Categories > Original > Sci-Fi4 Reviews
"All I ever wanted was to be real. Why couldn't you have made me real" I can't really explain it, just read if it you want, it's about the emotions of a sketch on the wall. One of my friends said i...
"Beautiful, just like a Gypsy," is the remark, before the artist pulls the paper out of the sketchbook and pins it on the wall, next to so many others that were once newborns that pleased their master.
After several days, possibly weeks of being left on the wall, alone in it's thoughts. With only the glares from the others, no longer newborns themselves and no longer able to please the artist's eye, the newborn matures. For the first time, not just is it's eyes open, as they were drawn, but they can see and recognize things. It learns quickly, beginning to process complex thoughts and ideas.
The artist returns, only not alone. She has a man with her, with which together they share the rings on their fingers. She shows the man the now maturing drawing, showing it off as her pride and joy of sketches. But even though it remains the best she believes she's ever done, she no longer seems as pleased with it as she once was; when it was a newborn.
"I don't remember her wearing a ring," the sketch thinks to itself.
The sketch watches the man, wondering what it would be like to be human and to know him. the sketch listens to the artist and her fiance talk with each other. Slowly, the sketch falls in love with him.
"If only I were human, I could feel your arms. I could respond to your voice, and we could communicate like you do with my mother. You're real, but I am not. Oh how I wish we could be real together," the lonely sketch thinks to herself.
Slowly, the other matured drawings realize that this younger drawing was becoming like them, longing for the freedoms of the real world. The glares were no longer glares, but looks of sympathy and understanding. Sorrow filled their eyes, sorrow for the young one to have been born like that, to be an aritist's thought on a piece of paper.
"At least he thought I was beautiful. He said I was mother's best work," she remined herself, unsure of what she hoped it would bring.
The man walks up to the sketch and takes it off of the wall to better examine it's features.
"It's gorgeous. How do you make it look so real? It looks like it's about to start moving around on the page. It's your best work yet," the man voiced to the aritist, his soon to be wife.
"I was bored and had nothing better to do," was the reply.
He pinned the sketch back into it's spot and left it, returning to his lover's side to watch her as she began to do her job as an artist.
"Boredom. That's my mother then, not the artist, but her boredom," the sketch thought loathfully, but she charished the words, "Your best work yet," for they reffered to herself.
Soon the lovers left the room, locking the drawings within. Many weeks passed by, many months. It was over a year before the door reopened, and a tired and worn out looking artist returned to the easle and the smell of paint, to the sketchbooks and charcoal pencils.
She began to sketch again, to sketch in the very sketchbook that had brought false life so many times.
Hours passed until the man, no longer her fiance, but her husband, walked into the room holding a small infant in his arms. His child, his wife's baby. The artist looked up at her husband and child with love and pride in her eyes. The sketch's heart and soul ached from the site, for she wished the man to be hers, not her creator's.
Her husband looked over the sketch that she had been working on. He smiled and looked at his wife, "It's you best work yet."
With that, the sketch's soul was broken. The newborn sketch was pinned up on the wall over her, replacing her.
Several months, possibly years passed by before the newer sketch was taken down from the wall, revealing what was once a drawing of a beautiful Gypsy.
"What the hell!?" the artist shouted as she saw what was underneath the newer sketch. The page was empty, except for the words, "All I wanted was to be real like you. Why couldn't you have made me real?" written in charcoal.
All the sketches that surrounded the Gypsy were all still, and yet all of their faces looked onward at the once beautiful drawing, now only a few words on a piece of paper, and tears filled their fake eyes and washed down their cheeks, washing away their charcoal lines. Within minutes, all of the old sketches were wahed away by their own sorrow, replacing them were the words, "All I ever wanted was to be real."