Hello party people! I've been absent for a while and I have a very simple explanation for that: school. But I'm planning on spending the spring break productively.
Nowadays I don't have any time to sit and write but I did come up with a few ideas and plots; and I've been tinkering with this one. Let's just give this a shot.
I don't own YGO.
Holding onto a wall.
No. Erase.
Reaching upwards.
Yes, that's good.
Maybe add a rope?
No. Erase. She's supposed to be holding onto the hope of surviving.
No rope. Nothing.
Just... the light.
The only thing keeping her from giving up and letting herself being consumed by the shadows surrounding her.
Okay, arm template is ready. Now, structure.
Bony. Skin battered and dirty. A trail of blood.
Or is the blood too much?
I'll just add it anyway.
He carefully moved his pencil on the paper to create a thin line of blood, dripping from a slit on the girl's wrist, trailing down to her elbow.
He took a moment to observe the new changes.
Feels like too much.
He leaned back on the chair, closed his eyes.
There was something happening to him, he couldn't draw like he used to anymore. Nothing he did satisfied him, and he couldn't get any drawings done without changing the details every other second. The piece would not turn out as he had imagined, that is, if he ever would finish it. Most of his sketchbooks were full of halfway done sketches.
He looked back at the sketch of the woman in front of him.
It had started as a pure project. He had just wanted to draw a beautiful woman, sitting in peace. And it was going as planned at first. The woman was there, he had no problems with drawing the human anatomy. And he was thinking of adding a starry sky behind her. She could gaze up and watch the shimmering sky.
Then, suddenly, that didn't seem enough. And in an instant, the woman sitting in peace was instead attacked by strings of shadows, crawling from the darkness around her. Her entire posture was changed. She wasn't sitting anymore, rather, attempting to run. And her hands that originally sat on her knees, were now reaching out.
She didn't have the faint smile that he had tried so hard to perfect, she was screaming. And her eyes wasn't closed as if she was in a tranquil environment, soaking in the silence. No.
She was horrified at what she was seeing, and what was happening to her.
How did his drawing become something so tragic, he didn't know. He just went along with it. Like many of his works, this one also had many changes along the way, and now have become something else.
A knock on his door brought him back to world, and he sighed. "Sorry." he apologized to his own creation, as if that could make it better for the desperate girl.
His mother came in, happy to see her son out of bed and in his uniform. "You're up early today. And here I was coming to wake you."
"Yeah, I wanted to see if drawing at an earlier hour would help." he muttered and closed the notebook, then put it in his backpack. "It didn't."
"Well, of course. You have to have breakfast first, you know, fill the tank." she said and nudged the boy's shoulder jokingly. "And your fuel is waiting for you downstairs."
"Thanks mom."
He stood up from the chair he was sitting, tumbled at first from sitting down for too long, then went out of the room.
As he tried to eat as much as he could, he tried to pinpoint an exact reason why he couldn't draw as good.
Had he lost his talent?
That couldn't be it, because he only saw improvement in the way he held the pencil.
Maybe he had just lost interest in drawing?
That wasn't it either though, he wanted to draw. The fact that he couldn't was the problem.
He thought of his latest drawings. They were just scribbles that he had forced himself to draw, because he had a rule of drawing at least one thing every day.
What if... that was the problem? What if he didn't like what he was doing because he was forcing himself to do it? Because art was something that was supposed to give him joy, but it wasn't anymore because...
Yami Moto, 17 years old, Japanese, high school student.
Drawing had been his passion since he first learned how to hold a pencil.
And now, after countless doodles and scribbles and sketches and drawings and paintings, for the first time, he was out of inspiration.