Experimental Waste

It was just like any other day. Well, as much as any day can be like another. Boredom, misery, self-righteous indulgence, and ah, to live. I had to wonder what it would be like, right now, to be some hero of sorts. Some super-powered hero who everyone could look up to, to protect them, to save them.1

I thought to myself again about it. The whole hero paradigm had always hit my funny-bone in the most numbing of style. Make a hero and an appropriate villain would always come to follow. Well, most of the time.2

So I pondered about it a bit, oblivious to the true troubles of the world. No super heroes saved rape victims or cured world hunger. Ignorance, or even arrogance, was bliss, for the time being.3

I watched my pencil wrap around my thumb as I twirled it over my hand, only to watch it fall to the ground. It was something I was just starting to do, and I still couldn't figure it out just right. I bent down under my desk and picked up the utensil. It was one of those yellow wooden ones that no student should ever have to use, but here I was using it. I grabbed it between my two fingers and thumb and pulled it up into the rest of my hand. As I pulled myself up, I noticed that I'd broken the led off of it.4

As I sat back up in my chair I had to let out a soft sigh. Thinking to myself, I set the pencil in the corner of my desk. What was I going to do now? That had been my last writing utensil and I didn't have a pencil sharpener. Alas, I didn't want to put any effort into it either.5

I looked down at the mostly blank abyss that was the lined paper before me. I wanted to write something, anything, but nothing would come to me. Just a stupid title to try to draw inspiration from.6

And that was "Draw".7

Just "Draw". Nothing special. I wanted there to be more, I wanted an inspiration worthy of my self-proclaimed "intellect", but that's all I put down, and it was beginning to look like it'd stay that way.8

I brought the tips of my fingers to my forehead and my glance to the ground before closing my eyes. I rested there for a moment, even so much as to slightly rub my mind for relief. I wasn't tired, but I wanted to be so much. I wanted to let the world end around me and wake up to a new face and another set of troubles. Maybe even an adventure or something.9

But none of it was worth jotting down. My own chicken scratch handwriting wouldn't cooperate, my ego was too big to write a journal of self-centered thoughts. I wanted an escape that I'd love to see on paper, but wouldn't want to write myself into. So I rested with my face to my palm.10

Here's where the cliche would be for someone to call me downstairs for the story to move along, right? Maybe a phone call to bring a dramatic moment into the life of the poor protagonist who's sister's in the hospital, am I wrong? Oh, I wish my life was some story such as that, but it never was. No one cared enough for me to ask me to do anything. If my sister was dying, if I had one in the first place, I'd be the last to know.11

So I took my lot of a few feathers from the sky. That's right. I turned in my chair, kicked at the mess that masked to floor of my room and looked around a bit.12

"Should be right," I started saying, rummaging around with my hands, "Here!"13

I pulled a teethed knife from the mess. Dull, but usable. Just where I left it. I grabbed my pencil, lay it on the need of my pants with the writing end outwards, and began to sharpen that pencil with an old, unclean knife. My dirty hair began to itch the sides of my face while I was at it, so I blew it out of the way and continued. Soon, I had a dull, but workable, pencil again.14

I put my pencil to the paper. I decided that "Draw" was to be the name of a girl. Not just any girl, though. She had to be a strong, yet tortured soul. Morbid, but hopeful. I wanted her to be the kind of person who I could understand, who I couldn't second guess, but with each pleasant surprise, I could have a sense of déjà vu about. Draw, Draw Yume.15

She'd have to be older than me, I thought. Taller, too. Short hair, soft, blue eyes, and a suitable frame. She'd be ready for any type of battle, fighting kings and bandits alike for the better of the people, or some mumbo jumbo like that. Her armor would cover appropriately, not revealing like all those science fiction movies and their skin-tight latex jumpsuits or fantasy armor that covered the breasts and pelvis in such a way you'd wonder if the costumes maker got off on the stuff. She'd have a cliche male hero life, family killed in some demonstration of the corrupt monarchy that ruled the lands. She'd be a knight, but only as a ruse to get closer to her enemies. I wanted her to be different than other heroes, too though, which is why I wanted her to start out prejudice against other races until further in the story.16

But I put the pencil down. I couldn't write it the way I wanted, ever sentence sounded stupid, every plot point felt more like an Irish stew than gourmet Italian. It was the swiss cheese of a story, cheesy and full of holes, already in my head.17

I felt hopeless.18

I wanted something to drink.19

I stood up.20

I walked down stairs. The journey wasn't worth mentioning, but I made my way to the kitchen. It took me a second to realize it, taking a quick glance around, but the house was completely empty. Strange.21

I popped open a cupboard, grabbed a cup, and went for the fridge, setting the cup on the counter top while I looked around. Just milk. I didn't feel like milk. Water would be better. I grabbed the cup and lurched over to the sin and turned the tap on.