The Ambien Touch

June 10, 2011
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Sweat formed on his face. The expressions on his faced reflected torture. He was having the dream. The dream that he has been having since the start of his senior year. Unable to recollect the entire dream. He could only remember pieces.
Cory tossed and turned until the blanket that once covered him was across the room, landing in red paint. Another blanket ruined. But that did not stop his movement. More sweat formed and he was turning all over the place moving the mattress. In a flash, he shot up and screamed. He was hot and the cool breeze from the fan pacified him.
He sat up and stepped off of his mattress into white paint still wet.
“Crap,” he stressed. “What a way to start of the last day of my childhood.”
He hopped over to the mattress, noticing it was covered in red paint, proceeded to wipe the paint on it.
In his eyes you could see what this could year did to them. Redness, bags underneath his eyes and they were dark. He yawned. He was still tired.
“I’m awake early anyways. I can kill 20 minutes.”
He walked over to his easel and grabbed his sketch pad. He walked over to his trophy case sluggishly and grabbed some charcoal. He yawned once more, longer, louder.
“Cory,” a voice called to him.
“Come over here.”
The voice was permeating from his mattress area. He slavishly followed, he was going there anyways so what did it matter.
“Coming,” he said in a low tone.
He plopped himself on the mattress. His mattress had no frame or no box spring or any sheets on it at all. It was a dingy mattress in the corner of his room. It was covered with dirt, charcoal, and paint. It was torn and cut in numerous places. The smell of Cory’s sweat was emitted form the mattress. In Cory’s opinion he did not want a mattress but his mom said he needed it. So he had one. All he cared about was drawing. All he cared about was painting.
“Now paint for me Cory.”
His mind went blank. His hazel eyes were rapidly moving up and down and side to side simultaneously. He grabbed the charcoal and his hand drew on its own. Not five minutes later he was finished. Not five minutes later his head fell onto the paper and he was out.

The alarm went off which seemed louder and far more obnoxious, startling him. He moved his hand in a dire attempt to turn off the alarm clock but he was swatting the air. He found it weird and looked up astonished. He was definitely not present in his room. Cory was at school, his first period class. With a raised eyebrow, he looked down. He was fully clothed with a plain white tee, some skinny jeans, and green vans. He felt that he was wearing a hat. And that was green too.
“What the....”
He was interrupted with the second bell.
“Well my seniors,” his teacher spoke, “ this is the last day I will see you before graduation. Tear rolled down her face. “I’m so proud of you.” Her voice cracked. “Promise me when you make something of yourself you come back to this class and tell me.”
‘Make something of yourself’ kept echoing in Cory’s head. The phrase branded itself to the back of his head. He slid down in his seat and sulked.

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