The Sketchbook

The city sprawled out before me, a stark silhouette inked against the untouched canvas of the sky. A forest of concrete and glass stood like hastily erected obelisks, a testament to ceaseless urbanisation. They rose, unyielding against the glaring white expanse above, forming a vivid half-drawn sketch as if the artist had abandoned their work mid-stroke.

Since the accident, every day seemed caught in this perpetual half-drawn state. My world had slipped into a quiet pallor, its vibrancy and life stripped bare, the blank sky above waiting patiently for the pigment I could no longer apply.

I had once lived a brilliant canvas of colour. I had painted it with laughter and dreams, with arguments, emotion. All that was left now was the stark contrast of charcoal and chalk - the unfinished painting of my reality.

A voice seemed to float in from a distance, like a mother gently waking her child, the words muffled by the glassy buffer of my own thoughts.

“… How does that sound, Shiro?”

I was jolted back to the present. Dr. Itou cleared her throat and repeated her question, her words a jarring contrast to the silent film outside the hospital office window.

“How would you feel about going back to school, Shiro? I think you should be able to manage it now.”

The mention of ‘school’ brought me to my senses. Images of a past life filled with friends and laughter echoed through my mind, followed by an overwhelming emptiness that swallowed them up just as quickly as they had appeared. A new school in a new city wasn’t a fresh start - it was another reminder of what I had lost; yet another sea of blank faces in yet another landscape etched into slate.

Silence hung in the room. I couldn’t find the words, didn’t trust myself to voice them. I just stared at the doctor blankly, grappling with the reality of what she had proposed. Was it too much, too soon? Dread that felt like an arctic wind cut through to the marrow of my bones.

“Of course he would love to, Doctor,” my mother intervened. Her voice was upbeat but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was a strain there, something she was trying to hide behind the brave facade. “Shiro has always been a bright boy, very sociable,” she added, her voice seasoned with a noticeable countryside accent. The regional lilt of her words brought back memories of home, of a time when life was simpler and less bleak. “I’m sure he’ll manage. Won’t you, Shiro?”

She reached across to hold my hand, a squeeze intended to transfer her own strength into me. The warmth of her touch was a needed contrast to the cold dread within me. But I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze back. It was as though the energy had been drained out of me, leaving behind a hollow shell. I nodded instead, an unconvincing gesture that was meant to assure her.

Dr. Itou regarded us for a moment, her professional smile never wavering. “That’s excellent to hear,” she said, with a nod of approval. “The University Hospital here has a close relationship with the school. It’s one of the best in Tokyo, and has a strong support system for students like you.”

Her words hung in the air, their implications like a cloud casting a cold shadow. Students like me. Different, broken. Students like me. Another reminder of my new identity, another sign pointing towards the life that had been stripped away from me.

I could feel my mother squeeze my hand tighter, her silent reassurance seeping into my skin. “I know it won’t be easy, Shiro,” she whispered, her words only for me, “but I believe in you. We’ll get through this together.”

Despite the dread that gnawed at me, her unwavering faith always managed to find the cracks in my stubborn shell. I returned the squeeze, hoping she understood.

“Remember, Shiro,” Dr. Itou began, shuffling through the papers on her desk to retrieve a blank notepad, handing it to me, “it’s important to stick to the schedule that we agreed upon. This is our first session in your rehabilitation journey, so I want you to write this down so you don’t forget.”

She motioned towards a large pen holder near me. I peered at the assortment of pens, picking one at random. The choice was meaningless, they were all the same.

“Weekly check-ups here at the hospital, daily exercises for both physical and mental health, and remember to write your journal. It’s crucial for us to keep track of any changes, no matter how small they may seem. If you notice anything significant you must come in straight away.”

I looked up, meeting her eyes, an unnerving earnestness that relaxed into gentle concern. “And please, don’t forget that nurse Kobayashi at the school is an old friend of mine. She is there to help you, okay?”

My mother and I thanked Dr. Itou for her time and guidance, and left her office. While my mother spoke privately with the doctor, I excused myself and shuffled towards the vending machine down the hallway. I wasn’t even thirsty.

