The beeps of machinery were all around me, and there were flashing red lights reflected by the spotless, pristine white floor of the Emergency Room. My hands were stained red with my younger brother’s blood as I quickly walked out the automatic doors to the parking lot for some fresh air. I dashed to my car, for fear of leaving him alone, unlocked the door, and took out the plain black notebook sitting comfortably on the back seat. Back inside, back to the side of the bed, sitting, not talking, just existing, while my brother had his hand stitched up. The situation was finally hitting me, and although my hands were shaking, all I could do was open up that plain black book and sketch. It was in times like these, the stressful ones, brain on the verge of spontaneous combustion, where I drew my …show more content…
And as I flip through the pages, the tune changes. Most of it sounds like Billie Joe Armstrong and the classic music of his band. Every sheet has it’s own sound: the songs I listened to while sketching. Alternative is my favorite to draw to. Some of it is obnoxiously metallic, and some of it is relaxingly tranquil. The mark of the pencil depends on the song traveling through my ear canal at the time. Rough and hoarse like hard rock. Or like the smooth and mellow toon of alternative. However, all of the music adheres to the pages, and has stayed with me throughout the years. It all has accumulated over the years into a bulging, worn-out masterpiece, known only to me. The masterful thing about it wasn’t the quality of the work. What meant something to me was the fact that each page illustrates a moment in time depicted by a black and white snapshot version. My sketchbook has been through it all. It has had my back through divorce, death, injury, and all the other unfortunate things life has thrown at me. Rarely are we apart. An unbroken bond between a girl and a book of pencil marks not tarnished throughout the