Charcoal Lines

Ian’s charcoal danced on the canvas, creating swirls of grey on the creamy white. His body and soul were completely absorbed in his work; eyes lost in the lines as they joined together and fingers swaying as he swept the charcoal lightly. Fine details formed under them, as he gave his creation life; knitting together charcoal lines to form blood and flesh.

It was a passion of his, sketching live human figures, especially when he was expected to illustrate such a beauty that stood right before his eyes. Her face was interesting, to say the least. It had a hard edge to it, with sarcasm etched into her features. Her posture seemed to be of one who was disdainful of those around her, and her eyes held a reckless flame in them. He was always told to look for things others couldn’t see, and what he saw was the forced smile that was plastered all over her face. She wasn’t really content; she was sad and was making an incredible effort to look blissful in front of everyone in the class.

The art class came to an end, one by one they packed their bags and left, Ian took one last look at what stood before him, gave a faint smile and started to head home. He shivered as a sudden gust of cold air swept through London’s train station; he gathered the folds of his thick coat and drew them towards him. Suddenly he felt faint, as if everything around him went blank and all he could see was a dim light and the girl who stood before him just moments before committing suicide. “Had it been a premonition?” he thought.

The next morning, Ian slid out of bed and got ready to leave for school but as he was heading out of the house, he caught a glimpse of the face that seemed to be glued in his head. The girl he drew in art class the previous day, had committed suicide. What was that dreadful feeling? He felt guilt, and it was killing him inside.

Still shaken, he shuffled through the array of keys to lock the door as the red scarf