isra.
vito.
I rushed into class, a cup of coffee in one hand and my sketchbook tucked underneath my arm. My watch was unpredictably slow, the second hand randomly pausing for seconds at a time. The university had too much of a hold on me for me to shell out money for repair or a replacement watch and as a result, I was always rushing from place to place, trying to keep ahead of time. Sometimes I was lucky, sometimes I wasn't. Thankfully, I was lucky this time. I was evidently early, the room full of empty easels and stools and not of pretentious art students.
Still flustered after sprinting to the classroom, I fumbled around at my easel and my coffee sloshed around, pouring about half the cup all over my hand. "Shit," I winced, shaking my hand in pain. It was still hot. Not having a handkerchief, I put my hand up to my mouth and tried to suck up the burning liquid. I regretted that as soon as my eyes flicked upwards on a whim and locked with a pair of sunken eyes seated ahead of me.
The pair of eyes belonged to a woman I had never seen before. She was sitting on the stool, half turned towards me. I was immediately struck by the brightness of her hazel eyes, like they were caught in sunlight no matter the time of day. The next thing that caught me off guard was how tall she was. Even as she was seated, it was easy to see that she was no small woman. Her limbs were long and thin, her hands still large but delicate.
My eyes made their way back to her face. She lifted an eyebrow slightly. I must have stared for too long with my hand in my mouth. I immediately dropped my hand and hid behind my easel, my face starting to burn. My hand, while now dry, was sticky.
The image of her stuck in my mind. Her features were so prominent. I had an urge to draw her. The thought made me wonder if she was today's model. The class was small and I was sure that I would remember such a person. She was sitting at an easel though, so maybe that wasn't the case.
The room suddenly seemed to burst with activity, people were seated and chattering amongst each other. I looked down at my hand and opened and closed it a few times. The skin slowly pulled apart from each other. I calculated the amount of time it would take to go to the nearest washroom. The conclusion was not enough and who knew what time it was.
Just in time, the instructor waltzed in with the model. I looked at the model and pressed my lips together. A rather average white frat boy. After the model got ready in the center of the room, I flipped open my sketchbook. I picked up my pencil with my sticky hand and grimaced. The pencil wavered uneasily across the page as I tried to recreate the model. I could feel my face burning up again. Tried as I might, I couldn't take my eyes off of the mysterious woman's broad back and the figure on the board started to dangerously take on a different form. Sighing, I tore the page off and tried to start again.
For a painful hour and a half, I sweated over my page, trying to get her out of my mind. When the instructor called time, I let out sigh, slumping a bit in my stool. I did not dare get up lest I make contact with those eyes again. I studied my sketch for a little while as the chairs around me scraped against the paint stained floors. The model was unremarkable and it was hard not to resist embellishing their features. It was a boring sketch, even if it took so much to power through it.
"I like it," a soft and low voice seemed to smile from behind me. I turned around to see the woman slowly walking by behind me, a large art portfolio dangling from her shoulder. She was indeed quite tall. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks again. Her eyes floated from my sketch to my face. She smiled, just barely. I noticed her nose was pierced on one side, a little diamond stud. Before I could react, she turned her face forward and walked out of the class.
After that, I never saw her in class again. The next time I saw her was month's later in front of the university's administrative building during the protest. We were the last university in the city with a fine arts department and there talks of it being the last. This caused an uproar amongst the students. We pride ourselves in the fact that we still paid attention to the arts. We loved the arts and we did not want to let the old cronies think that they could get away with it.
Well, they did. But we fought.
The hundreds of arts students, and some STEM students who were sympathetic to our plight, gathered in front of the building. The building towered over us, windowless, dark as obsidian, and menacing. It felt fitting for the occasion.
Looking around, my chest swelled with pride. It seemed like the entire student population was there. The crowd was deafening and unrelenting, shouting chants in the air. Beautiful and colourful posters waved in the air, proclaiming their disdain in clever little quips. To my disappointment, I was hard pressed to see someone who was not a student. Just a bunch of young people.
After hours in the humid heat, the night sky started to bleed into the sun's domain. Then The Guard was released into the crowd. Loud cracks and pops began to ring out in the air and chants were replaced with screams. Rubber bullets. The stillness of the crowd was gone in an instant. People from the front started to flee while others, more brave, tried to stand their ground. Myself, being quite short, was easily pushed around, bouncing off from one person after the other.
Above me I heard a bullhorn blaring, shouting reassurances and giving directions to people who wanted out. In the adrenaline, I looked up at whoever was holding the bullhorn as I was getting pushed and pulled in every direction. The person shouting so passionately into the speaker was the woman from that day.
She was seated on someone's shoulders, shouting into the speaker, one fist thrusted up into the air. My chest had been pounding the entire protest and at that moment it nearly threatened to burst. I watched her in awe as the crowd jostled us around. The crease in her brow as she shouted mesmerised me. Then, there was another crack in the air and she was knocked off the person's shoulders. The crowd moved towards her, looking like a fluid wave, catching her fall.
I pushed my way through the sea of shoulders to where she landed. A small circle was made for her as she sat on the ground. Her hand was a dark sticky red, held up to the temple of her forehead.
"It was just a rubber bullet," she said, waving people off with a small smile. She looked up and met my eyes. They instantly sparkled. She put out her hand in my direction. "Can you help me up?"