Forelsket: Prologue (A Tom Hiddleston Fic)

– My fingers releases the Wacom pen and landed with a soft ‘clinck’ onto my Graphics Tablet, medium in size, Intuos 2 version that was situated on my lap at an odd angle–the pen almost rolling off the edge before my free hand could stop its short descent onto the hard wood floor. Nimble digits free from holding the pen that labored hours while clutched inside my palm, one creating paths and lines on a sensitive barrier, rubbed against eyes tired from staring at the bright screen of my computer for hours for half the day, a break absence from me. Shutting my eyes close for a brief moment, an exhausted sigh escaped my lips and through my nose as my mind drifted towards no specific location.

Though feeling heavy as fatigue burned behind my closed lids, it was when I mustered the strength to open my eyes and direct my attention towards the window on my right that I fully realized night has crept upon the city, artificial orange lights signaling the truth and managing to reflect off the glass from down below on the sidewalk of my flat. The engines of vehicles rumbled off into the night, sounding almost distant behind the four walls that enclosed me.

Time always had its way to magically skip hours when you’re utterly engrossed in a particular thing, your attention sapped from the world around you; what interest lies before you becomes the center of the universe, nothing else matters during those moments, only until it’s snatched from your line of sight before being sucked back into the real word by a vacuum. Its something I dreaded and hated­–to have something taken away while preoccupied in something; minutes or hours with it proves short-lived when you finally glance at the clock. 

Turning back to the computer, I checked for any mistakes I could identity on the picture I just created, and completed, a commission done for a client over the internet willing to spend over one hundred euros for a single drawing. According to the numbers that displayed the time on the side of my computer, done over the course of six or seven hours straight, interruptions not included. It read 1:17 A.M. 

One would say the life of an artist had no life because being focused entirely on a piece of paper, or sitting in front of an computer for hours on end, creating a piece that you have made with utter skill is a waste of time. Which makes little sense because without like-minded ones such as myself roaming the earth, the world would be black and white, not a color in the sky that can show the capability of human creativity. The world would possess no flavor, no spice to life. Everything would be dull. Plain vanilla. It’s not an understatement to say everyone will, in no time soon, bore to death and sizzle under the harsh heat caused by the sun.

But deep down in such hearts, those ones whom spit vile remarks upon us, those are the ones whom wished they had the talent to even create a shape on a piece of paper, but would rather act on jealousy and irrational resentment towards many artists. It goes the other way around, actually.

But hey, it pays well.

After checking the amount of layers I used on one of my favorite art programs–Paint Tool Sai–and edited a few things in Photoshop, I sent the finished piece to the client via email, which was coupled by a small message of my own before shutting off the computer entirely for the day. I sighed and rubbed my eyes again, using my other hand to place the tablet beside the leg of the desk on the floor, pen on top.

My eyes could barely remain open for I felt so dead beat as I rose up from my chair, pops and cracks reaching my ears as I stretched my arms high above towards the ceiling, a small yawn breaking forth. Unfortunately, fatigue came with being an artist; and achy muscles and crooks in your hands from staying in the same position for long periods of time. Nonetheless, all the pain was well worth it because the satisfaction of your own creation dulls that discomfort. A dream of mine it is to work with one of the big companies of Marvel or Disney, to be assigned to an Art Team consisting of different Artists, and becoming a part of one of their many franchises currently underdevelopment. I loved my talent far too much for it to go to waste; I literally could not live without it and had to put it to good use. 

“Ame,” At the sound of his name with the recognition of my voice, which he knew well since he was just a pup, I heard my rabbit pacing back and forth inside his cage, movements becoming energetic as he saw me and kneeled before him. “Hi baby, you hungry?” The soft coo of my tone was a mere gentle murmur as I poked my index finger through a gap between the bars, which allowed him to lick my finger quickly before sniffing the air, and causing an inaudible giggle to bubble up my throat. When I moved out of my old home, leaving my mother and stepfather as a result, I tagged Ame along just for company’s sake. He’s a mini Holland rabbit whom was coated in a beautiful chocolate otter fur coat, eyes blue like falling rain, and the cutest rabbit I’ve ever had pleasure in owning–thankfully, the building I resided in permitted specific animals inside. 

Ame stepped aside as I deposited some fresh hay inside his cage, made room for my hand to place the grass in a corner before he could focus on eating the food greedily. Stepping into the kitchen separated by a door, as always that bag of hay went under the kitchen cabinet just below the sink, and I began rinsing off those last remnants of tiny bristles blades with warm water, lifting my hand occasionally to make sure the scent of hay was replaced with that of scented soap before switching the tap off. 

And for a brief second I froze, limbs halted as my hands laid on either side of the sink edge, and gaze focused on nothing, not even the white wall where my eyes have rested on as my ears tried to pick up on any sounds I might had been unaware of prior because of my commission. But other than the sound of my rabbit’s sharp nibbling in the other room of this empty flat, cars zooming pass this building in the dead of the night, though subtle to hearing it was silence that greeted me beneath all the sounds only nightfall can bring. 

Silence never left me. Even after the music has strayed away, catching drift on sound waves and slowly vanishing, silence prevailed. It was always there. A reminder of those first nights alone when I first moved out of my parents house– nights alone in a strange place, an environment much different than the one I grew to accommodate when my childhood years was still fresh and uplifting, and up to my adolescent years. 

Originally, I was born in America then immigrated to Europe at age nine. My mother, whose occupation is a nurse, made the voyage quite easy to cross borders between the two countries because in the medical field, people make good money, which makes it easy to travel. But I could never attain a clear answer from her as to why we traveled to London–I was young and didn’t understand a lot of things; yet, the passing of my biological dad might had motivated the first step in her consideration before she found a resolution to relocate. If not, probably the second step. She was always fond of British television and literature; apparently, I had grown used to it since I made a home here and picked up a few interests from her and customs from the locals. 

No doubt it’s a beautiful city with many landmarks and many attractions to choose from, but underneath all that this city reveals a well-known history passed down from generation after generation, which I know I’m not particularly part of. And for that reason the thought of being an outsider prods my heart, a jabbing finger that taunts me continually, in a way to remind me that I’m alone, didn’t belong here. My skin was brown anyway, a soft tinted coffee color. Wait. What am I thinking.

Immediately I steer the gloomy thought away from my musings, eyes closed and shook my head lightly, as if it’ll help clear my head as I made way for my small bathroom to clean myself before heading off to bed.

Stop over-analyzing everything Dawn.