My bare feet hit the dewy grass as I run as I never have before. The sun shines brightly, the sky stubbornly cloudless - heavily contrasting with the unadulterated panic that encases my whole being, as though mocking me. I pant breathlessly, not allowing myself to stop running for even a second.
Eventually, my legs inevitably give in, my lungs aching, and I collapse. Lying sprawled against the ground, I can sense the impending threat emerging closer closer closer, so I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and suddenly-
Ariah awakes with a start, an uneasy feeling creeping down her spine. Cold sweat runs down her back, causing her to shiver as she blearily rubs the gunge out of her eyes. Groaning, she leans over slightly to check the time. The girl squints in annoyance at the large red letters that glare at her tantalisingly; she lets out yet another groan; 4:34am. Would she ever get enough sleep? At this rate, it didn’t seem like it. She’d had yet another all too realistic dream- at this point, she wasn’t even surprised. What annoyed Ariah the most was that whilst she never seemed to be able to remember any concrete details, the vague feelings the dreams left behind still lingered, vivid and unchanging.
In this specific dream, she was running. Running from something. What it was exactly that she was running from was beyond her knowledge- but what she did know that the mere thought of being caught by the something made her body tense and her heart race in hellish terror. It wasn’t always nightmares, either. Her dreams could range from detailed stories and occurrences (none of which she remembered, of course, for it seemed fate would never truly be that kind to her) to a series of short flashing images.
Of course, she’d never thought to tell anyone of the existence of the strange dreams- that was completely out of the question. Oh, that would make one hell of a laugh; not only would she be known as the strange, flighty girl who only ever painted fantastical scenery, no that wouldn’t be enough; she would also become known as the lunatic who had nightmares like a baby despite her age. Whilst Ariah herself really didn’t give the slightest time of day to anyone else's opinion of her (she’d heard it all before), Cerstanance Community College was well known to jump at the first sign of someone else being labeled “different”; armed with metaphorical guns loaded with only words and discrete actions to act as bullets.
Presently, the girl sat up on her bed, trying to force her heart rate down. She’d gotten quite used to it, having had the nightly occurrences for a long time, but it never really got any easier. In the half darkness of their dorm, Ariah sent a cautious glance towards her roomate, who was encased in a deep sleep- oblivious to the world (or Ariah, for that matter) around her. Sighing defeatedly, Ariah got up, trudging slowly to the bathroom, wincing as the cold air hit her barely clothed body. She walked the few steps to the bathroom- which seemed to have multiplied in distance due to her dazed state and, after opening the door, she fumbled for the light-switch. Click. The black and white tiles of the small, cramped bathroom were illuminated and Ariah blinked for a second or two, trying to accustom her eyes to the shockingly bright light.
As she did, she walked into the bathroom, the cold of the stone tiles hitting her feet, achingly so. Closing the door, she placed both hands on the sink edge, and looked at the stranger staring back at her in the mirror. For what could be the millionth time in her life, she thought to herself, “Is that really me?” Call it being melodramatic, but Ariah looked in the mirror and she didn’t see herself. Well, obviously she saw her reflection, but when she viewed her reflection she felt as if something was off. She felt as if she wasn’t really looking at herself. She briefly pondered whether this peculiar feeling of… incompletion, for lack of a better term, was the same for everyone.
The women who walked around in dresses so short they were probably considered altogether another thing and not dresses at all, with their high-heels that went click-clack every time they walked, with their faces caked with seemingly endless layers of makeup and with their fake, staged smiles-- did they feel like this too?
The men who daren’t show a hint of emotion for fear of causing unbalance to the social status quo, with their faces devoid of a single dreg of expression other than a frustratingly blank look that was supposedly deemed cool , with their eyes unwilling to shed tears and their voices thickly laced with gruffness and rough street slang-- did they feel like this, too?
Ariah would’ve like to think yes, if only to feel slightly less like a freak, but deep down she knew that it was solely her who felt like a stranger in her own body, and it drove her to the point of insanity. Yet again, Ariah stared at the stranger in the mirror, surveying her face meticulously.
Large, cat-like eyes stared back at her, with irises the colour of syrupy honey, a face with natural, pouty lips and high cheekbones and lightly tanned skin, framed by curly, slightly tangled hair that cascaded only marginally past her shoulders and was dyed a pastel shade of teal. Ariah had been dying her hair ever since high school (in all natural colours, of course, for God forbid someone actually expressed themselves amongst fellow angsty teenagers) for she couldn’t bare to see her natural hair colour- just looking it made her want to tear it all out, strand by strand.
Ariah looked again at the face in the mirror- at herself- and saw her worn out expression and the dark bags underneath her eyes that knew she wouldn't be bothered to conceal come daytime. Sighing for the umpteenth time, she tore her eyes away from the mirror. Opening the tap, she cupped her hands into the sink and collected the cold water in her hands that was steadily pouring from its nozzle.
