The sun rose earlier than usual. At least that was what Evan thought when he saw the golden rays filter in through the window.
He had spent the whole night at his desk, engrossed in a task he had sworn he wouldn't engage in unless the heavens begged him to.
Maybe that had happened and he'd suffered a memory loss, because he sure as hell did not know when his hands moved on their own.
The moon had risen high in the starry night sky.
The household was quiet, save for the hush scribbling of pencil on rough paper and the monotonous ticking of a small clock.
Every stroke was born beneath the flickering flame of a thin candlestick perched on a stack of books, stretching into curves and sharp verticals of practiced precision.
Even with the dull ache of his wrist and the soreness down his spine and across his shoulders, Evan continued sketching.
He let his passion burn bright, even if it meant that he would burn out in the process.
Dark-circled eyes stared weakly at the window, looking at the Sun that had dared to rise before he could rid of the sketchbook and pretend it was a midnight mistake once again.
A sigh escaped his mouth. Not angered, but frustrated, or panicked if he was being honest with himself.
The chair scraped the marble floor, as Evan stood to his feet.
A step forward and the chill of the tiles were already biting at the sole of his foot. His feet had stayed rooted to the spot for so long that he had made the area of tile underneath them warm.
He walked towards the small window that directly faced his desk, every step a decision between a trudge and a stagger.
Evan's hands came up on the window sill and he took a cursory glance down.
Below, the streets of New York bustled. Like always-New York never slept.
Now that he could see the cars zooming hither and thither, people-mostly workers-holding their little coffee mugs whilst rushing to get to wherever they were going to early, the sounds flooded in like water filling a sinking boat.
The screech of tires, obnoxious honks, and distant shouts filled his ears.
He quickly reduced them to noise.
Pure and undeniably New York.
He wondered how amongst all those sounds, the chirping and flapping of wings could still survive.
He looked up at the birds in the sky. There were hardly any, but the few he could see were gliding across the clear sky, basking in the fresh morning air he so craved.
A sight to see indeed.
It was after he had gotten a fill of his disappointment in the city he lived in that he finally drew the curtains close.
Now, he was back to facing his regrets like he always did every morning of every damned day for the last two years.
He stared at his desk.
He could feel it staring back at him, too.
The sketchbook.
It was like a necessity that fed off of his sanity. An addiction so impregnable, he felt for sure it had to have been woven into his soul.
Every stroke on that book was a dance closer to a raging flame that never failed to consume him.
And Evan was its willing victim, even when he tried convincing himself otherwise.
The words were distant as always, but at the same time too close to not be heard.
They'd start incoherent.
Like frantic mumbles from ghosts.
Then, grow increasingly loud until his head was filled with them.
"She's gone."
Evan froze.
He felt his stomach churn with trepidation, and his heart thump rapidly against his chest
The voices were familiar now.
Old.
Rehearsed.
Like a cruel ritual his mind refused to forget.
They were unchanging and bound to drive him mad, that is, if they hadn't already.
And he strongly believed that they were coming from the sketchbook.
"You killed her."
Evan's eyes that had once looked at his looming desk with dread now held horror.
His body tensed, every muscle tightening.
Truth be told, the regret wasn't the part he dreaded after indulging in his talent.
It was the voices.
"Now she's never coming back."
He stood frozen, with his back facing the window.
Evan's eyes darted to his closed bedroom door.
He contemplated on whether to leave his monsters and the sketchbook in the room.
Make a run for it to the living room where it isn't much better, but the bigger space isn't as suffocating.
One more second in the room was sure to send him spiralling. And it was already too late.
"Wh...why did I touch the fucking book!" The words escaped his mouth in broken sobs, each one punctuated by a tug on his locs.
"Elara's gone!"
His hands tangled up in his raven black hair that had been well unwashed for days now, each one pulling as hard as it could.
The pain was needed.
His legs collapsed beneath him and before long, he was in a fetal position, rocking back and forth.
Each sob escaped alongside a plea.
"Please stop." He begged the voices that were now piercing his ears like church bells to cease their torment.
"Murderer!"
This was how it had always been.
"Evan?"
Her voice broke through.
The voices ceased instantly, and the once suffocating air felt breathable again.
Like a child on instincts, he sought after his mother's calls.
"Mum," he called softly, his voice raspy, but desperate.
He needed every bit of comfort the woman could offer.
Savannah rushed to her son's weak voice in seconds. She filled the small space of his room and her eyes quickly landed on Evan.
She stilled at the threshold of the door.
Her eyes traced her son, taking in his wretched state and she felt a familiar ache in her heart.
Tears had begun gathering at the corners of her eyes.
This was not the first time she was seeing him in such a pathetic state, but it didn't make it any easier.
She rushed to her knees, beside him and sat him up, grunting from his weight.
"Evan."
Her son's head was now up against her chest.
She was clutching him with her hands over his ears, as though that would help silence the voices.
The voices that came from inside his head.
But they'd stopped.
"Ev... Evan, I'm here," Savannah cooed like she would to her son when he was still a baby, swaddled and bundled up in her arms.
There wasn't much difference.
Her arms could still support the bigger of him even though he was now thirty-two.
The only difference was that when he was little, he used to cry because he had fallen.
Now he cried because something inside him had broken.
Her voice was soft, pained, every syllable dripping with signs that she was fighting back tears. Desperately.
The last thing she wanted was to be unavailable for her son especially when he needed her the most.
