Read Online Break Away (Away, Book 1) by Tatiana Vila - Free Book Online

I just told them it was the
result of lacking canvas. But truth to be told, I loved painting in
walls. There was something definite about stamping my soul
into a strong, permanent material, as if that peep of creativity
could never disappear—a mark of one’s passing. The wall could be
repainted over the years, but the painting would always remain
there, hidden under layers and layers of colors. A canvas, however,
was more breakable, weaker. It was a loose ground for the depiction
of one’s mind, while a wall was steadier.
    But that didn’t mean I didn’t like using
canvas—or paper. I had several sketchpads piled up in boxes with
drawings dating back even six years. My commitment to art had begun
at an early stage. Times when I was supposed to play with Barbies
and dolls had been spent with color pencils and crayons over loose
pieces of paper. They’d been aimless shapes at first, but they’d
soon transformed into beautiful, well-structured images. And when
Mom had realized this, she’d decided to take it to the next level
and bought me sketchpads. They’d been my diversion since then—and a
source of liberation.
    Yes, I did have a way to deal with
the heavy oppression of sadness. Buffy had her books, and I had my
sketchpads.
    I bent forward and pulled it out from under
the bed. In case someone busted into my room, the sketchpad wasn’t
in plain sight, at least. Some sketches felt intimate in a way.
They were glimpses of my soul, of my true-self (the one hiding
inside those icy walls from the world), and the pencil seemed to be
the gulp of air, the revitalizing blow that my core needed
sometimes. Along with the short escapades, the sketchpad was the
only palpable connection of the real Dafne to this reality. Without
them, she would be lost, buried deep into the tangled blackness of
my insides, with no imminent light to show her the way out, and I
didn’t want that to happen.
    One needed to be tough to stomach all the
darkness and sadness and greediness in the world, but not for the
high price of losing oneself. If being down in the dumps for
opening my heart while drawing my thoughts onto paper was the price
I had to pay to not do it, then I would definitely endure it. More
now than ever when my essence seemed to evaporate a bit more each
day.
    I eased into bed and settled the sketchpad
on my knees. I pushed out my hand to reach the glass of water on
the middle of the nightstand and grasped…air? I turned to look. The
glass wasn’t there. I sighed. I forgot to take it. Then my
eyes narrowed. Because of stupid, chauvinistic Ian .
    Usually, I never forgot to pour me down one
for the night. It was almost an automatic thing, an essential, like
brushing my teeth before sliding inside the-glow-in-the-dark
starred comforter. Mom had made it a routine. She used to bring us
up every night a glass of water to our rooms—a Bugs Bunny glass for
me and a Tweety one for Buffy, which she’d decided to ditch after
getting her first bra. I still used mine, though. Midnight water
just didn’t taste the same without that smiley bunny on the other
side of the glass.
    With the chipped bowl and all, I guess I had
a thing for tableware.
    With Ian, however, the only thing I had was
a colossal desire to punch him in the face, straight into his
perfect nose and intense gem-like eyes—a shade of reddish purple
under them would’ve brought out that maddening emerald. Maybe chop
some of his annoying silky hair with Gran’s garden shears, too. And
try that highly corrosive drain cleaner hidden in the storage room
on his pianist hands to see its full effects would’ve been sweet as
hell.
    The guy needed some humbling. He was
infuriating.
    With a groan, I got to my feet and tiptoed
down the stairs, careful enough to dodge the floorboards’
complaint. The toes in my naked feet curled up once they touched
the cold foyer, recoiling in disapproval. My arms pebbled with
tight goose bumps. It was freaking Antarctica down here!
    I hissed