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Ariah splashed the water onto her face, arching her back as she savoured the pleasantly cooling sensation it gave her and then she shut the tap. Suppressing the intense urge to glance yet again into the reflective piece of glass (as though it held the answers to the hurricane of unsolved questions she held close to her heart) she placed her finger on the light switch and flipped it. Click. Turning away with great difficulty , Ariah stepped out the bathroom on delicate feet, shutting the door softly behind her. The teal- haired girl spared another decisive glance towards her roomate, (what was her name? Zahraa? Zoe? Ah well, she would probably remember in the morning (the normal people morning, not the 4am type of morning), when both the name and the girl were actually relevant to her life) before she walked towards the light- switch, hesitating slightly before she flicked it on. Ariah cast another short glance towards her roomate, though she knew it was futile, for she would surely be sleeping like a rock, and sure enough, she was. They had only been rooming together for a few months, as they were both freshmen, and had not yet encountered any serious arguments with one another. The now sleeping girl put up with Ariahs “late night escapades” as she had dubbed them, for she understood them as a “sudden artistic urge which could not be denied.” (her words, not Ariahs: whatever her name was, that girl was weird as hell, but Ariah could definitely live with that, who was she to judge? -- it was better than a popular girl who would not only be rude, but would surely make unrightful assumptions as to Ariahs strange sleeping patterns.)
And, sure enough, Ariah felt it now, she could sense the image permeating into her mind, itching to be portrayed by paints and brushes. It was like an itch that started at the back of her head-- and it was ebbing into her whole body, demanding to be scratched-- at this point, Ariah wasn’t even in control of herself anymore. As if hypnotised, she walked towards her paint tubes and her canvas. She placed a new canvas on the easel-- a large one-- and, for a brief moment, she savoured the satisfying view that was a blank canvas, it’s one shining moment of serene purity before it became a subject of fate; dirtied in a wondrously fascinating way and stained with a plethora of colour. After the moment of admiration had passed, Ariah started working.
Picking up a grade 2H pencil, she began with the outline. A streamlined body tailored for speed, two long, slightly curvy, horns that protruded outwards from the head; large, impressive wings that extend for what seems like miles, and short, sharp spikes that spread from the small of the neck, downwards across the spine: her pencil glided across the textured canvas, and she savoured the sensation with barely concealed glee-- after all, it wasn’t as if anyone else was there to judge.
After she had achieved the desired look of the overall pencil sketch, Ariah began to squeeze different tubes of paint onto the wooden pallet, which she held firmly in a one-handed grip. The smell of the freshly squeezed paint was welcoming in an overbearing sort of way, the strong smell of chemicals as familiar to her as her own name-- it was like coming home after a long vacancy; for painting was Ariahs sole escape from the horrors of the outside world- the prying eyes, the opinionated glances, the curling of the lips and the curious glares of people who thought they knew it all, and, by extension, everything there was to know about her. When Ariah painted, she let loose all her frustration, all her hope, her dreams, her anger and her sheer lostness. When Ariah painted, nothing else existed other than the paint, brush, canvas and the vivid picture in her mind. For her, painting was more than an offhand passion, more than a talent or her college major-- it was a lifeline.
Ariah dipped her brush into the paint, enjoying the first stroke of smooth, thick paint applying to the rough canvas. And then she began adding true depth to her piece.
***
10:06am
Ariah stood back, admiring the finished painting. She was standing on her last legs, exhausted almost to the point of death, but of course that could be cured with a cup of coffee, with the addition of four extra shots of caffeine at the very least. The final picture portrayed an image of a magnificent beast, a dragon, (though labelling it as such somehow didn’t fit right) with iridescent, gleaming scales, coloured a pure ivy black that glistened an imperial purple, when reflected in the mid-morning sun. The creatures eyes were a startling shade of electric blue, glittering with human-like intelligence; wise orbs that had seen too much, yet not enough at the same time. In the background was a forest filled with luscious greenery and exotic plants- vividly coloured flowers, and some species of plant that didn’t exist altogether-- silvery plants that released pink colored plumes of smoke, flowers with petals of brilliant flames that burned brightly in varying shades of scarlet and amber. Ariah didn’t know how long she stood there, staring wistfully, but she suddenly felt a tap on her shoulder. She jolted out of her reverie and glanced behind her-- standing there, looking barely awake, was her roommate.
“Hmm, were you up all night,” she yawned loudly, “paintin’ that?”
“Yes, why?” Ariah asked irritatedly: she was damn tired and she just wished everyone would mind their own business- in a world where nothing made sense to her, there was no point in small talk.
“Just asking. I’m concerned-- you need some more sleep- this ain’t healthy,” She looked at Ariah with something akin to pity in her eyes.
“Well don’t be concerned; I’m fine,” she snapped, getting worked up now, “Just...Just mind your own goddamn business!”
Oh. The girl looked at her sadly, hurt flashing in her features, and Ariah knew she had gone too far. For all she preached to herself about how awful people were, these days she wasn’t so much of a saint herself. She had spent her whole life carefully constructing a wall of isolation to protect herself, and when that wall was threatened, she got extremely defensive, and, in turn, lashed out at the nearest person.
“No..look I-”
“No, you look, Ariah.” She smiled melancholically, before turning around and walking away.
Shit. Ariah knew she would have to apologise at some point, but, at the moment, she respected that her roommate just wanted to be by herself.
Damnit, she really was in need of some coffee. The girl walked towards her wardrobe, rolling her cramped neck-- six hours of non- stop painting (save for a few bathroom breaks) could certainly work up quite an ache. Not really paying attention to the overall outfit, Ariah picked out a clean white t-shirt and some black skinny jeans. After she had changed into them (and had placed the clothes she had previously worn back into her wardrobe, for whilst she was, as aforementioned, not a saint, she’d like to think she still possessed basic etiquette) had brushed her teeth, and dragged a brush through her hair, Ariah pulled some socks on and grabbed her wallet. Sparing a last wistful glance towards the place she had been calling home for the last few weeks, she pulled on some grey converse that had certainly seen better days, opened the door ,walked out, and shut it behind her with an odd sort of finality.