Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Today’s the sixth day I’ve come to the park — Central Park, Pixie’s favorite place in the city. Also, today, I’ve officially worked with this construction crew for a week. They invited me out for a drink but I refused.
I need to do something for Pixie.
I told her I’d do anything for her to come back, anything for her to be the best writer she can be, and I’m fulfilling my promise.
Or at least, trying to.
After talking to her voicemail, I had an idea. A light bulb moment. What if I collect stories for her? The only way I know how.
Camera.
She told me once that I stop time so I’ll stop time for her. I’ll take pictures for her. Of the people, of the buildings, the streets, the grass, the sky, the birds. That should show her that I’m committed to this thing. Committed and supportive.
Only I can’t.
I haven’t been able to take one fucking snap and I’ve been trying for six days. Every time I pick up my camera — the one she bought for me with her parents’ money — I freeze up. My fingers don’t move. I feel nauseated, breathless.
I feel suffocated.
What the fuck does that mean?
I’ve always been able to work the camera. In fact, it’s saved me so many, many times. Back when I found out about my parents, I wanted to disappear. I kept thinking about how we’d make fun of Jackson Campbell and his crush on his cute cousin. How gross we all found it. How cheesy, but my parents were no different. Even their names were a lie.
I withdrew from my friends after that. Only had my camera for company. It made me feel invisible. Like I didn’t exist. No one notices the guy behind the lens and I was fine with it.
Then, years later when I fell in love with Pixie but couldn’t see her, my camera saved me again. I’d take pictures of her. Outside, on the fields, around the town, in the bedroom. I groan every time I think of it. My dick doesn’t go down for hours. Fuck. She’s the most beautiful sight my eyes — any eyes — have ever seen. Beautiful, pure, irresistible. Sexy.
I’d started drawing her sketches, the ones she saw on prom night when everything else failed me. Internet, magazines… nothing gave me relief. The stuff was bland so I took to my imagination. I never thought she’d let me photograph her naked on that night. No matter what happened after, I’ll never regret getting to touch her fleeting beauty.
What wouldn’t I give to capture her again? She is a whole fucking universe: yellow hair like the sun; blue eyes like the sky; shiny, smooth skin like silk; sharp dips and curves like valleys.
But for now, I just want to work the camera again without throwing up. I wanna collect stories for her.
Doesn’t happen though. It doesn’t work. So, I throw it on the ground. What use is it if I can’t help Pixie? But throwing it is not enough, so I stomp on it, kick it repeatedly.
Fucking useless piece of shit.
I kick it, stomp on it, shatter it with my feet. I want to break it into a million pieces; maybe her dad was really onto something when he did the same months ago. People around me give me weird glances but it’s nothing new.
Once the lens is cracked right in the middle, I breathe.
Somehow, it comes easy, my breaths.
This morning I woke up with an urge to draw Pixie’s face.
It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a pencil. My sketches are rough and riddled with errors. I’m much better with a camera or at least I think so, but it’s gone now. Been gone for days.
Besides, Pixie isn’t anywhere around me so I need to create her myself.
I like the weight of pencil in my hands. I like how easily I slip back into sketching.
Right now, I need a fuck ton of easy so I’ll take it.
“Hey, you’re not gonna believe what happened to me today.” I laugh into the phone, the ever-silent phone. “A guy at work, he saw me sketching and told me he knows someone at a gallery downtown. They do portraits and he thinks he can hook me up. Maybe even have them carry some of my stuff.”
I laugh again. It’s self-conscious. “I mean, it’s fucking crazy, right? I’m not a professional. Never wanted to be but…” I sigh. “What if I can be? I know you say I can do it but… it feels too good to be true. So, what do you think, Pixie? Should I check it out?”
Obviously, I don’t get any answer.
But what if I did? What if she picked up on my next try? What if they really carried my pieces? Mine. Something I made with my own hands.