Tyrant

(𝟷𝟺) 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜

Steadying my hand, I attempt to draw a flawless, perfect circle on the paper, the medicinal haziness from yesterday a long-gone memory.

I add a line for the body, then another two lines for arms, and—

"I'm actually going to comment on how perfect of a stick figure that is."

A smile hovers around my lips at Zehra's teasing words. The drawing is pretty perfect.

"For a two-year-old." I voice out loud, earning a light chuckle from the beautiful dark-skinned girl by my side. She shifts a bit, leaning her back against the cot of our bedroom as I lay on my stomach against the wooden floor—and draw another stick figure. This time with long stick-like hair. Me.

I feel Zehra's eyes tracing my strokes as I sketch some grass under the two smiling figures, a childlike rising sun in the background, huge, fluffy clouds floating around. A drawing worth less than dirt—but one that conveys a deep, meaningful message. 

Zehra and I had desired to share our stories with one another, and what better way to do so than with art? Sketches on paper that seem insignificant and childish yet scream of past and present and future. A way to play around the restrictions the voice chips in our throats create. 

Chips that we can remove. I think to myself, still pondering over the conversation with Darcio the previous day.

Finding some sheets of paper and pens in my bedroom an hour ago, I had been in the mood to create little snippets of art—flowers, hair, eyes—as art had always been a way for me to express what I could never say aloud. When I was younger, I would sit and draw with my mother on her days off, etching designs that looked terrible yet still fed my heart.

Though my strokes were terrible, I still admired every sketch, every doodle. In a way, that artwork was me. I wasn't perfect—still am not—but I value myself. I am meaningful to myself. 

"That one's him?" Zehra's asks, mimicking my comfortable position on the floor as she points to the stick figure that's supposed to be Caspian.

"Yes." I respond with a slight smile, then scribble on the paper, This was on a school field trip in the morning—at a nature park. He and I would stick together like glue.

 Zehra grabs her pen. Your school had field trips?

Yup. Yours didn't?

Zehra's pen stills a bit, then she writes, No. I was in a school that didn't allow us to see the light of day.

My eyes snap to hers and I scrunch my brows, the question radiating off my face. 

It was a very strict boarding school. My parents wanted to be rid of me. Is all she writes as her pen is set on the wood, her chocolate hands fisting.

I grip my pen hard, gritting my teeth. I'm sorry. Nothing can make up for parents that do not want their own child. Nothing. You didn't deserve that.

A grim, silent nod. I know. 

Scooting closer, I give her a comforting side hug, and a sorrowful sigh escapes her nose. A girl still hurt, still betrayed—by her own parents.

Not everyone had a perfect Before.

I mentally kick my idiotic, naïve self for believing so, for thinking life was a living heaven for all before The One came to power. Because it wasn't.

I write Zehra's name, swirling the ends of the Z and the H, then encompass it with a poorly drawn heart. You are now my friend, whether you like it or not.