Howard Roark scared his mother.
He didn't eat until his stomach groaned audibly and he didn't sleep until he collapsed from sheer exhaustion. This made her nervous, so Howard was a common topic during Mrs. Roark's weekly game of bridge with the neighbors. Her neighbors soon convinced her that this was a phase, and would soon pass, nothing to be worried about. His grade school teachers never complained about him, but mentioned in passing Howard's antisocial behavior to each other. It wasn't that he was outright rude, but Howard had a way about him.
He never yelled.
He never cried.
He never played nice.
He never played at all. It wasn't until the teachers saw the drawings that they doubted their own opinions of Howard as a antisocial lost cause. The drawings changed their minds. The other children drew rainbows. The other children drew cows, dogs , and their family members. Howard refused to draw rainbows, cows, dogs, or his family. Howard was in third grade the first time one of his teachers noticed his drawings. They weren't spectacular, Howard's hands still struggled to grasp the pencil firmly enough to make a straight line, but the drawings were unlike any the teacher had seen drawn by the third graders. The lines weren't the thin, straight lines covering the other children's papers; they were thick, bold, and dark. The colors weren't where the way they were supposed to be. Color had been scribbled onto the page, as though the child needed to get them out of his head an onto the paper before they were lost. It wasn't beautiful.
It wasn't of a cow.
It wasn't of a dog.
It wasn't of a smiling family. The drawing was of a house. It wasn't a box house, with bow windows, with a triangle roof, and a shinning yellow sun behind it. It was a tall, thin, gawky, and sharp looking building. It didn't look like any house in the small mining town, or any house anywhere.
When the teacher bent down and asked where he had seen such a...an interesting building, Howard stared up at her, unblinking, and told her.
It was in my head.
He never yelled.
He never cried.
He never played nice.
He never played at all. It wasn't until the teachers saw the drawings that they doubted their own opinions of Howard as a antisocial lost cause. The drawings changed their minds. The other children drew rainbows. The other children drew cows, dogs , and their family members. Howard refused to draw rainbows, cows, dogs, or his family. Howard was in third grade the first time one of his teachers noticed his drawings. They weren't spectacular, Howard's hands still struggled to grasp the pencil firmly enough to make a straight line, but the drawings were unlike any the teacher had seen drawn by the third graders. The lines weren't the thin, straight lines covering the other children's papers; they were thick, bold, and dark. The colors weren't where the way they were supposed to be. Color had been scribbled onto the page, as though the child needed to get them out of his head an onto the paper before they were lost. It wasn't beautiful.
It wasn't of a cow.
It wasn't of a dog.
It wasn't of a smiling family. The drawing was of a house. It wasn't a box house, with bow windows, with a triangle roof, and a shinning yellow sun behind it. It was a tall, thin, gawky, and sharp looking building. It didn't look like any house in the small mining town, or any house anywhere.
When the teacher bent down and asked where he had seen such a...an interesting building, Howard stared up at her, unblinking, and told her.
It was in my head.