Picture Drabble

Not beta’d, but here you go: 

 It’s the first day of check-in to the dorms at the small, private college on the East Coast when Edward Cullen wishes he was anywhere but there. His best friend and roommate was kicked out at the end of the last school year and he was not in the mood to act cheerful with the surge of happily returning students, acting like nothing happened. He was extremely irritated that James’ position was quickly given away like he had never been there the past three years, carving new ground with paint and canvas. No one seem to care that what he was doing was amazing work.

Fucking assholes and their goddam money, thinking they could dictate what art should be when they never picked up a brush a day in their life.

 Most of them would only want to know why James was not coming back and inundate him a stream of annoying questions. He didn’t want to face any of those people yet.

 Fucking leeches with no soul.

 Edward stormed out of his dorm room, unable to take the continuing laughter and headed for his car. He needed a drive on one of the back roads, where none of the cops would hassle him. He needed to feel the wind sailing past him, giving him the feeling of flying, far, far away from this school that was turning into another circle of hell.

 Bertha would have to be his sanctuary now that James was gone. She understood him with a mere touch on the wheel, giving him ability to transcend to another realm. She started up quickly, giving a roar in greeting to his foot on her pedal, agreeing with his need to fly.

 As he backed out and drove through the parking lot towards the exit, he saw that James’ parking space was now occupied by his successor. He thought about continuing onto the road, but he withheld, knowing this may be his last chance to get a good look at who his competition was going to be…and then felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

 All the violent resentment that he had built in his head about the “new student”, coming to take his best friend’s place in the prestigious fine arts program, died.

 She was covered in clothes that had seen better days, swinging a green bag onto her shoulder before shutting the passenger door of her Mini. She wasn’t typical of the girls of the area, but there was something inviting about the pale curve of her shoulder and the swirl of warm sepia hair floating around her delicate features that sparked his artistic interest.

 The familiar twinge he got in his right hand when he was ready to start another painting was clawing up his arm like mad, demanding he turn the car around and walk- no, run, for his studio to try to capture some semblance of her essence. The last time he had this severe of a need to put brush to canvas was, well, never.

 Who was this girl?