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Fear is Passion This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

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There's enough light here, I think. Even though the bulb is fading, it haunts a shadowing glow on my blank paper, and my pencil immediately thanks it. I draw careful strokes on the paper, light and gentle. The room - or should I say closet - is dead silent, the only sound the scratching of my pencil. It's dark and cramped, with creepy shadows looming on the walls. The hairs on the back of my neck are alert, and my heart is pounding - it is the perfect atmosphere for drawing a murder scene.

The outline - the quick sketch - the rough draft - is the most hardest part when it comes to drawing. It's difficult to find inspiration on drawing a Innocent's death when you're in class with students buzzing around you, the teachers talking about something related to human sciences, and the sunshine streaming in through the window. That's why, I usually take refuge to the most convenient place nearby that matches the atmosphere of my latest piece - which right now, is the dark and gloomy janitor's closet.

It smells of mopping and rotten lunch, but it's a good hideaway. The teachers would never guess where I was when they noticed I'd skipped class - if they noticed, of course. When I was in class, I sat at the very back, half dunked under the desk, and never raised my hand. Ever. I was all too busy, planning, daydreaming about my new drawing, because inspiration struck at every corner.

The drawing was turning out to be good. One of my future masterpieces, maybe. When I grew up, I wanted to be a famous artist, but you know, the mysterious ones. I would sign anonymous on the bottom of the painting, and hide in some cottage far away from civilization. I like to dream that I would be a legend, but it often turned into a nightmare of someone finding out about me, and then me having to give a great big speech in front of millions of people.

I quickly outline the pool of blood underneath the dead guy, already imagining the deep crimson I'll use to fill the section in. I'm scribbling furiously, creating the sketch, drenching in the wonderfulness of art when I hear the dreadful sound that I've been avoiding. My concentration ceases, my pencil stopping mid-stroke. It's the bell, ringing ever so loudly, but stuck in the cramped closet, it's only faint.

Sweat forms on my forehead, and I throw my book on the floor, hugging my knees. I'm desperate to finish the drawing, my fingers aching to complete the unfinished titles of lit up chandelier in the scene. Only, I can't, and I won't bother trying. My heart is pounding wildly, my hands itching to add the details left, but I can already hear the stomping outside. Yelling and laughter seeps through the creak of the door, ringing in my ears like a death call. I can hear the hooting and hollering from outside, and I just want to curl up in a ball and never leave.

But the bell has rung. My focus, my muse has been broken. The pencil no longer feels natural to me, and the room that looked so dark and mysterious just moments ago, now only feels like a dusty, old Janitor's closet. Closing my eyes, I scrounge up my book and pencil into my arms, clutching the door handle with a damp hand. Then, with a sudden bravery, I fling it open, my eyes peering into the outside world.

For forty minutes, I had been safe, huddled in my own little world drawing what only my mind could conjure. I had stewed up a scene that would bring emotion and tears to someone special. I was clinging to my art, and the thought of leaving it had been horrifying, but now I'm here, looking at real people who could never be fantasy of my drawing.

Slowly, but surely, my heartbeat slows. My hands and tense shoulder relax, and I take a deep breath. It is over. The moment, the time, is done. The spiral of emotions that fly through me is complete, and now, I feel fresh and tingly. Every Time, I am scared to stop drawing in fear of never finishing, with my heart racing a million miles per hour, but every time, I make it through alive.

This was just another one of those times.

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