As I stared at the mass of cans and bottles on display I remembered how there was a drink I used to love as a child, its bright, psychedelic label always catching my eye - a mouse character opening a bottle with rainbow waves and floating fruit exploding forth from the top. I don’t think I even liked the flavour, whatever it was.

Now, every one of the labels was just a black abyss. I found myself reaching out for a sports drink, the plain text on a simple background was an easily understood respite. The flavour didn’t matter much anymore.

As I turned I saw my mother briskly walking towards me, a smile stretching across her face. “Shiro, the movers are almost at our new place. We need to leave, now!”

＊＊＊

The city unfurled before us as the taxi wove through the crowded streets. My mother chatted cheerily with the driver, her laughter filling the vehicle. I stared out of the window, watching the herds of hurried people bustling about their daily lives. They looked like automatons, their expressions vacant and devoid of emotion.

Were they happy? Did they find what they were looking for in this concrete maze? Was this the life they had sought?

Arriving at our new apartment, I exited the taxi and trudged up to the 28th floor while my mother waited for the movers. The apartment was small and bare - the kitchen, living, and dining rooms were combined in a space barely the size of my bedroom back home. The distinct aroma of a hurriedly refurbished apartment assaulted my nose - the cheap paint, the glue, the new flooring. At least I had a room of my own here too.

The view from my window was supposedly breathtaking, but all I saw was an overwhelming whiteness that assaulted my senses. I hastily drew the blinds, engulfing the room in comforting darkness.

I sat on the floor, eyes closed, absorbing the sounds and smells of our new home. The muted sounds of the movers bringing our belongings into the apartment filtered through the quiet room.

A gentle knock pulled me from my reverie. I opened the door to find my mother standing there, a familiar but aged sketchbook held gingerly in her hands. “Shiro,” she said, her voice soft and imbued with affection, “I found this while unpacking. I thought you might want it.”

I took the sketchbook from her, my hands tracing the worn, faded cover. I opened it to find a variety of drawings, the work of a much younger version of myself. It was like unearthing a relic of my own past, my younger self’s perception of the world immortalised in graphite.

There were doodles of my friends as ridiculous manga characters, sketches of plants and pets, and even a few tentative portraits of my family. I had been about eight or nine when I had filled these pages, but it felt like a memory from a lifetime ago. They were clumsy and naïve, but they were brimming with a kind and uninhibited creativity that I found both nostalgic and painful.

Looking at those sketches now, I felt a pang of melancholy. Not because I couldn't remember drawing them - it had been many years earlier, after all - but because I regretted taking the simple things for granted. Back then, I was more concerned with transforming the things I knew into silly little caricatures than bringing any them truly to life. That vibrancy of my subjects that I'd so nonchalantly overlooked was now forever out of my grasp.

My mother seemed to sense my turmoil. "Take your time, Shiro,” she suggested gently, a flicker of hope in her eyes. "Just look over them. Maybe you'll find some joy there. Maybe, if you feel like it, you might even feel like sketching something new."

“Oh! I thought I’d make your favourite for dinner, curry udon,” she said, an upbeat lilt to her voice she would get whenever she was cooking. “So don’t even think about falling sleep!”

A quiet 'thank you' slipped from my lips, more out of politeness than any real sense of gratitude. She reminded me of the time and closed the door gently behind her, leaving me alone with the sketchbook.

Lying on my bed, I let the stillness of the room seep into me, the sketchbook spread open beside me. My gaze flitted between the stark ceiling and the drawings that lay in the book - graphite etchings of a past I had nearly forgotten. I felt a twinge of longing, an ache for the simplicity I'd taken for granted, a past that now seemed as bleak as my present.

What could I contribute now to a world so seemingly drained of joy? The silent emptiness of my room suddenly felt suffocating, pressing in on me. I looked back at the sketchbook and my gaze lingered on a doodle of a flower in the corner of a page. Its graphite petals seemed almost defiant, as if whispering that even in a monochrome sketch, life could grow.