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I perched on the edge of the bed, the soft mattress dipping beneath me.
The room was lit by the dull glow of the moons outside, the pale light filtering through the frosted window and casting eerie shadows around me.
My pencil danced on the paper, guided by the rhythmic thrumming of my heart.
With each stroke, I began to depict the two males who had cornered me, their forms slowly taking shape on the page.
I transformed their faces into grotesque caricatures, their eyes bulging and mouths twisted in hideous grins.
They were no longer the intimidating figures that had stalked me but pitiful monsters laid bare under my merciless pencil.
Drawing was a magical process for me, a journey that started with a simple line and ended with a world coming alive on the page.
I poured all my fear and anger into the sketch, the emotion bleeding onto the paper through the tip of my pencil.
The lines became more definite, the details more intricate.
As if under a spell, I saw the figures on the page morph as though they were alive.
It felt as if I had captured a fragment of their souls, forever trapping them in their monstrous forms.
The rustle of the sketchpad and the scratching of the pencil against the paper created a comforting symphony in the silent room.
The faint scent of graphite filled the room, mixing with the old, musty scent of the room.
The world around me faded into oblivion as I lost myself in the rhythm of sketching.
It was therapeutic, the familiar motions grounding me in reality.
For a moment, I forgot my fears.
I forgot about the two aliens, about the danger I was in.
All that mattered were my sketchpad and pencil, the feel of the rough paper under my fingers, and the sound of the graphite scratching against it.
Then, a knock on the door shattered the calm.
My heart leapt into my throat, the sound echoing in the room like a death knell.
The pencil slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the floor.
My gaze remained fixed on the door, the knock resonating in the silence.
For a moment, I considered calling for help, screaming at the top of my lungs.
But what good would it do?
My stomach churned, and the chill of fear crept up my spine, my body growing rigid with terror.
But my sketchpad lay before me, the hideous monsters I’d drawn a stark reminder of what I faced.
The knockon the door reverberated through the room, shattering the illusion of sanctuary.
It was them.
I could feel it.
My heart pounded in my chest, each throb resonating in my ears.
