Patience

• Jewel Oreskovich, Grade 10, Kingsway Christian College
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'The Text Generation 2014' competition

The smell of smoke lingers in the fibres of the rain-dampened couch as I watch you draw. I liken you to a thundercloud; impassioned with an enormity of thoughts that collect in your mind until I’m convinced they almost erupt from every part of you. Hunched over by the fire light, transfixed by your work; I try to refrain from leaving my perch on the couch to peer at the ingenuity of your hand, but it will have to wait. You do not like to be interrupted. ‘Stella,’ you would say, my name dripping like honey from your tongue, ‘Patience, my doll.’ I never was very good at patience. I close my eyes, shivering in pleasure as the memories of your past pieces flow through my mind like a laptop slideshow. The scratch of the pencil against that one blank canvas you use every time; the quick, skilled movements of your hand. I watch from my seat on the couch, studying your long, tapered fingers and begging for the drawing to be completed soon.
Before too long I cannot bear to wait any longer. I stand tentatively, taking laced tiptoes forward, so delicate my toes barely touch the carpeted floor. The floor is crossed in a matter of seconds.
Sensing my presence behind you, your lips twist upwards into a smirk, and your hand moves quicker. ‘Patience,’ you repeat, your voice a whisper of promise and humour.
Unable to stay back, I take one more step forward and the sight of your work brings a sharp intake of breath. The page is printed with an image of a woman. Her eye's dance like fire, sparked by a source unknown. Her neck bared and arched slightly, hair falling in lusty tendrils over her shoulders, framing a strong chin and sensually parted lips.
I stare intently at the likeness of me, each stroke of the pencil deliberate and harsh. Your hands begin to frenzy in movement as my breathing becomes heavier and my heartbeat begins to quicken. A fever of hot and cold gushes over me, leaving a tremble in its path as I slowly reach a shaking hand out.
You stop the moment you sense my movement and close your eyes in anticipation.
My thoughts jumble, words unable to be spoken, and my palm touches the page.
Metallic clinks mould into my taste buds, the roughness of the page melts into my skin, and ecstasy and hunger fill my head. I cannot breathe, I cannot speak, I cannot think. I can only take. Every bone within me aches for more, a thirst I need to satisfy. The lead enters my bloodstream, dances with it, lingers within me. I need. I want. I have. And then it's over. The page lays blank and untouched upon the desk as I lick the last of the lead off my lips in satiation.