She needed to stay strong, even when she wanted so bad to break down and cry her eyes out.
Evan stayed quiet in her arms.
Really.
There wasn't much difference.
He stayed still, breathing softly like he would when he was still little after she'd cooed to him.
Her presence was calming and the faint thumps of her heart through her bosoms brought him some peace.
The warmth of her body surrounded him like a cocoon, turning the cold he'd suffered from staying up all night to a ghost.
Almost five minutes had passed and the duo remained in the same position. Evan's damp eye lids soon grew heavy, exhaustion taking over.
It was when his breath finally evened out that Savannah laid him gently on the ground and even in his sleep, he still sought after her.
It was evident in the twitch of his eyebrow and the tremor of his fingers that were once curled up in her dress.
"Vannah?" A male voice called from the living room.
It was her husband's.
"In here."
Evan's father, David walked into the room, his steps heavy.
"Again." He said simply, as he stared down at his son who was sleeping awkwardly on the floor and his wife who was kneeling beside his head.
His eyes caught the tears as they slipped down Savannah's cheeks and he immediately pulled her up into an embrace.
This wasn't the life they'd anticipated, but he'd vowed that he'd be there anyways.
Savannah sobbed silently, her face buried into his chest, all the strength melting away for just a while.
No doubt she was her most vulnerable with David around, and he was no different.
The man kept his arms around his wife, placing his chin up on her head. The hug gave more comfort and reassurance than words could.
It was all they needed.
"It can't go on like this." David's voice held determination. It was as though he'd thought about it until there was nothing left to think.
It really could not go on like this, but how could they transform their devastated son into the ray of sunshine he once was?
It was nearly impossible.
That version of him had since long left earth with Elara two years ago.
And if she was never coming back, they doubted that part of him would.
"It can't go on like this, Vannah." David was sixty-seven and it was obvious that there was only so much a withering body could take.
Savannah being sixty-three didn't make it easier for her as well.
"I know, David. We've tried everything." The words came out through sniffles and hiccups.
They were still hugging, as though these words could only see life when they were truly at some comfort.
Even if the comfort stemmed from hugging while standing until their legs began to ache.
Evan lay on the floor, breathing softly. He had curled into a ball and his face wore a less disturbed expression.
"Let's get him to the bed. He'll catch a cold."
The moment had reached its end. All the strength Savannah had let melt away had filled her once again, with twice the magnitude.
She could not bear seeing him lay on the chill floor.
Since when were motherly instincts forgiving and easy to ignore?
She left the warmth of her husband, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
David sighed, feeling some tingling in the area of his chest where her head had rested against.
Despite the disappointment from the lack of warmth, he felt happy that he could at least be there when she needed him.
Though, he wished she could cut herself some slack.
Savannah was every bit the good mother she never claimed to be. She'd always thought of being there for her children as the bare minimum.
It was, but he wished she'd give herself more credit.
"Alright."
They both lifted Evan up to his bed, grunting, and covered him with a thick blanket.
Their son groaned, clutching the thick fabric to his chest. His eyebrows twitched, but his expression cooled and he was back to sleeping soundly.
Once that was cleared, it was time to go through the chores of cleaning, laundry and cooking.
Cleaning. Definitely.
Savannah's eyes darted to the area beside Evan's bed where he'd gathered dozens of dirty plates, take out bags and bottles of alcohol.
She took in the number of clothes strewn about the room-on the back of the chair, the bed, on the floor and on the window sill.
Sighing, she began by picking up the clothes.
Savannah walked up to her son's desk, and the sketchbook her son was dead sure the voices in his head came from caught her attention.
On it was Elara. In all of her glory.
Every stroke bore meaning, carving from memory a woman that once had her son wrapped around her finger, smitten to the point of no return and helplessly romantic.
Savannah could see the details of the sketch and knew without doubt that her son had drawn most thousands of times for them to be muscle memory.
Her heart ached and she was only her soon-to-be mother-in-law.
Elara left before the world was ready.
Like the world would ever be ready to lose such a radiant soul.
The young woman was an epitome of brilliance and beauty, commanding respect and admiration in every room she walked into.
Her smile was perfectly drawn.
Plump lips curved upward so beautifully that they reached her squinting doe eyes.
The young woman look alive in graphite. Too alive for someone who had chosen to leave.
Savannah could almost hear her laugh through the Sketch and wondered if maybe the book did speak like her son said.
But, a little softer.
A portrait drawn to perfection, capturing every ounce of love her son still possessed.
Although she grieved for the young woman, she could not help the bits of resentment that crawled into her emotions.
If Elara had not deemed herself unworthy of living, her son would still be the same as he was 2 years ago.
Happy.
Full of life.
Ambitious.
And not a pathetic man who cried and could only be soothed when he was curled up against his mother.
Or the recluse bum who hid in his room all day, begging the accusatory voices in his head to cease.
Elara was gone, but she had taken the best parts of her son with her.
Savannah traced the outlines of the sketch with trembling fingers. A cruel thought rose in her chest before she could stop it.
Why wasn't my son enough?
The thought made her stomach churn instantly and she pulled her hand away from
the sketch as if it had burned her.
"God forgive me," she whispered under her breath.
She stared at the portrait for another long moment.
Then she reached out and gently turned the sketchbook face down.
She could not bear the thought that a girl drawn in pencil had more life in her eyes than her son did anymore.