret it". Not that you ever heeded his warning, let's face facts – he was always out so as long as you kept you head down and kept you art supplies well hidden you were off the hook… Right?
You reach the laundry and poke you head around the corner. " 'Sup?" you ask.
"Oh thank god" you mother cries "you're still awake. I thought you mightn't have heard me and fallen asleep"
"Don't be ridiculous" you smirked. "I'm a night owl, you of all people should know that" you exaggerated, your mother smiles in reply. "What do you need?" you asked.
"I've had to focus on dusting all day and haven't managed to attack the dishes yet, could you give me a hand?" she pleaded.
"How much dust could there've been?" you ask.
"Too much" she sighed "Cupcake came home last night drenched in it"
You laughed at the thought of Cupcake covered from head to toe in dust and made your way toward the kitchen.
So little cupcake finally made some friends you thought.
Entering the kitchen you saw the few scattered glasses and plates, nothing to dramatic – thank god. By the time you finish unloading, stacking and fiddling with the dishwasher you hear a car pull up in the driveway. Crap. You run to your room and close the door with perfect timing, by the time your over to your desk you hear your father thumping towards you room, snatching the picture from the desk you sprint towards your bed, sliding the picture underneath before leaping under the covers. You hear your father pass your room and head towards the bathroom, you exhale and fall asleep with the image of the five realistic figments of your sister imagination.