literature

pictures last a lifetime.

Deviation Actions

Published: Apr 3, 2010

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Literature Text

_{such a picturesque view. sunsets, heights, cool breezes.

you pull out your journal – but really a drawing pad – from somewhere under you, and flip through it. your fingers halt at a particular piece and you rip it out.

holding it up with one hand towards the golden sun, you examine it. tracing a delicate finger over the lines, colours and crosshatches, you let your hand fall.

"oh, oh!" he presses his face against the windowpane, somehow managing to jump excitedly while doing so.

"yes, love, it's snowing." you watch mildly as he hops around the house, pulling on fuzzy boots and grabbing black coats. you sigh inwardly as he pulls you up and off the couch without difficulty whatsoever, and pushes you out the door.

you brace yourself for the cold slither of snow that is sure to hit you, and five seconds later, a snowball hits you square on the back of your neck, and you feel the mix of ice and snow flow down your back.

squirming, you gather together a loose ball of snow and fling it at him. but the wind throws it back in your face. you hear peals of hysterical laughter from behind a thin sheet of snow covering your eyes, and you can't help but smile.

a few hours and a few piles of unsuccessful snowmen later, you end up on the ground, in your snow angel's silhouette, with him lying on your stomach and rolling the perfect snowball in his hands. you watch as he lobs the snowball high in the air, and as it disappears into the wink of sunlight.

you close your eyes and enjoy the silence and body heat, but that is soon ruined when you hear the snap of a camera. you crack open an eye to see him smiling in your face and brandishing his beloved piece of technology.

"you're painting this one for me too!" he yells as he runs into the house, bits of snow flying behind him as his boots hit the ground. He narrowly misses tripping over a dirty, old picture frame buried under the purest of snow.

gingerly, you slip the picture under your bag. tentatively, you reach towards your drawing pad.

you feel the soft pressure of lips on yours and you're awake. but he doesn't know it.

you strain your eyes to hear what he's muttering, and you can barely make anything out.

"...said you will respond to my kisses whenever and wherever. psh, you lie."

you let a small smile cross your face as you feel the covers move and the bed lower. within minutes, you hear the gentle, even breathing that tells you he's asleep, and you turn over. the night light hits his face in such a beautiful way and you can't help but fiddle around on the bedside table for his camera. somehow managing to take a picture of considerable quality, you slip out of bed, check the clock - 4 o' clock-, and head out into your study, where your trusty materials lie.

you finish drawing the feathery effects of his eyelashes in time just to make him some breakfast.

you feel the drawing fall from your hands and onto the concrete below your feet. wiping a tear away from your face with a now slightly smudged finger, you pry open the sketchbook once more.

he's down with the cold.

even with his strong protests, you make him sleep by himself, although promising that the door between them will be wide open. settling into the couch outside, you pull the pillow downwards and settle into it.

you wake when you feel a hand tugging at yours. the moonlight provides your eyes with just enough light to make out the terrified expression on his face as he clutches his teddy bear. as he opens his mouth to tell you what happens, you cut him off with a soft "shhh.".

you slide down onto the floor and he curls up within you. pulling damp strands of hair away from his forehead, you hum lowly, and soon enough, he falls asleep. you sit where you are for a while, and you catch sight of the two of you in the full length mirror to your right. finding a sheet of paper and a pen, - not what you like to use, but it'll do - you start to draw what you see in front of you, even managing to shade in the planes of the crystal balls attached to the chandelier above you.

you fall asleep as the sun creeps up, but you manage to transfer the penned drawing into colours and fine lines before he finds out.

you tear this piece out of it's bound place. shuffling the three images together, you rip them up into pieces, as the watercolours start to liquefy again. as your hands start to fill up, you tell yourself, he's gone. and you thrust your arms out as far as they would go over the edge of the building. you watch through hazy vision as the scattered pieces of paper seem to hover in front of you, sunlight glinting off the edges. you let out a scream as they drift towards roads beneath you, and run off the rooftop, stepping on your ripped up journal in the process.

and somewhere way down below, a young girl looks up at the falling pieces of paper and at the one in her hand. and she understands.}