Artist i admire
|some arts that i like|
Drace/ She her/ 13
greetings!! you have stumbled upon the hell that is my DA account! i dont really have any rules here... im just your every day masked artist....
i have other social medias 2
COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN, nothing else to say really
The young boy of 11 wakes up in the cold afternoon. He could feel the cold air swarm around him as he gently takes off his blanket. After slowly sitting up he stumbled his way to his small dresser. The dresser, he knew, was only filled with a singular pair of jeans, a white torn T-shirt, and a blue hoodie. That blue hoodie was his favorite hoodie. His favorite to hide under, to cuddle, to be happy… he loved that hoodie.
The boy yawned as he slowly and quietly made his way to his door, the door that led to his version of hell. It wouldn’t be hell to others, and he knew that, but it’s still his version of hell. He breathed in heavily and slowly opening the door, peeking his head out to make sure no one was in the living room. The hallway leading to the living room wasn’t all that long, the boys’ room was the first one on the left, that was a bad thing to him. The young boy steps out of his room slowly, making sure the wooden floor doesn’t squeak underneath him.
He began to listen to see if he could hear a very familiar voice, his mother. The boy’s mother is his only comfort, his sanctuary. Most people wouldn’t say that, and the boy knew that; most regular kids his age will say that video games, TV, their rooms, are their sanctuaries.
As the boy stepped out into his living room he saw him, his monster, the creature keeping him away from his sanctuary, his father. The boy took a step back and prepared himself. Taking a deep breath he walked forward. As he did, the boy could hear the muffled voice of the news reporter on the TV. He also heard something that relieved him, the sound of his father’s snoring.
The boy smiled weakly and rubbed the back of his head, chuckling softly. He walked past the couch his father was sleeping on, and headed to the front door. He looked at the old clock, 5:51, it was about time for his mother to get home. The boy slowly put his hand on the door handle and turned it. The door squeaked as the boy was opening it. The boy looked to his father then back to the door. The boy squeezed through the door and headed outside. He walked to the edge of his porch and sat down, waiting for his mother's car to appear in the driveway.
The boy sat there for about 25 minutes until a white car drove up into the driveway. The boy smiled and rose slowly as the car came to a stop. A young women stepped out of the car.