Stained

I tried to erase the stray line and only succeeded in smearing more ink on the page. I silently cursed the pen in my hand. This would be so much easier if this was a pencil.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Once again I put pen to paper, lightly dragging the tip across the page, the quill just barely caressing the white spaces. I could feel the muscles in my arm tense and tighten as I gripped the pen, trying to guide the little black snakes into their proper places.

Yet dark lines prevailed, wild and crooked, no matter how much I strained to lighten my touch. Little branches of ink grew into sprawling trees spreading their dark limbs into all the wrong places, quickly casting long shadows into the furthest corners of the page. The more I tried to correct the lines, the more the ink smeared and smudged. The ominous trees were rooted too deep, and it was going to take a lot more than vigorous rubbing to remove them.

Dark lines progressed into thick smudges and black puddles. Long streaks originally meant to atone for earlier mistakes morphed into blatantly dark blobs that settled nowhere near the mark. Ink seeped out of the quill and continued to creep across the page like dark clouds gathering speed. I began to scribble recklessly, anger and frustration fueling the whirlwind of ink that threatened to consume the entire page.

In the midst of my frenzy, I looked down at my hands for the first time. From the tips of my fingers to my wrists was covered in ink. Both hands. Ink was creeping up my forearms too, almost to my elbows. My workspace was sprinkled with the splashing of my efforts; my face was probably covered in ink too.

It's everywhere and it's not coming off.

What are they going to say about the kid who came out of art class with more ink on himself than on his paper?

So I coped. Hands shoved deep into pockets, pulling my hat over my face, eyes on the floor. Maybe if I don't look they won't see it. But once I stole a glance at other people's papers, and well, their papers were dark and smudgy too.

I watched the way they streamed in and out of the classroom, walked the halls, interacted with each other. I wasn't the only one with dirty hands.

It lies in bags under the eyes, in deep wrinkles on the cheeks, in the faint sadness that lingers within shrinking pupils that are often hidden behind sunglasses, fleeting glances, rehearsed smiles, and the latest smartphone. But it's there. You can see it if you pay attention.

So I sit at my desk, drowning my own ink while the teachers tell me I'm doing fine because hey, everyone else's hands are stained too. We're all drowning really, faces permanently darkened by the stain of past mistakes; this incurable blot that can't be rubbed out no matter how hard we try. Instead it smears and stains as we spread it around from page to page, hand to hand. And yet, no matter whose ink has found its home on my hands or on my page, it's still my picture because my name is at the top and I'm holding the pen, however loosely or firmly I choose the grasp it.

I felt a swoosh of air and there he sat next to me. I gave him a funny look.

"Whatcha got there?"

My ears were hot again and I'm sure the red of my cheeks was visible under the mess on my face.

"A drawing," I mumbled. I felt like smothering my paper against my chest.

"Not really an artist huh?" I shook my head without looking up.

"Let me draw it for you," he said.

Ahh, I don't know dude. I know it's bad but this is my drawing. You don't even know what I'm trying to draw (well, neither do I but still). And where in the world are you going to put any sort of artistic expression on this ink-soaked piece of paper?

"I don't think you wanna get your clothes all dirty," I began.

He began to roll up his sleeves before I finished speaking and he motioned towards my pen. I was ready to hurl it across the room only moments before but suddenly it mattered. He wants to take my pen. 

I could hear the clock ticking on the wall. I could hear my heartbeat thumping in my chest. I could've heard a pen drop. He sat there patiently with his hand extended towards me and I noticed for the first time that his hands were clean. Stainless.

I took a deep breath and reluctantly surrendered the pen. I still couldn't bring myself to look at him but I could tell he was smiling. My hands felt weird and empty after furiously clutching the pen for so long. 

When I finally looked up, he was bent over a notebook that had his name on it. He wrote my name underneath his and turned to the first page.

It was white.