Kurt Matroy - Highschool drop out, employed ownership to a lesser dubious modern god.

your name's Kurt Matroy. You're a high school dropout, so naturally, you don't have the best living situation. kicked, from your parent's house at roughly age 20. age 20, why 20? Yeah, you were a dropout but you weren't a lazy dropout. you tried the best that you could. you really did but in the end, your best just wasn't good enough, not that the brunt of your parents could understand.

you were still in luck though, you had a friend of a friend group during your days in high school. the only real friend of that friend group. they let you crash at their place along with there family and lo and behold he was even able to hook you up with a job In "retail" a unique situation, you weren't a official employee you were just someone to fill in low positions until they could find an official replacement. but hey till then you at least got paid like you worked there.

you have a spot in the basement of your friends parent's house. and by the graces of some lesser god they were nice enough to set it up for you. a couch that folded out into a bed, a wooden desk near the walls. a simple television sat on a stack of black plastic crates and a fan and heater for those cold or hot nights. they were certainly more considerate then your own parents.

still it wasn't all bad. as you exacted your own kind of revange though most people would say it was so abutrary that it meant practically nothing but it meant something to you and in honesty that's all that really mattered. before you were to leave the nest you stole a ink bottle. your father was a collector when it came to old fashion instruments of office work, he used to say it reminded him of the old days were one earned what they did by the sweat of there brow. old timely printers, typewriters and of course the aforementioned bottle of ink. true enough he had dozens of these classic ink bottles with the quil but this was the only one that actually had ink in it. the others clearly made of glass and empty.

you didn't know if he would ever notice and honestly it didn't matter. if there was anything note worthy about this bottle of ink its that it never seems to run out. the bottle is a glossy black so you can never tell how much is actually inside. and since then its just been sitting on that wooden desk in the basement.. it had a label on it " property and ownership of ...." and then blank along a X and dotted line.

At the time though you didn't have time to mess around with it. the anxiety of proving you were more then just a burden to your friends folks with the second chance given so naturally just as you did during your high school years, you put as much effort into the job you were given.

one arche of anxiety and character development later and you found yourself finally able to slow down. threw the span of 5 years you saved up more then enough money to repay there kindness for letting you stay and the basement was started to look more like a guess room... it was evidently 2 years prior that you had decided you should invest in a hobby you could later turn into a career...

so what did you settle on? drawing and literature it was the least expensive hobby you could think of at the time after all. as simple as it is it might land you a place of your own. and for the first time in 3 years that bottle of ink finally had a use. you didn't have a quilt but the tip of a pencil or pen, mechanical or otherwise did about as good a job as easy. by the end of the 2 years, you easily had a few stacks of a couple of notebooks and sketchbooks...

your skill wasn't expert level but they were good enough to mimic the style if no one looked at it too closely. and then in recent days something strange came about... when you found yourself busy drawing you heard a voice passing compliments to your artistic skill. at the time you thought it was your friend giving you the compliment from a distance so it ironically took a while for you to deduce the source of the voice until one night where for some particular reason you felt the urge to draw again...

" are you drawing again, what will it be this time"

"I'm not sure, it might not be too good this late at night."

" Anything you draw is always good"

" heh, thanks for saying so Ron- wait a minute isn't everyone supposed to be asleep"

a feeling of dread sprints along your shoulder and collarbone as your head lifts and scan the area of the basement only to recognize that at least physically you appear to be the only one present. you take a short stroll around the basement inquiring with a "Hello" but not too loud you don't want to wake the others upstairs for them to come down here and think your crazy or something... in conclusion there appears to be no one here but of course now you have to wounder who have you been talking to for the past few days when you sit down and draw or write a story.

in the grand scheme of things you're not entirely sure how you should be feeling or even react, the dread of fear still hangs on you like a Christmas ornament on a Christmas tree. you stare blankly at the wooden desk topped with your sketch pad, pencil, and a bottle of ink. any horror movie tells you the logical thing to do would be to just stay away from it, but the white slut in you that gets killed first in every horror film tempts you edge cautiously but closely to the scene of the crime...

you're slow about it, but eventually, you take your seat. your face is tense and your eyebrows arched setting off a mix of concern and confusion. You are confused about how to continue should you keep trying to talk with whatever has been giving you compliments this whole time or maybe try to ignore it and sort it out later during the morning...